King Dido

by Alexander Baron

  Dido Peach sat on the kitchen sofa. He was unshaven and in his shirtsleeves. He could not put his jacket on, for his left arm was discoloured purple and blue and hugely swollen from elbow to shoulder. Pain throbbed in the muscle behind the shoulder. The dressing was brown with dried blood. His hand was pressed to his ribs, where pain stabbed each time he breathed. His brothers finished their breakfast, eyed him anxiously across the table. Shonny said, “I been to the doctor’s shop. ’E ain’t there today.”

  “’Ave to go to the ’ospital,” Chas said. Dido removed his hand from his chest, reached out for his mug of tea, sipped, and said, “All right I tell you.”

  His mother said, “I told you, Dido.”

  “Never you mind.”

  “Leave well alone I say. I always said.”

  “You look after the house. I’ll look after you.”

  She said, “Oh, dear. I was always afraid.”

  “I’ll look after you.”

  “Those Murchisons,” she said.

  “Look after them, too.”

  Chas said, “You wanna look out they don’t look after you. And us two.” He indicated his younger brother.

  “I can manage them.”

  “You can’t sit there with that arm,” Chas said. “’Ave to go to the ’ospital.”

  “Like this?” Dido touched the blond bristles on his cheek.

  “Be blowed to that. Your arm I’m worried about.”

  “See me like this? Them?” Dido gestured towards the street. “Be seen like this?”

  “I’ll shave yer.”

  A half-hour later, shaved by his brother, his jacket pulled on despite much agony, Dido walked out of the house accompanied by Chas. His clothes were brushed. He was spruce and stiffly upright.

  He had ordered Shonny to stay at home. It was only now, as he walked with his jaw clenched against pain, that the meaning came to him of what he had set in motion. He was as aware as Chas that vengeance from the Murchisons was to be expected. He did not yet know what he was going to do, but he knew that he must watch every step that he and his brothers took; more, that their home and their mother must not for a moment be left unguarded.

  He knew that he was being watched all the way down the street and he walked without flinching. At every step the thrust of pain at his lungs was an agony. He nodded to a few, said “Mornin’” to one or two and walked past the rest ignoring them, head up, eyes fierce.

  At the hospital he learned that he had three cracked ribs, which were taped. A wound an inch deep in his triceps, caused by the edge of the buckle, was cleaned, stitched and dressed. The swelling would subside with rest and hot bathing. The doctor told him that he must stay off for a week and then come back to the hospital for further instructions.

  He said, “Can’t do that. Living to earn.”

  “If you don’t look after yourself,” the doctor said, “you’ll be off work all the longer.”

  On the way back Chas said, “Don’t worry. We can manage on my money.”

  “You won’t be going in either.”

  “Why not? I’m not the one that’s crocked.”

  “Murchisons.”

  “I wondered about them. I said, didn’t I?”

  “Look,” Dido said. “I can’t manage ’em. Not like this. Not on my own.”

  “It ain’t much better the three of us. Shonny’s only a nipper.”

  “We’ll manage.”

  “How?”

  Dido walked in silence for a few paces. Then he stopped and checked his brother. “Start with, you keep quiet about this.”

  “This?”

  “This arm. All this. I’m fit, see?” The comprehension was slow to appear in his brother’s eye. He muttered, almost angrily. “Don’t you see? I done Ginger, didn’t I? I could do any of ’em. Long as they think I’m fit. They got to think I’m fit. All of ’em. Everyone. Got to think I can fight.”

  “Well, you can’t ’ardly move your arm. People’ll see.”

  “You leave that to me.”

  When they turned into Rabbit Marsh his walk was entirely normal. No-one could tell from the swing of his arms that one of them was hurt. This time he nodded more genially to the neighbours, who were more numerous on the pavement now that the sunshine was warmer. Blakers, the tobacconist, in whose shop he bought his occasional ounce of pipe tobacco, called “Mornin’, Dido.”

