by Terry Taylor
Dusty looked annoyed. “Jumbo’s kicked too many people around in the past, but he’s not going to do the same to me. There’s plenty for everyone.”
“That’s what Jumbo says,” Popper said quietly. “But he wouldn’t welcome the sound of your voice when you talk about taking over the whole town. He can be very unpleasant when he wants to be and I wouldn’t like to get in his way, I don’t mind telling you. The trouble with him is his temper. You know what happened to the shoobly-doo when he tried to hustle in on Jumbo’s clubs. He left London and returned to the BWI double quick. Jumbo means business and he’s been around longer than most of us. When the Charge hit the scene in a big way in ’48, he was there at the off. So take my advice and stay away from him. It’ll be a lot healthier.”
He finished his tea and prepared to leave. “I’ve got to get to my quack’s before she cuts out. I’ll catch up with you later,” he said. Then he made tracks to the door, giving everyone a filthy look on the way.
A couple of minutes after he’d left we realised that the black notebook that was ligging on the table must be his, so I picked it up to return it when I saw him next. I looked through it first, as there’s nothing more that I enjoy than looking at other people’s notebooks and diaries. Nosy bastard, aren’t I? I must be the nosiest person I’ve ever met. But at first I thought that there was nothing written in it, so I was very disappointed, but when I turned to about the middle page, the following was written in untidy handwriting:
Brenda is Dead!
She is no more.
A 1,000,000,000 pops away
perched high on a crooked star
chained to the earth by
too many memories.
Is She a Bishop yet?
Stopped by an acre of hypoforest
and a snowstorm of Snow
trapped by
That was all.
“It doesn’t even rhyme,” Dusty said. “I don’t understand that cat at all. I don’t suppose anyone does.”
“Who is this Jumbo fellow, anyway?” I asked.
“He’s just a dealer, but he thinks he owns all Soho. He’s not a bad cat really. Just let’s say he’s a bit greedy. Can’t stand to see anyone else earn a living, that’s what’s the matter with him. If anyone tries to give him a little competition he gets nasty, and a little violent as well. He’s always going into nick, and when he comes out he expects the person who’s been serving his clients to cut out completely, to let him carry on where he left off.”
“I hope we don’t have any trouble with him,” I said.
“You leave him to me. If he does cut up rough, I’ll deal with him.”
“I hope you will — ’cause I won’t.”
Dusty puffed away at his cigarette, looking very sure of himself. “We won’t have to wait long before he goes inside again. He can’t stay out of that place for long. Then we’ll be all right.”
“I’d never wish nick on anyone, no matter how much I hated them.”
“I’m not wishing it on him. But if he does happen to go inside, we can’t see all his customers starving, can we? Whether Jumbo likes it or not.”
As if he knew that we were talking about him, he got up from his chair and walked sailor-fashion towards us. Dusty managed to get the first word in. “How’s it going for London’s original dealer?” he asked him. I wasn’t sure if there was a sarcastic ring in his voice or not.
Jumbo threw his heavy body down on to the seat which Popper had vacated. “Not too bad yer know. If it wasn’t for a few greedy ’ounds everything would be awright.”
“Greedy hounds, Jumbo? Don’t tell me people are getting greedy with you? I thought you had this town tied up?”
Jumbo’s eyes screwed up and looked at Dusty through splits. “They try, yer know, they try. The troubles is I ’ates gettin’ rough, but nar and agin I ’ave to. I can’t stand greedy ’ounds, they git on me wick. Oo’s yer mate?”
“Just a friend, Jumbo, just a friend.”
“Ee looks like a haddict.”
Dusty smiled. “A whatict?”
“An addict,” Jumbo said. I didn’t say a dickey bird.
“Can’t stand haddicts,” he went on. “Dangerous people, them. Get yer in right shtook,” He changed his conversation completely. “Nar look ’ere. I don’t want yer muzzelin in on me territory. If yer do there’s gonna be trouble, see? And I’d ’ate to see yer boaf in the orspital.”
