After this ceremony there was the continued proof, usually in the small hours, of Frankie’s devotion to his girl. And then a number of minor but very important social imperatives: the Sunday evening visit, on her night off, to the Odeon; appearances at certain clubs which for professional purposes (but thoroughly indirect ones) she frequented; and occasional calls at lawyers’ offices when minor difficulties arose, or were thought to be about to do so.
If Frankie had adhered to his original intention – backed by her own sage counsel – to get a cover job, a great many of these errands could no doubt have been avoided. But he had not. The reason wasn’t simply that having enough money he didn’t feel the need to: many rich men love work, after all. It was just that any sort of normal toil seemed quite incompatible with his position. In this he resembled the aristocrat who, appearing before the bankruptcy court, tells the judge with manifest and rather hopeless sincerity that he just couldn’t find work appropriate to his status.
So there was a paradox (one of many now) in Frankie’s life. On the one hand, time hung heavy on his hands and much ingenuity had to be expended in wasting it without total boredom. But on the other – this was the point – he did have the ever-present sensation of being occupied: of having if not a job, a function and even a ‘function’ in society. And apart from anything else, to remain constantly available so far as his girl was concerned, and constantly watchful himself in regard to the mysterious and ever-present law, did constitute a full-time activity of a kind.
As for the disposal of the money, this had its problems too. A growing acquaintance with his fellow ponces (which Frankie had tried to avoid but which, just as with fellow mariners on board ship, was really quite inevitable) had shown him that by and large they fell (as with all other human creatures) into two sharply divided categories: the spenders and the savers. The chief stratagem by which spender-ponces relieved themselves of the intolerable burden of holding on to money they had coveted so eagerly, was by gambling: but Frankie had tried this and found it unbearably meaningless and dull – even if he won as, being indifferent, he often did. Others invested in huge wardrobes or fast cars: but this, except among the pin-headed, was considered most unwise for it was a gross and needless provocation of the law. It was true, of course, that a great many of the more foolish girls loved their men to spend the money in this way, as a taste for visible riches bound the man to them all the closer; and its fruits were the manifest proof of their own success in their business.
As for the savers, whose usual intention was to ‘cut out’ one day with the girl (or possibly without her) to start a business of some kind, the chief disadvantage was that they were usually grudging and unattractive characters (as Frankie Love was not) and more, that to be a business man, even if a ponce, you need a business head: which Frankie knew he hadn’t got at all. And his determination to save had been baulked, as the girl had foreseen, by the acute danger of opening any sort of an account and by his genuine reluctance to have all the money in her name: for the whole meaning of the symbolic emptying of the bag at night – the gesture which bound him absolutely to her – would have been lost if the money went back from the bag into an account that she controlled.
He therefore hit on an expedient that would have seemed inconceivable a few months ago. Frankie, like most proletarian Europeans, despised Asiatics to such a degree that you could hardly even call it contempt (quite unaware, like millions of his countrymen, that this feeling was reciprocated by Asians at much profounder levels). But in his predicament it suddenly occurred to him that throughout his considerable commerce with them, no Asian had ever robbed him: exasperated him, yes, but never deceived him over money. He accordingly approached, with the girl’s full approval, her former Stepney landlord, the Bengali, and suggested that the Bengali should hold his money for him (not for her) on the understanding no interest whatever need be paid. With splendid visions of the acquisition of additional slum property which he could let out for vice, or for honest purposes to his fellow-countrymen at exorbitant rentals in a country that denies accommodation to a man of colour, the Bengali immediately agreed.
A man of some intelligence cannot fail, in any environment where fate thrusts him, to become interested in its workings however much he may dislike or disapprove of them. Thus reluctant, scholarly conscripts study regimental histories, and professional men who’ve fallen by the wayside write excellent studies about jails. In much the same spirit Frankie, despite himself, became interested in whores and ponces. And though not easily given to casual friendships he already had several acquaintances among the men – the women, so far as possible, he kept politely at a distance, not because he was afraid of them in any way, but because this was the very basis of his bargain with his girl.
Among these pals there was a star ponce whom Frankie had got to know at a drinking-club patronised by the men of his profession. As with actresses or television personalities in the outer world, there is, in that of prostitution, a fashion at any particular moment for this or that ponce or whore: the less stable of the girls all endeavouring to hook the star ponce, and the less satisfied of the ponces trying to transfer their allegiance to the star whore of the moment. Dreadful quarrels, often accompanied by violence and sensational denunciations, accompany these struggles: but above all of them this star ponce friend of Frankie’s rode serene. He knew he was a star – did not his glittering attire and his relaxed and glowing mien testify eloquently to the fact? But he was genuinely devoted to his girl and was – not unusual, perhaps surprisingly, among ponces – exceedingly good-natured. So he parried the manoeuvres of the eager whores with deft evasions and even managed not to arouse the jealousies of the men. ‘It’s a world!’ he would say to Frankie (or Francis, as for some reason he always called him) when they sat together at the drinking-club in masculine communion.