  “Mr Blakers.” Dido went across to him and, an unprecedented gesture that was meant for the many eyes that watched him, picked up Blakers’ youngest, a nine-year-old, and raised him up into the air. “What cheer, Holey? Glad when you go back to school?”

  He did not even hear the child’s “No, mister” as he put him down; any more than a monarch hears the answer to the routine remarks he makes as he passes among his subjects; or a politician the words of the voters among whom he canvasses. But Dido was not soliciting support. A solitary, threatened man, he was only bolstering the protective legend of his own invulnerability.

  Blakers said, “Right turn-up for the book last night.”

  People were gathering round.

  “Over and done with.”

  “I don’ know,” Blakers said.

  Coglin, a railway vanman, said, “’E must ’a creased you a bit with that belt.”

  “’Ardly a mark.” In spite of the dropped aspirate Dido’s speech was clear and curt. It cut like a knife through the horrible distortions of English speech that came from his neighbours’ lips. Mrs Peach spoke the prim English of a trained domestic servant. Her sons’ utterance was more touched by the Cockney, but thanks to her they all talked intelligently and articulately; especially Dido. Nor did any of them punctuate their speech with the blurts of obscenity, as mindless as hiccups and almost as frequent, that were common to all around them, small children not excluded.

  Chas said, “’E’s like leather, our Dido. ’Ardly a mark on ’im. I seen ’im.”

  “Caught you a fair crack, that belt,” Blakers said.

  Dido flexed his arms, “See any difference?”

  People murmured; and in the sound of their voices there was the first note of calculating flattery. “’E’s a one, old Dido.” “Take more than a belt to stop old Dido.” “Dido, ’ide like a bloody elephant, ’e’s got.”

  “All the same,” Blakers said, “you wanna watch out. They been out this mornin’, the Murchisons.”

  “Down ’ere?”

  “Nah. Down Brick Lane. Prowlin’, like.”

  A woman called, “You done the old man up properly. Bust his jaw in about six places.”

  “Stove ’is face in like a bleed’n matchbox, I ’eard,” another female voice interjected with relish. “’E ain’t come round yet. Smashed up all over.”

  “You put ’im out all right,” Coglin said. “’E won’t drink ’is pint round ’ere much before Christmas.”

  “’E won’t be missed,” Chas said.

  Dido said, “’E can stay out.”

  “’Ere,” Blakers said, “I told you. You wanna watch out. Them five boys are terrors. There’s still them boys.”

  “Five of ’em.”

  “Terrors, they are.”

  “There’s ’undred fit men down this street,” Dido said.

  “You —” He gestured at Coglin. “Work on the vans. Strong as an ox, you are. Lot more like you.”

  “What abaht it?”

  “Keep that lot out for good.”

  Blakers said, “The Murchisons?”

  “You wanna go on payin’ ’alf a sovereign a week?”

  “I don’t want no trouble,” Blakers said.

  “No fuckin’ trouble,” Coglin echoed. “That’s right. Never ’ad no trouble.”

  “Not till now,” a woman said, her voice and demeanour accusing.

  “Not till you done your nut.” This was Meek, the publican, who had been drawn from his doorway by the voices.

  “Done your nut properly,” said the woman. “Never stopped to think, did you? Never a thought of other
s.”

  “Nothing to be frightened of,” Dido said. “’Andle that lot.”

  Meek, “Who? You?”

  “No-one else game?”

  “You mind your business,” Meek said, “I’ll mind mine.”

  There was an assenting chorus. Dido said, “All canary, are you?”

  “You be fuckin’ brave,” Coglin said. “You show us.”

  “That’s right.” The woman grew more aggressive at each intervention. “It’s you and the Murchisons, ain’ it? No one else. You be brave.”

  Chas said, “And you’ll let ’em go on thievin’ an’ wipin’ their boots on you.”

  “Don’ ’urt me, it don’t,” Blakers answered. “Bit of peace, all I want. Don’t you go making trouble for us.”

  “Not less you can look arter us,” interjected the woman.