Dusty sounded kind and benevolent. “Don’t worry about us, Jumbo my old friend, we’re not interested in your business, we’ve got too many worries of our own.”
“Make sure yer don’t.” That was about all. He dragged his clumsy self away from the table and left us on our ownsomes.
I managed to get myself up from the chair, too. “I’ll have to blow,” I told my Dusty friend. “Bunty will be waiting for me.”
“I’ll walk down the road with you. I can’t stand this place, anyway.”
The Soho streets were just the same. A sameness that never alters. It has two faces. The day one, with its cosmopolitan natives looking upon the scene as if it was an ordinary country village, not the notorious place it is. Shopping away in Berwick Street market, and asking the prices of things before they buy them. The same thing was happening in other villages all over the country.
“What village do you come from?” the Salop man would ask the Sohoite. “I live in the village of Soho,” would come the reply, “and I’ve never once got hit over the head by a pig-tailed, opium-smoking Chinese gangster, when I go out at night.”
You don’t notice the natives when its night face greets you. You notice the daring explorers that come from Yankland and the world past Baron’s Court, who stand on its corners waiting and praying that something will happen, but it rarely does. And you can feel their tenseness in the air.
I started walking towards Bunty, leaving Dusty at the Regent Palace.
I passed through the door of the U Club and Bunty appeared from nowhere and planted a sloppy gin kiss on my face. Her arms went around me like a pair of handcuffs. All the faces looked around and some smiled and I was led into a corner and pushed down on to a velvet chair before I knew where I was.
By the way, velvet’s the thing to have in a place like the U and velvet they’ve got. Everywhere. Velvet all over the place. Really. Dark red velvet curtains and chairs and drapes and dresses, splashed here and there with a touch of gold; twenty-two carat, of course. Chandeliers as well, we mustn’t forget the chandeliers, must we? The stink of cigar smoke and perfume and debutantes, and the cause of the stink as well. Dirty old men and clean young women, copies of last year’s The Queen and Punch, undrunk double brandies that soon get picked up and find an accommodating mouth, tall girls, short girls and call-girls ligging all about the place. The poor people trying to sound rich and the rich people trying to sound poor. Frank Sinatra struggling to make himself heard from a one-speakered unit, but with a constant babble of accents you think only existed in mocking Yank films about the English as his competition. People swearing like troopers but making it sound so nice. A herd of multi-coloured poodles, looking like successful prostitutes, running all over the place, pissing up the legs of the chairs, while their owners (some of them look more like poodles than the poodles themselves) laugh it off by telling them they’ve been naughty little boys and girls.
“Oh darling, I’m so glad to get away from that horrible old Mayfair,” I heard a frightfully frightful voice behind me say. I think it was a female voice but I’m not sure, as they all sounded the same to me. “Mayfair’s absolutely disgusting since those — er — women have planted themselves on the streets. They ought to do something about it, they really should. It’s absolutely putrid. I lived there for years, but I just had to escape. I’ve bought myself a divine little cottage in the mews just around the corner. It’s simply adorable! Six beds, two diners and three lavs. Oh darling, Knightsbridge is delightful. All the best people live here you know. We get up to all sorts of naughty thin
gs like having pyjama parties — they’re shocking — oh dear, yes. We had one last week and young Lorna — you know the one, there’s only one Lorna — actually stole a bottle of milk from my neighbour’s doorstep. I told her it was criminal, but she didn’t care. She’s so daring. Of course I have to pay a fantabulous rent, but who cares? I can always tap dear Daddy for a few hundred when the wolf comes knocking at the door.”
“I know what sort of wolf that is she’s speaking about,” Bunts said to me.
“What sort?” I asked her.
