They had roast goose with crackly roast potatoes and a splendid selection of vegetables grown by Herbert. There was soup before, and Christmas pudding to follow, flaming with brandy, with threepenny-bits in it to set the children squealing. Mince pies and tea finished off the meal. They pulled crackers and even Dido let the children put a paper hat on him. Everyone laughed, Shonny became as excited as the children and Chas refilled his glass so often with port that Ada at last said sharply, “That’s enough, Chas.”
She was fair and rawboned like Dido, and Chas had always been a little frightened of her.
Afterwards they sat in the firelight while darkness gathered. The parlour had a tablecloth and curtains of green plush, a harmonium, and mahogany furniture in whose polished panels the firelight gleamed. The little girl played with her doll, the women talked quietly and Shonny kept the two boys happy on the floor with the train set. Herbert, full of food and drink, half-slept in his armchair, the glow of his cigar rising and falling with his breath. On the other side of the fireplace sat Dido. He sat hunched forward, staring into the fire. The joviality seemed to have died out of him. He was deep in his own thoughts, unaware of the family around him, his eyes intent on the white cave of coals, as if finding there secret anxieties. Twice he took his watch out of his waistcoat pocket and looked at it.
They finished eating at half-past three. Two hours later the women busied themselves once more at the table and at six o’clock announced tea. The table was laid with a cold joint of roast pork, meat pies, the ham in pride of place, sardines, tinned salmon, plates piled with slices of buttered bread, two large cakes, the remaining mince pies, pots of home-made jams, a trifle and a moulded red jelly.
After tea Dido looked at his watch again and said, “Gettin’ late. Have to be goin’ soon.”
Mrs Peach said, “I haven’t heard the children yet.” The little boy of four was lifted up on to a chair and at a gabble recited, “Little Bo-Peep.” He was brought down and kissed by his grandmother and his sister stood up and recited, “The north wind doth blow, and we shall have snow.” Her older brother rose to his feet and was applauded for his rendering of a new poem by Rudyard Kipling, “Our England is a garden —”
Dido sat tautly in his chair, one hand pulling at the hooked fingertips of the other. He made no pretence of interest now. His face was sombre, his eyes flickering with impatience. He said, “Gettin’ late. Could come down foggy.” Ada said, “We haven’t heard from you yet.”
Herbert rumbled, “You can’t get off so easy, old chap.”
“Go on,” his mother said. “You know what we like, Dido.”
He looked from one to another of them, calculating whether it would be quicker to refuse at the risk of a long bicker or to agree. He stood up. “All right. Only we can’t stay long.”
Ada took her place at the harmonium and began the accompaniment. He sang Charles Wesley’s hymns, “Jesu, Lover of My Soul”, and “Hark, The Herald Angels Sing”.
Each time, after the first couple of lines, all the family joined in. Dido was not a good singer but there was strength in his voice and he could keep in tune. Since he had been a child at school he had enjoyed singing. Shut off from other people by his nature, he needed them, and singing brought him together with them. He had forgotten his impatience. He lifted his head up and sang with conviction and with pleasure. He would only sing songs that had some dignity. He loathed the yowling and false camaraderie of the pub. For a little while he was at one with his family; until the last note was sung, and the last melodious groan of the harmonium had died away. Then he sighed, coming back into the world, and fumbled for his watch.
But suddenly the quiet was broken. Chas began to sing, “Sam, Sam, the dirty old man —”
Joyfully, Shonny joined in; and Ada’s nine-year-old began to beat his drum and loudly bawl the words:
—Washed his face with a frying-pan,
Combed his hair with the leg of a chair,
Sam, Sam, the dirty old man.
The crack of a slap brought the ecstatic chant to an end. Ada’s boy, his mother looming over him, began to cry, blubbering, “Uncle Chas was singing it —”
“More fool him,” Ada cried.
