A Kid for Two Farthings

by Wolf Mankowitz

  Joe’s mother had plenty to do at home. She ran herself up a dress on Mr Kandinsky’s machine, a green dress with a small red flower in it, and she made Joe three shirts and a linen jacket for the summer, if it ever came. The net result of all this being that Joe was at a loose end, because women don’t talk much when they are making things, and there were so many people in and out of the workshop to talk to Shmule and Mr Kandinsky about the wrestling, that he couldn’t get a word in. As for Africana, except for his bit of a sniffle, which was only seasonable since most people were coughing and hawking and sniffing and sneezing, he was all right, although he still didn’t want to play about much. Joe could play the Africa game silently, but it wasn’t so real indoors, especially if you had to be quiet, and you did have to with so many people about.

  Though Joe kept a careful look-out, there was no sign of the cannibal king. His spies must have told him that Joe was learning a trick or two, and knowing what was good for him, he kept away from Fashion Street. But you could never tell when he might strike, so Joe mounted guard three times a day at the doorway, well muffled up against the cold weather for the time of the year.

  As it turned out it was just as well, because on the Tuesday he was sucking a bon-bon and thinking that he might as well go down and at least listen to other people talking, when he saw the cannibal king turn into the street.

  Joe pressed himself against the wall of the passage and waited. Sure enough the cannibal king stopped when he got to the workshop, bending down to look into the window below the grating. He watched quietly for a moment. Then he stood up, took his nose between his fingers and blew it. Then he took a piece of paper out of his pocket and studied it for a while. Afterwards he folded the paper up carefully, took a last look through the grating, and walked on.

  Joe watched him the whole time. That piece of paper was his plan for stealing Africana, and the only thing to do was to follow him, find his lair, and tell the sweetshop man, the informer, who would then tell the police. As it was only cold and not raining, Joe waited until the cannibal king was a bit ahead, and followed.

  All the way along, Joe watched the cannibal king carefully, ready to take up the position of defence at a moment’s notice. But the old man didn’t look back once, which showed how cunning he was, trying to make Joe think that he didn’t know he was being followed.

  Once he sat down on the kerb for a short rest, and Joe turned to look into the window of a magazine shop where there were thousands of covers in full colour. They showed horrible monsters about to eat beautiful ladies with torn dresses, and rockets going to Mars, the red planet of mystery, and boxers beating one another bloody, and cowboys shooting and gangsters shooting and Huns shooting. Joe was thinking that the pictures were exciting but not very real because you never saw things like that in Fashion Street. He started to think then how it would be if when he got back to Fashion Street a whole lot of horrible monsters were trying to get into the greengrocer’s shop to eat Mavis, and her overalls were torn. When he looked round, the cannibal king was gone, which again went to show how cunning he was.

  There was a little sunshine now, not much warmth in it, but it made things look brighter, especially the small pools of ice in the gutters. After looking round for the cannibal king for a while, Joe began to carefully break the ice with his heel.

  Joe had just found a small pool which was solid ice safe for skating on with the toe of one foot, when there was a great clanging of bells. A fire engine rushed past, covered with ladders, hoses and firemen in helmets, the brass everywhere gleaming in the cold sunlight, the engine bright red and glossy as it flashed past. In case the fire was nearby, Joe ran off in the direction the fire engine had taken.

  Joe ran a long way keeping a sharp look-out for fires everywhere, but it was no good. The fire engine had disappeared. It’s always the way with fires. You never see them, because they’re tucked away somewhere you never dream could catch fire, like the one just round the corner that time when some curtains caught alight. Joe heard the bells and ran all over the place, but when he finally went round the corner, there was the engine with all the firemen standing about, and a lot of people watching, but of course the fire was out.

  Joe sighed. He could tell from the way his stomach felt that it was dinner time, and since the old cannibal was nowhere to be seen, he might just as well go home. He would have gone straight home, except that he noticed the big chocolate advert over the railway bridge, and being so near, thought he might as well have a look at Itchy Park to see if any flowers were coming up yet.