  More cries of agreement. “Oo’s gonna look arter us, eh?” This was another woman, stout, shrill and scornful, “You?” She uttered a brassy laugh.

  “’Im?” This was the first woman. “I’d like to see him look arter ’imself. Agin that lot.”

  The faces were all grinning and hostile. Dido cast a grim, quick look around him. Then, contemptuously, “Don’t you worry.”

  He pushed through them, once more not looking at them, and Chas followed. Behind him the laughter rose, and the derisive voices.

  All the boys stayed at home that night. The shop window had stout shutters and the door was thick and massively bolted. But they did not know what kind of assault to expect, or when. Dido sat in the shop till late, puffing his short pipe. He had challenged power. He had created a situation that he had not wished for and he had been left alone, with his brothers, to face it. They dared not go to work when the holiday was over. Dido and Chas took turns to stay in the shop and neither went far from it alone. Shonny scurried about the streets with his barrow and on his return each time would report what he had seen or heard of the Murchisons.

  Dido calculated the odds against him. Ginger had two sons who, with the husbands of his two daughters and a nineteen-year-old nephew, were the core of the tribe. The five terrors. Around them were a swarm of youngsters, children, parasites and gutter-rats who on occasion had been known to march with them. In the past there had been massive raids on other streets and battles that remained legendary. But these were of the past. And they had always been internecine, feuding conflicts, clashes between hooligan clans. The truth was that for many years the East End had been by steady degrees growing more peaceable. Mazes of black decaying houses there still were, warrened courts and alleys crammed with the hungry and desperate. There was still drunkenness, unemployment, crime in plenty. But schools, drains, hospitals, churchmen and social workers despised but persistent, broad new main streets that clove through the brick jungles, public baths, housing schemes, and better policing, had all had their effect. The street battles were no more than legend; none had occurred for years. The hangers-on might prowl when their protectors made it possible to do so, but the times had tamed them. As the people of Rabbit Marsh stood aloof, fearful of the Murchisons, so the neighbours of the Murchisons would stand aloof, fearful of the remote but ever-present law. He, Chas and Shonny need only fear the five younger Murchisons.

  They were being watched all the time. They were left alone because they only emerged by day, and night was the chosen time.

  After a week the confinement to shop and kitchen and the presence of their mother, silent, frightened and reproachful, became intolerable to Chas. He announced that he was going to the music-hall for an hour or two.

  Dido said, “Better not.”

  Chas said, “Frightened of that lot? They’re scared stiff without their old man.”

  Dido watched him put his jacket and cap on; then, as he opened the door, said, “I’ll go with you.”

  They went to the Cambridge, in Spitalfields. At eleven o’clock they were coming home along Brick Lane. The cobbles were blanched by moonlight but they walked in the middle of the road and kept an eye on the doorways on both sides.

  Ahead of them, only fifty yards from the corner of their street, was the railway bridge which spanned the break in the embankment. It was wide, supported by massive girders. Dim gas lamps cast a little light beneath it, but the wide gates of stables lay in deep recesses on both sides, and were dark.

  Dido and Chas walked into the cavern of the bridge and their footsteps began to echo. They were alert now. They were half-way before the clatter of boots came and their enemies rushed out from the darkness. They started to run but two of the Murchisons converged ahead of them. They could see the gleam of knives in upraised hands.

  Ignoring the three behind them, they hurled themselves at the two who barred their way. Chas grappled with one. Dido, a foot of gas-pipe suddenly in his hand, struck the knife from the other’s hand. Shouts. Dido struck with the pipe at the head of his brother’s antagonist and moved back-to-back with Chas as the others closed in. And as the bodies came in to overwhelm them, eyes and knives gleaming, a whistle shrilled, deafening among its echoes under the bridge.

  The response of the Murchisons was reflex. They scattered and bolted down Brick Lane. Two policemen were at the other end, one coming at a run with truncheon drawn, the other blowing his whistle. Behind them, hands in the pockets of his overcoat, stood the plainclothes inspector.