The star ponce was Cornish and had been at sea, and shared with Frankie a deep disdain for all the multitudes who haven’t. ‘The sea,’ he told Frankie, ‘teaches you the scale of things: what matters and what really doesn’t. The only ceremony I’ve ever seen that impressed me in the least is a sea burial: no priest, only the captain; no mourners, only the mates; no earth and worms or fire and ash-cans, but the huge sea and the fishes sailing gently through your eyes.’
‘Or a ship’s court,’ said Frankie. ‘Ever seen one of those? The old man a judge who really knows; and witnesses who nobody’s been getting at; and sailors for your jury who know all about you and your case first hand.’
‘Why did we leave it, Francis?’
‘Ask yourself that, quartermaster,’ Frankie said.
The star ponce beckoned for refills. When the girl (who’d brought the glasses voluntarily, for there was no service in the club) had been thanked and gone, he said to Frankie, ‘That one’s got her eye on you.’
‘Yes, I noticed.’
‘Not interested, Francis?’
‘One at a time.’
‘How right you are!’ The star ponce smiled. ‘Mind you, you can stick to one and still have others.’
‘You can?’
‘Some manage it. Even three or four at a time.’
‘Sharp operators! And the girls know?’
‘Usually the wires get crossed – and then they do. Not easy, as you can imagine, flitting from one address to another without running out of excuses and vital energy.’
‘Those boys deserve their money. And the girls wear it?’
‘Naturally, there are rows – a thing I personally hate. But sometimes if they’re fond of the boy, even if they do know they accept it.’
‘Who understands women?’
‘Only they do.’
The star ponce offered panatellas. ‘Ever thought of getting wed?’ he said.
‘To her?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Why should I?’
‘Well – there could be reasons.’
‘Such as what?’
‘You might like to: like her, I mean.�
�
‘That’s a good one … Any others?’
‘She might like it, too. And it makes them long-suffering, Francis, if you’re a husband.’
‘Not so likely to speak out of turn, you mean?’
‘Not quite so likely: and she can’t appear in court against you as your wife, though she can still chat about you to the coppers.’
‘But does it impress the courts at all – your being married?’
‘Oh, not in the least. The nicks are full of married ponces. No: it’s just rather nice, that’s all.’
‘You done it?’
‘No …’
‘I see.’
They puffed away like two young rising statesmen. ‘Getting used to the life?’ the star ponce asked.
‘Except for a few particulars.’
‘Yeah?’
‘Still can’t get used to all that money.’
‘Nor me: after all these years.’
‘Really! When you think of the millions the mugs spend! We must be a race of randy, frustrated fools.’
‘Speak for yourself: I’m Cornish. Anything else?’
‘Yes. When people ask me what I do. I can’t quite get used to that.’
‘You say seaman?’
‘Yes. But I know I don’t believe it any longer.’
‘I say turf accountant. I’ve found it explains my movements best.’
‘Don’t they try to place bets?’
‘Sometimes … The question was awkward in the nick as well.’
‘You been in there?’
‘Didn’t I tell you? One three, one six: next time’s dangerous.’
‘Let’s hope there’ll be none. And what did you tell them all in there?’
The star ponce looked ruminative and grave. ‘Poncing and rape of minors are the two things criminals won’t wear. Even poofs they will, but not we two. They’re great snobs, the real professionals, about what a man’s in for.’
‘So what did you tell them?’
‘That was it. I thought: well, I am a ponce – so what? I said poncing.’
‘And?’
‘They crunched me.’
‘Nice! What did you say the next time?’
‘Fraudulent conversion. That was quite all right. They were quite respectful.’
Frankie drank. ‘They’re hard on us, aren’t they, in this world,’ he said.
The star ponce said, ‘Very. And yet – there are those two things. If there weren’t any clients there couldn’t be any ponces, let alone any whores. Have they thought of that at all?’
‘I don’t suppose so.’
‘If no one will buy a product, no one will sell it or profit by its sale.’
‘Just so.’
‘And as for where the blame lies, if there is any, well, for every one of us and each one of our girls there must be several hundred clients or more.’
‘It’s mathematical.’
The star ponce turned his glorious eyes on Frankie. ‘I’ll tell you a thing,’ he said. ‘It’s a triangle that won’t stand up without any one of its three sides: client and whore and ponce. If the clients don’t like us, well, it’s simple: they should just stop being clients.’
‘Then the triangle collapses.’
‘But it won’t! That’s just the point, it won’t, and everyone knows it. That’s why all these new laws just shift the problem without altering it in any way at all. Because the girl, and her friend, and the man dropping in from somewhere, are as old as the Garden of Eden and even older.’
‘There were only two of them in there,’ said Frankie.
‘Well, Adam must have doubled.’ The star ponce stiffened slightly. ‘Don’t look now. But when you do you’ll see we’ve got two coppers on the premises: one he, one she. Behind the telly set.’
‘They come here often?’ Frankie said, not looking up.
‘Weekly or so – routine. Why they bother to dress up like that I can’t imagine, but they prefer it that way.’
Frankie observed the couple. They looked like a pair of elderly teenagers: the man in Italian drape and pointeds with a Tab Hunter hairdo, the woman with puff-pastry locks, flowered separates, paper nylon petticoat and white stilettos. They were engaged in animated conversation intended to disguise the fact that no one else wished to speak to them: though no one, of course, would have refused to do so if invited.
