Bad Penny Blues

by Cathi Unsworth

  No wonder he never wanted to go home.

  Toby had hired a van so they could take all the music gear down to Soho to sell, while Jackie and I were going to sift through the rest, separating what Lenny might be able to flog from what to just chuck. Getting everything out took a whole morning and sorting through the piles of decaying papers a good part of the afternoon. We collapsed on the settee that had been hidden for so long at around four o’clock, clutching a much-needed cup of tea.

  “What a palaver,” said Jackie, peeling off her grimy rubber gloves and rubbing at her hair. “I'm sweating like a pig here.”

  “Can you believe they used to live like this?” I said. Once the boys had loaded up and we'd been able to see what was actually Lenny's, more troubling aspects of the room had come into view. Like the various holes in the wall, caused, Lenny had said, by James’ fondness for hurling things around when he had a temper tantrum.

  “No,” Jackie replied. “But I tell you what, I'm glad I never had the pleasure of making this James’ acquaintance. He sounds like an overgrown toddler to me.”

  She drained her cup and stood up, surveying the bookshelves.

  “And all of this still to go,” she said. “Will it never end?”

  She dragged over a cardboard box and we started on the shelves. We found a lot of magazines with Buddy Holly on the cover. Some sheet music for his songs. Then:

  “What's this?”

  Jackie held up a cloth drawstring pouch, which she proceeded to open up and peer in. “Some sort of cards in here. They don't look much like playing cards.”

  “Let's see,” I said, swallowing. My throat had suddenly gone dry.

  But before I could even take a look she'd found something even more astonishing.

  “Flamin’ heck!” Jackie exclaimed. “Take a look at this.” She passed me a black leather bundle, held together with string.

  The hairs prickled all down the back of my neck. It was a Bible. Or it had been. The leather cover was in tact, but the contents appeared to be held together only by the tight binding. Protruding from the top of it was a mortise key, around which all the pages had curled up and ripped, as if in a frenzy, someone had spun the key in circles inside it. But how they would have the strength to do such a thing…

  We stood, staring at it for a few silent minutes.

  “Jackie,” I said as quietly and steadily as I could. “Bring it over to the sink.”

  She looked up sharply.

  “Why? What for?”

  “Just do it,” I said. “Drop it in the sink.”

  Looking worried now, she did as she was told and as she did, I pulled open the window. I said a silent prayer as I turned on the cold water. As soon as it hit the covers of the desecrated book, the key shot out of the pages, bouncing off the back of the sink.

  “Jesus!” Jackie recoiled.

  “Put your hands under the tap,” I said. “Let it wash off you too.”

  “Stella.” I had never heard Jackie sound the slightest bit ruffled, ever, before. But now she seemed on the verge of hysteria. “What the bloody hell's going on?”

  “It's OK, you'll be fine now,” I said, hoping I was right. “You can take your hands out, just shake them dry, don't use the towel. Right,” I went back into the front room to find a rubbish sack. “Let's get rid of it, get it out of the house. No, wait,” I stopped, realising what else would be there and where I would find it. I located the board and added it to my refuse collection. Then I marched outside and lifted the dustbin lid, hurled the bag in and slammed the lid back down on it.

  No wonder I'd had that dream, I thought as I marched back inside. No bloody wonder. And what else has he been letting into this house…

  I stopped my train of thought when I saw Jackie's face.

  “Jackie,” I said, reaching out to take her hands, which were still wet and trembling. Jackie had been brought up a strict Catholic, taught by nuns. However much we fancied ourselves as modern, emancipated women living in a world of our own making, far away from everything they taught us as children, you couldn't escape your past that easily. Seeing that defaced Bible dragged her right back there, just like I was being dragged back to mine.

  “Jackie, I've never told anyone else this, not even Toby,” I said. “Please don't think that I'm mad. But I was brought up a Spiritualist. My Grandma was a medium and my Grandpa was a faith healer. Even Ma has got the gift. But everything they did, they did for good, please believe me, they were devout Christians in their way. And they rammed it down my throat never to mess around with things like this.”

