Sonia blushed and looked at Shmule.
‘Two years you have been patient,’ Mr Kandinsky continued. ‘Listen, Sonia. This is important. Two years you have lived on the word of this man alone. No ring to bind the promise, so that sometimes other people, busy-bodies with big mouths, who didn’t know what kind of girl you are, they said, “Look, at Sonia, no ring. What kind of an engagement?” ’ Mr Kandinsky paused.
Sonia’s eyes were full of tears as she listened. It was no more than the truth. She had been marvellous, it was true.
Mr Kandinsky continued. ‘Sonia,’ he said, ‘they didn’t know this boy, what a fighter he is, how clean and honest, and what a worker, no one to touch him in the entire East End. Him they saw tonight. Now they know what he is. And you saw him, too, what he will do for you, to get you a better ring than any girl in Novak Blouses ever had.’
‘Gay-day Blouses,’ Sonia said tenderly.
‘Gay-day,’ Mr Kandinsky repeated. ‘But something else no girl in Gay-day ever had. You know what it is?’ He pointed to Sonia to answer the question. She shook her head.
‘They didn’t marry a fellow who was, already, so young, a guvnor in his own business. That’s what they didn’t have.’
Mr Kandinsky made his last point in a loud voice, his pointing finger sweeping round the whole world to find another girl who could say she had done better than Sonia.
‘Now, Sonia,’ he continued after a moment in which Sonia squeezed Shmule’s hand. ‘I ask you straight out. Which is better, such a husband, a champion, a guvnor, with the world in front of him; or a fiancé, works for Kandinsky, the Fashion Street trousers-maker, wrestles Saturday nights to make a few pounds, he might be able to get married one day to a girl at Gay-day Blouses with a big diamond ring? Don’t answer me,’ he went on as Sonia opened her mouth. ‘Think first. It is in your hands, his life, your life; I don’t want to influence you. Drink a cup of tea and think.’ That was how Mr Kandinsky made Shmule his partner, and though everyone was pleased, they said Joe should be in bed.
12
The next morning was fine and sunny. When Joe woke up he heard the horses clopping over the cobbles, and goods-trains rattling from the arches. The first thing he thought was he must tell Africana. He dressed quietly, and leaving his mother to have her Sunday morning lie-in, ran downstairs.
Mr Kandinsky was already at work, and Joe shouted good morning and rushed into the yard. ‘Good old unicorn!’ he shouted out to Africana, but there was no rustle from Africana’s house. The house looked like a pile of old boxes waiting to be chopped up for fire-wood, desolate. Africana was gone.
‘He’s gone,’ Joe shouted, running back to the work-room. ‘He’s gone, Mr Kandinsky, he’s gone.’
‘What?’ said Mr Kandinsky. ‘Who’s gone?’
‘Africana’s gone, he’s just gone,’ Joe cried, and how would he ever bring his father back from Africa?
‘Let’s have a look,’ Mr Kandinsky said. ‘Let’s keep our head and look.’
They searched the yard carefully.
‘Let’s look in the house again,’ Mr Kandinsky said.
‘It’s empty,’ Joe replied, tears coming fast. ‘Can’t you see, it’s empty?’
‘Let’s look, all the same,’ said Mr Kandinsky. He searched through the bed of remnants.
‘What’s this?’ he said. He bent down and picked up something. It was a gleaming golden sovereign. He handed it to Joe.
‘What is it?’ asked Joe.
‘Come inside, Joe,’ Mr Kandinsky said. ‘I will tell you.’
‘He’s gone,’ Joe said, the tears still there.
‘Come inside,’ said Mr Kandinsky, and he put his arm round Joe’s shoulder.
‘You know what this is, Joe?’ he asked, giving him the sovereign. ‘This is a golden sovereign. And what has happened is plain as my nose. You could see yourself that unicorn didn’t do so well in Fashion Street, ailing the whole time, no interest, miserable the whole day. So you know what he’s done? He’s gone back to Africa like you said he should. But just to show it’s nothing personal, he left this golden sovereign on account of that magic horn worth five thousand pound.’
‘Ten thousand,’ said Joe.