Still somnolent and genial, Herbert said, “Christmas Day, Ada —”
“I don’t care what day it is.” She turned on Chas, who gaped at her, redfaced and stupid with port. “In front of the children. Don’t you know any better?”
“No ’arm,” Chas muttered.
“I’ll be the judge of that. I expect better than that when I invite you here. You can leave that kind of thing where you come from.”
Chas flushed darker. “And where you come from.”
“All right,” Dido said. “That’s enough from you, Chas. Boy’s ’ad a glass too much. Time we were goin’, Ada. Been a very nice day. Grateful to yer. Here, children —”
He laid three half-sovereign pieces in a row on the table in front of them. He said, “That’s for bein’ good. You be good all the time. Do what yer mum and dad tell yer.”
The children stared at the gold pieces. Ada and Herbert looked at each other. Dido was master in the room.
When the goodbyes were over and the trap had driven away, Herbert closed the front door. He said to Ada, “How come your brother got that sort of money?”
“I don’t know.”
“Ade, I don’t like it.”
“You’re not suggesting, I hope?”
“I’m not suggesting anything. Three half-sovereigns is very nice. Put it in their moneyboxes. Still, three half-sovereigns. Makes you think.”
While the Peaches were on their way home the Murchison tribe were celebrating the birth of their Redeemer with another drunken orgy. This was a prosperous Christmas for them. Three nights before, Harry Murchison and his brother-in-law Keogh had broken into a Jew tailor’s workshop in Hanbury Street and stolen two dozen bolts of finest worsted, with minimum risk and inconvenience for by previous arrangement they had sold it straight away to another tailor in the next street.
The transaction was a great comfort to Harry. The clan was barred from its old hunting ground in Rabbit Marsh by Mr Merry’s edict, which Harry strictly enforced. A man who had done a five-stretch knew when to show respect to the police and keep on good terms with them. Mr Merry had said, “There’s other places you can make a living. I won’t tread on your heels,” and to Harry a tip was as good as a wink. Where else was there? Every other street market was the territory of a tribe bigger and fiercer than the Murchisons. The only alternative for Harry was to go back to his old trade. He was after all a skilled craftsman. He took out his housebreaking tools and with the aid of his kinsmen brought off several jobs that were profitable but not (he prided himself on this perception) big enough to activate the police. With fifteen pounds in his pocket and the conviction that Mr Merry would honour their understanding Harry feasted his henchmen and their broods royally.
The game was easy enough. Among the howling revel in Jaggs Place sat a man known about the district as Albert. He was nearly seventy and he was enormously fat. Dewlaps of blubber and vast chins hung around his bloated face. His legs and arms were of elephantine thickness and his belly sagged like a huge sack in front of him. When he stood up he had to support himself with both hands on the top of a walking-stick. Albert sat quietly amid the din, emptying pint after pint of beer into himself as into a barrel. It was said that he could put twenty pints away without showing any the worse for it.
He was a retired burglar. Too old and too enormous for either work or felony he now lived by supplying information to those more young and active. He spent his days waddling from one pub to another. At each he sat for a long time putting away pints and listening. He was a marvellous listener. He learned from builders and decorators about houses they had worked in. He learned from servants and shopmen about their places of employ. Street hawkers told him what they had seen as they went from door to door. Some chatted innocently; some for money. Alber
t was the man who knew where the cashbox was hidden; and he regularly sold his knowledge.
Harry had an understanding with him. What with Mr Merry on one side and Albert on the other it paid to have understandings. Albert’s jobs were always safe and easy and good days lay ahead. Harry had already paid him ten per cent of the proceeds, but tonight he gave him another half-sovereign and told him to drink up to his heart’s content. “You play ball with me,” Harry said, “’an’ I’ll play ball with you.”
Grace Matthews lay on her bed, alone in the hostel room she shared with three other girls. She was having a rest. She did not like to stay out of things too long, or the others might think she was a wet blanket or stuck-up or something.