‘Poor fuckers,’ said the star ponce. ‘What must it feel like, earning your living spying on your fellow men?’
‘How do they pay for all that clobber?’ Frankie asked. ‘Do they get expenses?’
‘Not on that scale. Talk to the club owner here: he’ll tell you.’
‘Something for protection?’
‘District-nurse money, he calls it. For their healing visits. Still, I prefer those fancy vice boys to the poker-faced lot in uniform. They may be crooked, but in my experience a man who’s crooked is in some way or other human. Almost, anyway.’
Frankie looked at the star ponce and said, ‘You afraid of them?’
‘Who – me?’ The star ponce reflected. ‘Well – yes, of course,’ he said, ‘but not of them: I mean, I’m not scared of them individually or even several. I’ve been alone in the cells with them, Francis, and no holds barred, and I’ve found I haven’t been afraid. But of the Force – yes, I am. You see, we come and go – and even they do: but the Force – it goes on for ever.’
‘Just like the world does.’
‘Yes, on for ever. There’s always this, you see. If they really decide to turn the heat on anyone – not just one of us, but I mean on anyone – well, they can always find something, can’t they.’
‘Or say they do … which amounts to much the same.’
The star ponce shook his luscious locks and said, ‘Well, not exactly. If ever they get you in the cells, Francis, remember this. The trial’s not there, it’s in the open court. The mistake almost everyone makes, even quite clever people and no doubt because they’re scared, is to fall for the copper’s spiel of pretending it’s he who conducts the trial. Well – it’s not: there’s always the lawyers and the judges.’
‘So I’m discovering.’
‘Well – remember it. Anyone can come unstuck, but you lessen the chances quite a bit if you remember … never speak to them. If six men try to carve you up – don’t call a copper: grin and bear it. Then, if they knock you off, don’t talk: Francis, don’t ever talk. Name, address and age, that’s all: just like the navy or the army. And never plead guilty – never. Because to them, whoever you are, if they take you you are guilty, so it makes no difference anyway. If they find you outside the Bank of England with a bag of gold – not guilty. In the courts, there’s always a chance: if you talk to them or commit yourself to any plea, there’s none.’
‘I’ll remember,’ said Frankie, finishing his glass.
The star ponce emptied his too and rose. ‘All the same,’ he said, ‘in this business, however careful you may be, you’ve always got to listen for the knock on the front door. Whenever you hear a knock, even if it’s only the Plymouth Brethren calling to save souls, you’ve got to be alert and ready. And take your time before you open up: if they really want to see you, don’t be in a hurry: they can always break the door down – and they will.’
MR JUSTICE
Edward longed to escape from the thraldom of the section-house. When he did his military service he didn’t really dislike barrack rooms – realised, in fact, that if you had to be a soldier they were the most practical and even comfortable places to be a soldier in. But in the section-house the men were all rather older, and, except for a few widowers and what is known as ‘hardened’ bachelors, all anxious, like him, not to be there any longer, since it wasn’t really necessary for coppers to live in great male dormitories. Besides, the atmosphere of randiness in the place – you could only call it that – depressed him: you could feel it bursting from the rooms at night, and in the mess-hall the conversation (when it wasn’t gossip about the Force)
centred on ‘sex’ monotonously. For Edward, sex was a secret and yet a totally splendid thing: something he felt no need (like some copper puritans) to be uncomfortable about at all – very much the contrary – but one that lost all its glory and delight once it was severed, even in conversation, from the loved person who exchanged it with you.
But how to leave the section-house? The Force didn’t care much for single men in lodgings; and marriage to his girl was for the moment, anyway, impossible. His sexual trysts with her at present took place at her father’s house with his reluctant connivance (a reluctance, in respect of these particular premises, that Edward fully shared), or sometimes dangerously at the houses of several friends (for the trouble with friends is that they can betray you by their quite benevolent intentions), and even, on one or two extremely chancy occasions, in public places: a thing Edward had professionally a horror of, since so many who used the outer woods and gardens did so for reasons that were utterly perverse. It seemed to him that the only (relatively) safe procedure would be for her to take rooms at some discreet address, and for him to visit her there with maximum discretion likewise.
This plan he unfolded in the small back garden of her father’s house in Kensal Green, while the older man morosely eyed them through the back window of the kitchen where he was engaged on his part-time trade of mending radio and telly sets and cameras and high-grade gadgets – a freelance occupation Edward did not approve of since it had something imprecisely shady about it. (Somehow all those sets looked stolen, not left for repair, and anyway, how did the older man make all those contacts to get the jobs? And wasn’t this still, in spite of all his promises, a cover story?) The back garden – yard, really – was hemmed in by walls and windows, but his girl and he were in its most secluded corner, and Edward (though even naked he’d have looked just as much a copper) had on very casual, unprofessional attire. The girl poured tea and listened to him in that attentive, respectful way that women have when they hear of some plan to which they may or may not agree, but know it to be dear to their lover’s heart and in its intentions, anyway, conducive to their own interests and a proof of his attachment.
Mr Love and Justice Page 7