  Itchy Park was an old graveyard which, though full up, had hedges and a few big old trees. Flowers grew up round the graves, which were so covered with grass that without the gravestones and monuments you would think it was a real park. There were two iron benches painted dark green for your convenience, should you happen to be tired, and in nice weather old men used to meet there to talk politics, while mothers pushed their babies in prams, and children played Release round the graves. With its white stone pillars with iron fences between them, the iron all black and green, the stone all white and black and grey patches from the rain and smoke, it was like ancient Greece. In nice weather, a pleasant place for a short outing.

  At Itchy Park the sun made the white stone pillars and whitened headstones shine like alabaster, and Joe dawdled between the graves on his way to one which, last spring, was covered with crocuses. He spelt out some of the shorter words which could still be read on the stones, because even if he didn’t go to school yet, Mr Kandinsky told him, there was no need for him to be ignorant. He stopped at the memorial with the split angel on it to see if it had split any more lately. It had only one wing and the tip of that was missing, so that if it did split there wouldn’t be much of that angel left, and Itchy Park was already short of angels because they got knocked off so easily. Fortunately, the split angel was no worse, so Joe went over to the crocus grave.

  Some of the crocuses were shooting and striped dark green leaves showed through the grass which was winter thin and short. One of the crocuses was quite large but it looked as if it would never flower and felt stone cold. In spite of the sun, blasts of wind cut through the graveyard like wet stone knives. It was no wonder if the flowers were frozen stiff, and the grass thin, and the angels splitting. Standing up to breathe on his fingers, Joe saw the cannibal king.

  Why he didn’t see him straight away Joe couldn’t imagine, because he was sitting on one of the iron benches with his sack beside him, drinking from his bottle. If Itchy Park was his lair, it was certainly a cold one, although maybe one of the graves opened secretly and the king crept into it at night. Joe knelt down again behind the headstone on the crocus grave to watch.

  Between taking long drags on the bottle, the king grunted and coughed, not a short dry cough like a dog, but a large wide wet rackety cough, as if his whole chest and stomach coughed with him. The choker round his throat opened and his neck showed loose skin red and raw. There was spit all round his mouth, and his eyes ran with water. As he drank and coughed he only looked like an old man in a graveyard with a bad cold in the cold time of the year.

  Joe was creeping round the back to go home, when suddenly the cannibal king gave an enormous cough which shook his whole body so that his face turned purple. While he was getting his wind back, his face turned white, making his beard look dark and thick. He closed his eyes and sank back on the bench, and the open bottle, which was still in his hand, dipped over so that some of the spirit poured on to his coat.

  When he got home, Joe’s mother and Mr Kandinsky were full of questions about where he had been and how cold he was. Joe didn’t tell them about the old cannibal king. It would have been too difficult to explain why he wasn’t a cannibal or a king any more, just because of the cold.

  7

  The morning the spring came, Joe woke up in a circle of sunlight with a breeze blowing softly upon his face. Lying still with his eyes wide open, he listened to his mother’s breathing, like
the sea in the distance, a ship going to Africa. But because it was the spring, Joe agreed it was only a dream, and jumping out of bed ran downstairs without his slippers on to see if Africana had noticed the welcome visitor.

  Africana was indeed awake, and so full of beans, you would never guess he didn’t enjoy the best of health. In view of the weather perhaps it wasn’t surprising, because with the sun you always feel full of beans and it’s a pity to go to bed because you will never sleep. With the sun up in the sky, ripe and heavy like a solid gold water-melon, everyone feels it will be a wonderful day, and sometimes it is.

  In the yard, the stones already felt warm. The rotten wood fencing, which oozed in wet weather like a crushed beetle, was dry as if washed up on a beach somewhere, near pirate treasure. A weed had grown in a minute of the night on the small patch of bare ground, which in the sunshine was earth not dirt any more. It might grow into a palm tree.

  Africana, awake in his house, scratched at the walls, eager to play. When Joe lifted the hook on the door he at once ran out. There wasn’t time for a complete game, however, because Mr Kandinsky came into the yard in his carpet slippers and quilted dressing-gown, blinking, his eyes still creased up from sleeping. He sent Joe up at once to get dressed, and put Africana back in his house until after breakfast at least. As he ran upstairs Joe felt his own face just below the eyes, but there were no creases. He guessed Mr Kandinsky had more skin to work with.