It was very nice at the hostel, Christmas time. There were paper chains and Chinese lanterns hung up in the dining-hall, and a Christmas tree. They had all gone to church in the morning and afterwards there was a very nice dinner. In the evening there was a concert. Some people called the Samaritan Players came and did turns. It was nice of them, coming out like that on Christmas night to cheer up the girls. There were quite a few gentlemen present. The vicar always came in with his wife. The chairman made a speech and gave out the presents from the Christmas tree. Last year Grace got a tiny book, small enough to keep in a handbag, though Grace did not. It was called Anthology of Christian Thoughts. He usually stayed about an hour, and other gentlemen and ladies from the Committee came.
It was very nice. But for some reason or other she was always down in the dumps on Christmas Day. There was no excuse for it. They made everything nice and cheerful and you only had to join in. But there was something about Christmas Day, it was too quiet. The streets were all quiet. It was much worse than a Sunday, it was deathly. Oh, it was lovely to rest, not being on your feet all day, not hearing the crockery clattering or taking back those trays of empties which were heavier than people thought; not breathing the hot, steamy gust from the kitchen, those food smells that turned your stomach. Just for the rest, any day off was lovely. Then why not Christmas? It was supposed to be the best day of all. Yet on Christmas evening she felt like having a cry, and the truth was, if she could have spent the whole day at work in the teashop, she would have jumped at it.
She had one nice thing, though. She took it from under her pillow. It was an envelope. In the envelope was a Christmas card, her only one, apart from those she exchanged with her girl friends. Inside the Christmas card was a little lace handkerchief. That young man came in to the cafe yesterday, that railway clerk Sidney, and he didn’t say a word till he went. Then all of a sudden he gave her the envelope and he said, “I hope you’ll pardon the impertinence, miss. Merry Christmas,” and he raised the brim of his hat and he went before she had finished answering, “Merry Christmas.”
He was very shy. But how nice. She said the words to herself, “I hope you’ll pardon the impertinence, miss.” He could teach a few of those men in the shop a lesson in how to speak to a young lady. It was nice just to think the words to herself, dreamily, and it made her feel better, lying on her bed all alone.
From the dining-hall downstairs she could hear a piano, and the girls singing, “There Is A Tavern In The Town”. That was how the concert started every year, a few songs to make the girls feel one happy family. It was no use staying up here and being miserable, not on Christmas Night.
She got up, put her Christmas card and present away in her locker, tidied herself at the mirror and went downstairs to where they were all singing.
The Merry children went up to bed at ten o’clock. Mr Merry stretched himself lazily and regretfully in front of the fire and said, “Well, my darling, all good things must come to an end.”
“It’s a shame,” his wife said. “Even Christmas they won’t leave you alone.”
“A policeman’s lot,” he said. “Sally, my dear?”
The maid held out his heavy, dark-blue overcoat. He slipped into it, took his trilby from her and brushed the felt. Sally said, “Never mind, sir. It was lovely.”
Mr Merry was touching his hat to the correct angle on his head, watching himself critically in the mantelpiece mirror. “It was that, my dear. I was lucky to have the day with you all. Off you go to bed now, Sal. I shall want a nice fire and plenty of hot water in the morning.”
“Ooh, I shall be up, don’t you worry, sir. Good night, sir. Good night, madam.”
When Sally was gone he kissed his wife on the cheek. “I shall want a nice warm bed to get into, as well.”
She touched her hair at the back and said coyly, “I shan’t hurry to get up. Seeing tomorrow’s Boxing Day.”
“Ah,” he said. “You’re my favourite girl. Night now, my love.”
It was a half-hour’s smart walk to the police station. Weldon was waiting for him and they went on together to a house in Spital Square. Weldon knocked and a woman came to the door. She was well-dressed and governessy and although a dim gaslight burned in the hall she carried an oil lamp with the wick turned up bright. She held it up to inspect them. “Oh, it’s Mr Merry,” she said. “Come in, sir. Happy Christmas.”
“Same to you, Bertha,” Merry said. He led the way in. “All quiet this evening?”