‘Ten thousand pound, I mean,’ continued Mr Kandinsky. ‘Meanwhile, keep this for luck.’
‘He won’t come back,’ Joe said.
‘Maybe not,’ Mr Kandinsky replied. ‘Unicorns can’t grow in Fashion Street, but boys have to.’
Joe went upstairs slowly, rubbing the golden sovereign between his fingers. There was a small rough piece broken on top of it, but otherwise it was like the coin on Mr Kandinsky’s father’s watch-chain, which made two golden sovereigns in the house.
When his mother came into the kitchen, her face blanched with sleep, Joe asked whether two sovereigns would bring his father back. It was the only thing the unicorn had forgotten to arrange. With the sleep still on her, she didn’t know at first what he meant. After Joe explained carefully, she said yes, it was a great help, and they would find his father’s return passage money somehow. They would never go to Africa, it was a dream, but he would come back to them, he would come back soon. Next week she must see about Joe starting school. He was growing up learning nothing about life.
Joe rolled the sovereign on the table thinking that if all the pets he had ever had were in the yard now, he could charge people pennies to come in. They would cheer and throw more pennies when they saw Africana’s shining horn stretching high above the slate rooftops.
After breakfast he went into the yard to play, although he had no special game in mind. For a little while he missed Africana, but soon he thought of something. In the end, it brought him safely to Africa.
The History of Bloomsbury Publishing
Bloomsbury Publishing was founded in 1986 to publish books of excellence and originality. Its authors include Margaret Atwood, John Berger, William Boyd, David Guterson, Khaled Hosseini, John Irving, Anne Michaels, Michael Ondaatje, J.K. Rowling, Donna Tartt and Barbara Trapido. Its logo is Diana, the Roman Goddess of Hunting.
In 1994 Bloomsbury floated on the London Stock Exchange and added both a paperback and a children’s list. Bloomsbury is based in Soho Square in London and expanded to New York in 1998 and Berlin in 2003. In 2000 Bloomsbury acquired A&C Black and now publishesWho’s Who, Whitaker’s Almanack, WisdenCricketers’Almanackand theWriters’ & Artists’ Yearbook.Many books, bestsellers and literary awards later, Bloomsbury is one of the world’s leading independent publishing houses.
Launched in 2009, The Bloomsbury Group continues the company’s tradition of publishing books with perennial, word-of-mouth appeal. This series celebrates lost classics written by both men and women from the early twentieth century, books recommended by readers for readers. Literary bloggers, authors, friends and colleagues have shared their suggestions of cherished books worthy of revival. To send in your recommendation, please write to:
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A NOTE ON THE AUTHOR
Wolf Mankowitz was born in 1924 on Fashion Street in Spitalfields in London’s East End, the heart of London’s Jewish community, where his father was a bookseller in the streetmarkets. This background provided him with the material for three famous novels, A Kid for Two Farthings, Make MeAn OfferandMy Old Man’s a Dustman. Make Me An Offerwas adapted for film in 1954 andA Kid for Two Farthingswas adapted the following year by the director Carol Reed. In 1958 he wrote the book for the hit West End musicalExpresso Bongo, later made
into a film starring Cliff Richard.
Mankowitz’s remarkable output has included novels, plays, historical studies and the screenplays for many successful films that have received awards, including the Oscar forThe Bespoke Overcoat, a BAFTA for the screenplay ofThe Daythe Earth Caught Fire, and the Cannes Grand Prix forTheHireling.
In 1962, Mankowitz offered to introduce friend Cubby Broccoli and Harry Saltzman, holder of the film rights to James Bond, when Broccoli mentioned he desired to make the Bond series his next film project. The two men formed a partnership and began co-producing the first Bond film,Doctor No, for which Mankowitz was hired as one of the screenwriters. He later also collaborated on the screenplay forCasino Royale. Mankowitz died in 1998, in County Cork, Ireland. His ashes are at the Golders Green Crematorium.
First published in 1953 by Andre Deutsch Ltd
This paperback edition published 2009 by Bloomsbury Publishing Plc
Copyright © 1953 by Wolf Mankowitz
The moral right of the author has been asserted
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A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
eISBN: 978-1-40880-875-7
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