  “Things,” Jackie croaked, her eyes starting to well up, “like what?”

  “The ouija board, tarot cards, all that bloody nonsense I've just chucked out.”

  “I think I need to sit down,” said Jackie.

  “Good idea,” I said. “I'll make us some more tea.”

  “Aye,” she said. “Put five sugars in mine.”

  By the time the kettle had boiled she had composed herself again. I sat down next to her, put my arm around her shoulders.

  “Why did we have to wash it?” she asked as I handed her her tea.

  “To stop anything…” I caught myself from saying ‘else’, “bad from coming through.”

  “Oh,” said Jackie, “I see.” She took a thoughtful sip and stared ahead of her, pondering what to say next. “It's a funny thing. The way I were brought up, Spiritualism is the same thing as witchcraft.” She shot me a sideways look and the first signs of a grin flickered around her mouth. “I should have you burnt at the stake.”

  “That's why,” I said, “I don't want anyone to know. It's not as if I intend to follow in Grandma's footsteps or anything. In fact, I'd like nothing more to do with it myself.”

  “Aye, well. The thing is,” Jackie continued, locking her eyes with mine. “I'd have to burn myself and all.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well Stella.” She gave a little grimace. “You've told me your secret so I'll tell you mine and you can see if you think I'm mad or need to be burnt at stake an’ all.”

  I frowned. I couldn't imagine what she was talking about. She laughed as if she could read my mind.

  “You are a love, Stella. I know you've been trying really hard to set me up with Lenny and I do appreciate your efforts, don't get me wrong.”

  “Well,” I started, “I hope this hasn't put you off him. I'm sure it's got nothing to do with Lenny and everything to do with that revolting James.”

  Jackie laughed softly. “No, love, it's not put me off him. You don't see it do you? There's nothing that could have put me on him in first place. I'm a lesbian, Stella. Lenny's homosexual. That's what we have in common, that's why we get on so well. It's our common language, the language we don't want straight folks to hear. I know you imagined that Lenny and James were just palling up like bachelors do, but they were actually more like man and wife… as today has so clearly demonstrated.”

  “Oh my.” I felt myself blush to the roots, seized by a mortifying embarrassment. I'd been in London over a year now, at art college for God's sake, how could I have been so naïve? So much for being a modern, emancipated women.

  “Oh Jackie. I'm so sorry.”

  “What, that I'm a lesbian?”

  The words hung on the air and there was a challenge in her eyes. I suppose she had been expecting me to recoil from her, just as I had feared her reaction to my revelation. But I couldn't see her any differently. Jackie was the first woman I had ever got on so well with, nothing could change that. Besides, whatever else had been weird about my childhood, I had never been brought up to hate anyone.

  “No, that I was so stupid that I didn't realise,” I said. “I think I'm such a woman of the world and here I am, as provincial as they come. I don't think there were any lesbians in Bloxwich, though.”

  “None in Pocklington neither,” she said. “So you don't hate me then?”

  “Of course not Jackie.”

  We fell i
nto a hug, trying not to cry, and stayed there for a few minutes, saying what didn't need words. Then the front door slammed and we both jumped.

  “Everything OK?” Toby's voice sounded from the hallway. “We've managed to get rid of our lot, how about you?”

  “Well,” I said, looking from Jackie to Lenny as he came through the door, “we found something rather unpleasant, so we've thrown it away. I'm sure it was James and not you who was messing around with the ouija board.”

  Lenny's jaw dropped open. “Oh my God,” he said. “Not his Buddy Holly things. Oh dear me, I had no idea they were still here.”

  Toby just stood there, scratching his head.

  “Buddy Holly things?” He sounded vaguely amused. “What do you mean, old man?”

  “Oh these stupid things that James started getting involved with,” Lenny said. “I knew it would all end in tears. I told him.”

  He sank down on the settee, looking like he was about to cry.