“They’re all home birds tonight,” she said. They followed her upstairs.
“In the bosoms of their families,” Merry said. He was well known at this house of assignation, not as a client, for he was the most faithful of husbands, but on his own business. It was known to the law as a disorderly house, although it was probably the most orderly house in Spitalfields. Unobtrusive with its grimed Georgian front and drawn curtains, it was conveniently near to the shops and offices of the City, and had a clientele of prosperous businessmen and tradesmen, some of whom dropped in for an hour before they caught their trains home to the suburbs from near-by Liverpool Street Station.
Merry would not have dreamed of interfering with its activities. This was not because of the probity and respectability with which Bertha ran it; for if the job ever came his way he would not hesitate to send her to prison; but because the job was not likely to come his way. Bertha paid certain sums of money to certain of Merry’s seniors in the Force with the regularity of wages; and she was not to be touched.
It happened that Merry had never taken a penny from anyone apart from his police pay, but he was quite unshocked by what he knew. He was not bitten by any puritan zeal to reform the Force. His own career was enough for him to worry about, and with his own career in mind he would certainly not question the ways of his superiors. “Dropsy” was an institution. Constables on the beat took their weekly half-dollars from bookies’ runners as they took the pay from their packets. Inspectors took their banknotes from bookies, brothel-keepers and race-gang bosses in the same spirit; perquisites of office. The money, in fact, was a lubricant that prevented friction. Few if any of these officers would permit any serious breach of the law to escape unpunished at any price. They simply refrained from interfering as long as life went on quietly. Indeed, it was held by some of them (in their own minds, for no two men even though both were receiving “dropsy” would discuss the matter) that the institution was beneficial to law and order; for those who paid the money were so anxious to maintain peace and quiet that they frequently handed over offenders, and even sometimes arranged for their own underlings to be arrested for the sake of appearances and of certain officers’ reputations; these underlings and their families being well looked after while they served their sentences. Merry had no illusions about life and therefore was immune from disillusionment. He was not envious for he had a serene and patient confidence in his own future.
The bedroom was clean and cosy, with bright floral wallpaper and a fire burning in the small grate. The double bed had a flowered cover which matched the curtains. On the wall was a coloured print in a gilt frame, of Roman lovers gazing into each other’s eyes over a pedestalled urn. The washstand was of pink veined marble. Standing on it in front of the oval mirror were a large jug and bowl, of rippled china
painted with pink buds and encrusted gold ivy-leaves. There was a chamberpot to match. Weldon said, “Very nice.”
Merry said, “Psychological. Makes the customers feel respectable.”
The door opened. Albert waddled in. He said, “Evenin’, Mist’ Merry.”
Merry put out his umbrella and used the tip to stop Albert at a proper distance, “What’s the form, Albert?”
Albert leaned on his walking-stick and wheezed, “Right ol’ knees-up dahn the Murchisons.”
“Well?”
“Never seen so much beer ahtside a brewery.”
“Albert,” Merry said in a gentle voice. “Do you think I came out on Christmas night for a social chat?”
“They done it, sir.” Albert also had understandings on one side and the other. The sale of information to both police and criminals was an occupation that required a fine balance of calculations.
“Where did they sell it?”
“Tatchinsky. Princelet Street.”
“One yiddle to another, eh? Did Harry see you right?”
“Lahsy ’alf-sovereign, sir.”
“Albert!” Merry’s voice was cautionary and he gave a gentle prod with the tip of the umbrella.
“On my sainted mother’s knee, sir.”
“Albert, do you see any green in my eye?”
“No, sir.”
“What did he give you? Two quid?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Don’t make me cross again, Albert. I expect he’s on the lookout for another gaff.”
“Don’t know, sir.”
“You don’t know?”
“What abaht me little consideration, sir? I done what you said, all fair an’ square.”
“Albert, you are making me cross.” A harder jab with the umbrella. “Are you going to find him another bust?”
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