  He signed to the policeman to stop whistling. He said, “Won’t need that.”

  The policeman said, “All right, Mr Merry,” and followed him to where the other uniformed man waited with the Peach brothers.

  Merry said, “Right, Peach. I’ll have you two.”

  Dido did not ask how he knew their names. It was taken for granted that Mr Merry knew everything.

  Merry took the piping. “Offensive weapon.”

  Dido, still breathless, gasped, “They ’ad knives.”

  “Who had?” Mr Merry indicated the empty street.

  Dido and Chas spent the night in a cell at Bethnal Green Police Station. Next morning they were in front of the magistrate at Old Street.

  “You are charged with creating a breach of the peace,” the magistrate said. “You are very lucky. You —” he was addressing Dido “— carried a length of gas piping. This might have laid you open to the much more serious charge of assault or affray.”

  Dido remained silent.

  The magistrate said, “No doubt the police decided not to charge you with affray, since your antagonists ran off, and it is usual to charge both parties in such cases. I take into consideration the fact that you are first offenders and men of respectable background —” Inspector Merry, who watched the proceedings impassively, had given his evidence with impartiality, in the level, mechanical accents of a man who had no further concern with the outcome “— but I take a serious view of hooligan behaviour. You, Dido Peach, who possessed the weapon, will pay a fine of five pounds or go to prison for one month. You, Charles Peach, will pay twenty shillings or go to prison for a week.”

  Mrs Peach was in court with Shonny. She paid the fines. The two elder brothers had now been away from work for a week, and the outlay almost exhausted the family’s savings.

  The abortive attack, like the earlier fight, precipitated unforeseen results.

  In the first place the Peach boys feared more trouble, and still dared not go to work. The last of their money dwindled and they did not know what to do next.

  In the second place, the Murchisons mysteriously avoided Rabbit Marsh from now on.

  Thirdly, the attitude of the Rabbit Marsh population to the situation underwent a change that increased from day to day during the next week.

  All they knew was that the Peach boys, so it was said, had put to flight the Murchisons and cracked the pate of one of them, who had subsequently been glimpsed with head bandaged. Police whistles had been heard, but no importance was ascribed to this. It was merely known that the rozzers had come in time to pinch the Peach boys who had been up in court and now had the prestige of a convic
tion.

  At first the neighbours merely waited in apprehension. Then, when the Murchisons did not appear in the street, there began to stir an idea that their exactions might have ended. Those who had accepted them now began to talk against them with increasing rancour and indignation. Those who had toadied to them now reviled them with a boldness that grew with each day of immunity. Scepticism about their acceptance of defeat turned to wonderment or anxious calculation, then to triumph. After three days it seemed weeks since the Murchisons had been driven off. After a week it seemed an age, a bygone age.

  At the same speed the people came to see the Peaches in a new light. They had been begged not to make trouble. Now they were praised for it. Their actions had been feared, now they were admired. Those who had shunned them for fear of involvement began to make up to them. They were coming to be regarded as deliverers; particularly by the tradesmen who found themselves better off at the end of the week by the money and goods which in previous times would have been taken by the Murchisons.

  Chas was the first to benefit from the new era. He was walking past Blakers’ shop when the proprietor hailed him, “What cheer, Chas.”

  “What cheer.”

  “Not working yet?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Making sure you’ve seen them off, eh?”

  “Them?”

  “Them bastard Murchisons.”

  “Oh. Yes. Them.”

  “Reckon you’ve seen ’em off by the looks of it.”

  “Looks like it.”

  “Won’t show their noses round here, eh?”

  “Better not.”

  “You’re right they better not. Not while you boys are on the lookout.”

  “We’re on the lookout, never you fear.”

  “It’s a blessing all right. Shot of that lot at last. Thanks to you boys. ’Ere, Chas, you ain’t been in for your fags lately.”

  “’Aven’t I?” Chas already had to watch his pocket-money.

  “Don’t you fancy a Wood no more?”

  “Fancy one when I fancy one.”