  “It was this band James started working with about two summers ago, Jimmy Saint and the Sinners they were called.” He shook his head. “He was a sinner all right, that Jimmy. He was into all these weird things, these séances.” He said the word as if it was dirty enough in its own right. “He convinced James that he could talk to the spirit world and James has always been fascinated by the supernatural. He was brought up in the country you know, the Forest of Dean. I think they still burn witches out there.”

  He gave a shudder. “I told him I didn't want no part of it. I said, James dear, I'm a Jew, and we don't mess around with drek like that. I made him some sandwiches to entertain his friends with and left them to get on with it. When I got back the next day, James was full of how they tied the Bible up and asked the spirits to give them a sign and then the key started spinning and tore up all the pages. All the rest of the band wet their knickers with fright, but James just loved it. It proved to him that there was something there,” Lenny waved his hands, “on the other side.”

  “My God.” Jackie shook her head.

  “That's incredible.” Toby looked like he was thoroughly enjoying this tale. “Could he have been some kind of magician, this Jimmy, you know, sleight of hand and all that?”

  “I don't know,” said Lenny. “He might have been, I suppose, except it got worse after that, something happened that there's no way I can explain. God, I don't even know if I should be telling you this.”

  “Oh go on,” Toby urged. “You can't stop now.”

  “Well, then they did a full-blown séance. James, Jimmy and this other feller, Mark, who was supposed to be an experienced spirit guide. They sat in a row, all holding hands, James on one side, Jimmy in the middle and this Mark at the other end, writing down what the spirits told them. Well, according to James, as soon as they began, the lights started flickering on and off and then the table started shaking, but Mark just kept on writing. Suddenly the overhead light went really bright and the bulb shattered over their heads. When they looked at what Mark had been writing, it said,” Lenny's voice started to waver, “it said, Buddy Holly is going to die, in a plane, on February the third.”

  Toby frowned. “Oh,” he said, not quite so amused now. “And when did he die again? It was early this year, wasn't it?”

  “Well this is the thing.” Lenny looked round at all of us. “They did the séance in the January of ’58, when Buddy was just about to come over. James sent him a message telling him not to get on a plane on that day, he was so convinced it was going to happen. But it didn't. Not that time anyway. It was exactly a year later when Buddy did get killed in a plane crash. February the third, 1959.”

  “My God,” said Toby quietly. “So there was something in it after all?”

  “Yes.” Lenny reached for his handkerchief from his jacket pocket and dabbed delicately at his eyes. Jackie stared at me, shaking her head.

  “That's when things started to go bad between us,” Lenny went on. “James was devastated when Buddy died and I think he held it against me that I'd never approved of his séances, he didn't think I was being sympathetic enough. He'd started taking lots of these diet pills and staying up all night to make records. I actually think he was going quite mad with it all. But I had no idea that he'd kept all this stuff here. After everything what happened, I would have thought he would have thrown it away, got shot of it. To think it's been sitting here, all these months…”

  “Yes, well.” I got to my feet, trying to bite down on the agitation within. “It's gone now. Try not to think about it any more.”

  Lenny looked up at me with bloodshot eyes. “Yes dear,” he said. “Thank you. You did me a mitzvah.”

  I looked back at him, hoping I had done us all one.

  9 LEARNING THE GAME

  It wasn't his usual reading matter. He felt embarrassed taking it down off the shelf each week and it gave him a headache to wade through the contents. But Tatler & Bystander was gradually providing Pete with a goldmine of information on the circles of society he would otherwise be hard pressed to penetrate. Picture after picture of chinless wonders, debs and dowagers preening their way through the season. Clinking crystal glasses with politicians, ambassadors, film stars, sportsmen and singers in a seemingly endless succession of race meetings, shooting parties, hunt balls and charity galas. In amongst them, two recurring faces: Jennifer Minton and Giles Somerset.