“Human. The legitimate ponce that flourishes amongst this tribe. I can see him now,” she said, building up a picture in her mind. “He’s usually young, but old enough to know better, dark hair that’s plastered down to his big head, a homosexual background, but at last he’s been saved, well, nearly, and he must always be popping across to the continent chasing after another French or Italian girl whom he never gets anywhere with. He must elope at least once a year to Gretna Green, or if the girl can afford it, South America, and his future father-in-law makes his daughter a Ward of Court, which saves him just in time. He must have been a soldier in one part of his infamous career, all the other services are out, and he must call himself an antique dealer, although he probably doesn’t know the difference between a piece of Victorian to a piece of G-Plan furniture. He’s always brushing with the law, but not for anything serious, just a bouncy cheque or something silly like that, and when he’s done his time people look upon him like they did pirates in Elizabeth the First’s time, sort of villainous but terribly romantic, and so they have a whip around for him to tide him over until he gets on his feet again to pounce on some other stupid deb.”
“You seem to know a lot about it,” I said, getting interested.
“I’m not clever. You can’t help finding out these things if you hang around here for a while. You complain about suburbia, but there’s no difference here. They’re in just as big a rut as they are where your dear old mum lives.”
“Can I get you a drink?” I asked.
“No, you can’t. You sit down there. I’ll buy you one. And by the way, where have you been, for heaven’s sake? You’ve really been getting me at it. You could have been dead as far as I was concerned. It’s very naughty of you, so don’t ever let it happen again...” Then she was away to the bar to get the drinks, served by a midget of a queer who was very popular with everyone, and who wore tiny studs in his ears that drew comments from all the customers, which wigged him the most.
Bunty came back and sat next to me but before she could say another word, a woman, looking like some exotic bear because of the Persian lamb coat she was wearing, came over to us and clasped our hands like we were long lost friends whom she’d found after a twenty year search. I’d never seen her before. Some people believe that the owner gets to look like their dog after a few years. If that’s a fact, this woman must have kept giant Pekingeses all her life. Her eyes as well. Horrible they were. Bear’s body — peke’s face. Oh fuck!
“So this is the young man you’ve been telling me about,” with her peke’s eyes inspecting me as if I was up for sale. I wasn’t sure if she approved or not.
“Yes,” Bunty said with pride. “Isn’t he a darling?”
I couldn’t make up my mind if they were deliberately trying to embarrass me, or whether my being embarrassed never entered their heads.
“I don’t think I’ve had the pleasure of catching up with you before,” I said to the peke-bear.
“Oh, what charming language,” she said. “Catching up with me, you say? What fun!”
“This is Mrs Featherstonhaugh,” Bunty told me. “Mrs Featherstonhaugh, meet my personal, private, angry young man.”
Mrs Featherstonhaugh shook my hand again. “Angry young man, eh? A writer? I thought so. You can tell by his eyes.”
“I don’t write,” I told her.
“You should. Everyone that’s angry about something should write about it. The printed word is powerful.”
I could do nothing but agree with her. About the powerful bit, I mean.
“I’m sorry I couldn’t pop into your cocktail party last night, Isabella,” Bunty said, sounding as if she couldn’t care less about this old bag’s cocktail party.
“You missed a treat,” Mrs Feather... etc said. “Everyone was there. Even Lord Rowland. He’s an absolute darling when he wants to be. There’s no stopping him once he gets going.”
I wondered what Lord Rowland got going at.
“Do-Do came as well. Dear, darling Do-Do, she’s a dream of a woman, my dear. Secretary to the Prime Minister — mistress to the Leader of the Opposition — all that kind of thing. You can understand what I had to put up with.” Without any warning she turned on me. “What are you interested in, Bunty’s angry young man?”
I wanted to sound sharp. “Eating neck of lamb and listening to Jazz.”
“How cute. It wouldn’t be an expensive job fattening you up for Christmas. And Jazz, you say? What fun! I know a young fellow that plays one of those saxophone things. He looks divine when he’s playing it, and intelligent, too.”
“What’s his name?” I asked.
“Joe Brown he calls himself. Not a very romantic name I agree. He’s one of those coloured gentlemen.”
“I know Joe myself,” I said. “He’s never struck me as being a gentleman, but he’s certainly a great alto player. He’s about the best alto since the Old Queen died.”