  Joe’s mother’s boss, Madame Rita, was quite right: there was more work going in the millinery once the worst of the winter was over. Before the spring arrived, women, like the crocuses in Itchy Park, felt it near, and began to peep round at hats. They were already, during the short spells of sunshine, looking into the window of Madame Rita’s shop and saying that it wouldn’t really suit me, Sadie, it’s for a younger woman, and Sadie was saying but it would, Ada, it’s just your style. The next stage was, they came into Madame Rita’s and tried on the hats. They tried twenty hats with the brims up, then down, then sideways, then without the trimming, then with more trimming. Madame Rita watched them, his hands on his large belly, a soft smile on his face, a small black cheroot between his teeth. As they tried one hat after another, with or without trimming, he made little soft cooing noises. ‘Pardon me, lady,’ he would say eventually, ‘the brim up is more your style.’ With a push here and a push there he made the hats suit the faces they had to sit over. In the end the ladies sometimes bought the hats.

  Consequent upon there being more work in the millinery, Joe’s mother was kept busier and busier at Madame Rita’s, putting on more and more trimming as fashion demanded, and though this is tiring, it is just what the doctor ordered for piece-workers. But they have in consequence to hurry over breakfast. The day spring came, Joe and his mother had boiled eggs, and before she had her coat on, Joe kissed her good morning and ran down to the yard so you can tell how he hurried if his mother hadn’t even left yet, and she in such a hurry as well.

  The reason why Joe was in such a hurry that morning was that in his sleep he had thought of a new game and wanted to see if it would work. One of the things about games is that unless you keep adding to them and working out new ideas, they get dull – not the games really, but you get dull in the games, and then they seem dull. And games like the game called Africa are worth keeping fresh, you must admit, so no wonder Joe didn’t bother about such things as turning his egg-shell over and smashing the other side of it. Sometimes there are more important things to do in life than just playing about with egg-shells, and things like that have to give way to Africa. Anyhow, you can smash egg-shells anytime, but you don’t get a new idea every night you sleep.

  When Joe’s mother was leaving, she looked in to Mr Kandinsky’s workshop to say good morning to him and tell him that she might be late, and not to worry. Mr Kandinsky pointed to the back window and nodded. Looking out, Joe’s mother saw Joe talking to Africana, and waving to someone a long way off. She thought how the back of his neck was still like a baby, delicate, with a little gentle valley down the centre, because he was, after all, almost a baby with everything yet to come. How much they had to learn, what a terrible lot they had to learn. She ran away to Madame Rita’s to trim spring hats for those who had already learned what suited them.

  All that morning Joe and Africana played together in the yard, which, due to the dry rotten fencing, had become a ship, with old wooden walls. Joe was the captain and Africana on one occasion mutinied. He ran to the other end of the yard frightened by Joe shouting out, ‘Fasten your jibs and loosen your mainsails, you lousy lubbers,’ which is only what captains do say. That nearly spoilt the game, but they went on, after a pause for Africana to eat a cabbage leaf. They visited the South Sea Islands, where Joe drank coconut milk, which is quite like ordinary milk. Mr Kandinsky brought it out for him in an enamel mug. They found pirate treasure just under the lavatory door, a small black pebble which, when properly cut and polished, would be a black diamond. Then at last they came to Africa and had a few adventures there, but suddenly Joe felt like a talk with Mr Kandinsky. Africana’s sniffle had started again so they hurried on to the lost city, met Africana’s parents and Joe’s father, and came home quickly. By air, as a matter of fact, the unicorns growing large wings like geese for the purpose.

  The reason why Joe felt like a talk was that though it was a nice thing to have a unicorn, Africana often didn’t seem very interested in playing. Sometimes he sat down in the middle of a game and just chewed, which was certainly irritating, even if he did have a cold. Joe was worried too because Africana still wasn’t growing much and his horn was so tiny it couldn’t even grant small wishes yet. Joe once wished on it for his mother to come home at three o’clock and take him to the pictures, and instead she came home at turned six and cried because there was no letter from his father.