  In the days after the Gypsy George arrest, Pete had waited on tenterhooks to be summoned to give his evidence. Days turned into weeks and no word was forthcoming. He tried to make discreet enquiries but Derek Cooper stonewalled him. Dick Willcox came up with a probable scenario: Lord Somerset refused to press charges, Harold Wesker was sent in to bury the whole thing while taking care of George on outstanding charges — a couple of identity parades and the thief went straight to Pentonville. A wanted criminal behind bars, a prominent peer protected, everybody's happy.

  Except Pete. His rage vacillated from hot to cold, but he hadn't forgotten what Dai Jones had taught him: “It doesn't do to show too much initiative, sunshine.” He kept his mouth shut and let the society magazine become his icepack. It was the start of another file to keep under the floorboards in his one-room digs at the station house in Hammersmith; along with the one that contained all the information he had on Bobby Clarke. Two senior policeman keeping the chills coming as he clipped out pictures and wrote up notes in the grey hours between shifts when he couldn't sleep. Wesker got the glory for putting Gypsy George away but there was a man behind him, wasn't there? Wesker had said it himself. DI Bell.

  Bell and The Bastard. It didn't seem possible.

  In the hours he was working, he pushed it all to the back of his mind, got on with the endless dirty business of Ladbroke Grove. It seemed that the more familiar the streets and their inhabitants became to him, the more there was to learn. The place threw up surprises like it threw up mushroom clubs, the dance parties the West Indians held in the basements round Powis Square, which had the ability to fade back into the night as quickly as they'd flared the moment that 999 was called.

  There was a mindset here that you had to accept in order to get on with it, one that had at first seemed totally alien to Pete. But, as the months passed, he began to see the twisted logic of it. The people here were dirt poor – the Irish and the coloureds were only there, after all, to do the jobs that no one else wanted – but they put all their passion into their leisure hours: the fighting, the thieving, the whoring, the parties. They looked to themselves and wanted nobody's help. Which was why, when he once tried to get an Irishman with a razor slash to his face that had virtually severed his lip into an ambulance, the man pushed his way past and leapt onto a passing bus. Or how it could be that a man who had been glassed by a woman at a party would be buying the same hellcat a drink a day later. You couldn't impose your own notions onto anyone here, as Oswald Mosley found out when he was beaten into last place in the local elections in October.

  Poverty and rage also led to the steady stream of mu
rders F Division had to deal with, for which there was no apparent logic at all. They were sordid and desperate affairs, not the sort of thing that would ever make the national papers. Pete had one man die on him in the aftermath of a pub fight, his jugular severed by a carving knife outside the Elgin, leaking out his life over the pavement, in bloody seconds. But despite the amount of weaponry carried around by the citizens of the Grove, that was an anomaly.

  Usually, the victims were women and usually the murderers were their husbands… or their pimps. There were more prostitutes in the Royal Borough of Kensington than anywhere else in West London. But whichever way they were beholden to a man, the end result was the same – drunken, jealous rows that left broken necks and ruptured organs, contrite, sobbing perpetrators and hollow-eyed, shocked children in their wake. Routine human misery, older officers would call it. Nothing so shocking as the Christie murders that many of them had worked on a few years back, but nothing Pete could entirely get used to either. These women had only had brief, messy and painful lives and their violent passing bequeathed an ominously similar fate to those they had left behind.

  Another generation of little Bobby Clarkes, with no one to clear their dirty laundry up for them.

  Although, as Pete had discovered, they weren't without their champions amongst the smooth, clean, smiling faces that beamed out of the Tatler & Bystander each week. Some people had ideas for their betterment, big ideas, which could lead them out of squalor and into a bright new world. People like the architect Alex Minton. Jennifer's celebrated father, who even now was bidding for a plan to turn the slums and bombsites of W10 into a soaring concrete city in the sky, according to this article Pete was reading.

  Minton smiled out of the page with his perfect teeth, immaculate suit and Dean Martin haircut. He was sharing a drink with an equally smooth looking Tory MP, one of Macmillan's Eton in-laws, and his birdlike little wife. Young Jennifer was not in sight, but that was hardly surprising. The last time her father had a building erected in London, in the spring of 1958, she'd gone on a march to protest against how ugly it was.