“Which Old Queen?” Mrs Featherstonhaugh asked.
“I don’t mean Charlie Parker anyway,” I said.
Bunty laughed and Feather did the same, but she didn’t know what at.
We talked a while. To tell you the truth I don’t remember what about, so it’s no good making things up, but there’s one thing I can remember: it was very unimportant. I’ve always felt that words are unimportant sometimes. The thing is, you’ve got to talk to be popular. That’s what most people think, anyway. I don’t agree. I can be with someone that I really like to be with and sometimes I don’t think chatting about the weather is necessary, but the person I’m with thinks I’m bored or something, just because I don’t keep rabbiting all the time. I wish people wouldn’t think like that. The point is, you’re with them. That’s the thing that counts. Why can’t you relax and enjoy them without a lot of words that don’t mean much? Like when I was a kid I had a girl friend that I spent hours with without saying a word to, and neither of us felt awkward. I was terribly serious when I was a kid. When I kissed a girl I went all serious and solemn — not like now. I wish I could meet that girl again. She was great. Her name was Heather and she was the ugliest girl you ever did meet, but she was great. She kissed good too.
Well, anyway, I was polite to Mrs Featherstonhaugh and said ‘yes’ in the right places, but she soon got me down. She was so unimportant and she knew it. If you’re unimportant and don’t know it, it’s not so bad. I couldn’t help feeling sorry for her though. I feel sorry for all sorts of people, even if there’s no reason to. I’ll never change.
In the end we got rid of Mrs Featherstonhaugh and I managed to get Bunty on her own. We had a good chat but the first thing that she told me was that she was dying to get me into bed. I hated her telling me that. I don’t know why, I just did. It’s not that I didn’t want to go to bed with her. I felt sexy and all that but she put me off. I suppose I’m a little old-fashioned and like to fight for it a bit. Not too much, though.
Then the owner of this little circus came over to talk to us and see how many drinks we were ordering. She has a peculiarity too common amongst club owners which always puzzled me. If you made a habit of patronising her club every day and spent a bomb there like some people do, you will never be appreciated, but if you walk in there occasionally and spend just a few shillings, she’d make a fuss of you and treat you with a lot more respect and civility than her regulars. Weird, isn’t it?
She’s a middle-aged woman who tries her damned hardest to look sophisticated, but doesn’t
quite make it. She possesses a fabulous body for her age, but I’ve been told that she doesn’t look so pretty in the nude, when she discards all those womanly inventions that hide under her top clothes. She must spend a fortune at the hairdressers because nearly every time you see her she has a different, but always exotic hair style, which you can’t help thinking is a wig. She’d be attractive if her face wasn’t so bloody attentive. She’s concentrating all the time on the person she’s talking to and I know it’s a horrifying thought but you can’t help thinking that she can see through you whatever your game. Her name is Maggie Watling-Smith, but the rumour is whispered that the Watling part doesn’t belong to her at all. (Isn’t she naughty?). But then it would be very unhip, I mean very un-U to be lumbered with a name like plain Maggie Smith. The tale goes that she was cast into nick in her native land of Australia for running a call-girl racket, so after doing her time she came to the Mother Land and went semi-legit in opening this club of hers. I say semi-legit because although her establishment caters only for the best people (with a few villains to give the place a bit of colour), there was other things going on (I never found out exactly what they were) that put her in the honest but crooked class.
“It’s so nice to see you again,” she said to me, staring through a pair of spectacles that I’m sure had the crown jewels set in them. “You’re quite a stranger. Where have you been all this time?”
“Around,” was all I could think to say.
“And how’s the Jazz world? Do you still dig it?” then she gave out a stupid giggle because I suppose she found the word ‘dig’ funny.
“I’m still listening,” I said.
“You’ll have to make him come and see us more often,” she said to Bunty. “We need more handsome faces around.”
Bunts started to get carried away. “I’d have him with me all the time if I had my way. I’d even chain him to my bed. He’s very naughty neglecting me like he does. Ought to be ashamed of himself.”