  Whilst locking Africana up, Joe practised talking and spitting at the same time. It was a question of holding the spit loose round the tip of your tongue, which you kept between your teeth, and blowing when you spoke. With a little more time, Joe would have it perfect; but where did they get those sandwich boards from? Joe went into the workshop.

  ‘Where do they get those sandwich boards from, Mr Kandinsky?’ he asked.

  ‘Where?’ answered Mr Kandinsky. ‘A question.’

  ‘From the kingdom of heaven?’ suggested Joe. ‘Only the religious ones,’ Mr Kandinsky said.

  ‘From the agency near the arches,’ Shmule said, without looking up from a turn-up he was turning up. ‘I know, because Blackie Isaacs has got six of them going round with me on them versus the dreaded Python Macklin at the Baths next Saturday night. No wonder I’m worried.’

  ‘Shmule,’ Mr Kandinsky cried, ‘you never said nothing.’

  ‘Can anyone get sandwich boards near by the arches?’ asked Joe.

  ‘You fighting the dreaded Python so soon?’ Mr Kandinsky went on. ‘How come you are fighting him? Him next to the champion and you a new boy in wrestling almost.’

  ‘Look,’ Shmule said, ‘Python is warming up, see. He’s near the crown five, six year. Already he fights the champ five times. Four times he loses, once he draws. Now he wants plenty of fights, get into form and knock off the champ, who is boozing too much anyway, quick. Afterwards, plenty exhibition bouts with big money for a couple year, and buy a pub in Wapping. So with the shortage in class wrestlers, Blackie does me a favour. Also knocking off the Turk and Bully didn’t help me. I’m a gonner.’

  ‘It’s wonderful,’ Mr Kandinsky said, ‘to think in my workshop a future champion. Wonderful.’

  ‘Wonderful,’ Shmule replied. ‘I got trouble, so by you it’s wonderful. I’m a gonner, I tell you.’

  ‘What kind of spirit is this?’ Mr Kandinsky asked sternly. ‘A nice carry on. I’m ashamed.’

  ‘You’re ashamed. You should have the worry and you wouldn’t have no time to be ashamed.’ Shmule threw his needle and thread down. ‘That bloody Python is going to break my bloody neck.’
>
  ‘Think how proud Sonia will be of you,’ Mr Kandinsky said.

  ‘Sod Sonia; let her fight the Python and I’ll be proud,’ answered Shmule, and he picked up his needle and got on with his sewing.

  ‘The sandwich boards, Joe,’ said Mr Kandinsky. ‘The sandwich boards is an interesting case.’

  ‘Sod the sandwich boards,’ said Joe. ‘That bloody Python.’

  ‘Go to the corner and get three rolls,’ shouted Mr Kandinsky in a voice of thunder, and Joe ran out. ‘A fine attitude to life,’ Mr Kandinsky told Shmule, his mouth turned down at the corners, which was always a bad sign.

  When Joe came back he found that Shmule and Mr Kandinsky were not on speaking terms, except for essentials like ‘Pass the black thread’ and ‘Give me the shears.’ Joe couldn’t break the ice by talking about what was on his mind before he thought of the sandwich boards, because he couldn’t remember what it was, so after dinner he went out and spent the afternoon helping Mavis in the shop. At least Mavis always thought it was a wonderful day. She let him serve Mrs Abramowitz with a pound of Granny Smith apples, of which she was very fond. Of course Mrs Abramowitz managed to pinch his cheek, sod her.

  8

  The day before Shmule’s fight with Python Macklin, the workshop was closed. Shmule was getting into top shape down at Isaacs’ Gymnasium and Blackie was giving every assistance, including sending out of his own pocket a case of bad whisky to Python, because even if it would be hell for the stomach ulcers, who can resist the gift of an unknown admirer? Mr Kandinsky did have, to tell the truth, a couple of things he could have got on with, but instead he spent the morning at Shafchick’s vapour bath. By permission of Madame Rita, Joe spent the morning down at the milliner’s with his mother, which certainly made a change from all the bad temper and arguments in Kandinsky’s workshop. Furthermore, the girls at Madame Rita’s gave you sweets all the time, and had a completely different kind of conversation.