Fowlers End (5 page)

2

SAM YUDENOW paused to slap himself on the forehead. I thought for a moment that some new, startling idea had occurred to him, but he said, “A flea. Bloody fleas—as soon as you chunk ‘em out, the audience brings ‘em back in again. Fleas you can’t ‘elp. I’ve tried fumigating the place miv sulphur once. All I killed was an old man—’e locked ‘imself in the broom cupboard for the night so as to get in free of charge next day. It was Booligan’s fault. And that’s another thing I want you should remember: before you lock the show up at night, ‘ave a good look rahnd. The people rahnd ‘ere can ‘ide in
cracks, like bugs. They bring ‘em in too, an’ lice. Now once upon a time you could slip the sanitary inspector a couple quid an’ a cigar, an’ for all ‘e cared you could ‘ave snakes in the up’ olstery. But now the capitalist system come in, you can’t get the buggers to take dropsy any more.

“But the police rahnd ‘ere is still a fine body o’men. Why, I bet you for a fi’-pun note I could get old Godbolt pinched for indecent exposure, the bloody little misery. I only wish ‘e’d set foot in my ‘all, that’s all. I give ‘im a couple complimentary tickets for my Grand Opening an’‘e tore ‘em up an’ ‘e thvew ‘em in miv face, the little stinker! Try an’ make friends miv ‘im. Be diplomatic miv the old bastard. Offer ‘im a cup tea, a bun. Try an’get ‘im inside ‘ere— that’s all I ask. Then get ‘old o’ little May Geezle—you’ll see ‘er arahnd. Fourteen years old an’the most unnatural little ‘
ore in Fowlers End, an’ that’s saying something. Give ‘er ‘alf a dollar dahn an’ promise ‘er another ‘alf dollar after the job. Get ‘er to sit next to old Godbolt an’ make ‘er tear ‘is face miv ‘er fingernails an’ scream ‘rape!’ Then chunk Godbolt out in the alley—the left arm rahnd the thvoat, the right ‘and in the arse from the trousers—give ‘im a bloody
good ‘iding, unbutton ‘is trousers, an’ give ‘im in charge for indecent assault, the bloody hypocrite!”

Sam Yudenow smacked his lips and said wistfully, “I can just see that tart in court miv the paint scraped off‘er face. She looks like a proper little cherumb an’ I don’t advise you to ‘ave anything to do miv ‘er. She’s got more claps than a football crowd.... No, you’re new to show biz; better let me ‘andle that ifyou can get Godbolt over ‘ere, that little worm. A snake in the grass, that rat. Call Sam Yudenow your pal an’ you can ‘ave anything ‘e’s got from ‘is wife to ‘is toofbrush. But call Sam Yudenow a bastard, an’ ‘e’s an out-an’-outer.

“Oh, yes. There’s a little boy called Tommy. Every Friday give ‘im a shilling. ‘E chunks dead dogs an’so forth into Godbolt’s shop. Only keep ‘im up to the mark, because if there’s one thing I can’t stand it’s idleness. ‘E’s a good boy though—got nishertive. One time when ‘e run out o’ dogs, ‘e got a great big can o’ scales an guts from the fish shop, which was just as good if not better. When they shake out the coconut rugs an’what not, wait till the wind’s blowing in Godbolt’s diraction. ‘Is wife, that bloody little misery, she’s a ‘undred times worse than what ‘e is; she’s alw
ays scrubbing the floor, the cow. Wait till she’s finished scrubbing, an then get some yobbo miv the muddiest boots you can find, an’ send ‘im over to Godbolt’s to ask if ‘e does watch repairing or something—use your ‘magination. Give the bloke thruppence.... Or again, find a clean-looking girl. They exist, so find one. In the office you’ll see a tube marked Hektograph Ink—undelible; it sticks like shit to a blanket. It never dries an’ science ‘asn’t discovered what to do miv it once you get it on you. Give the girl a tanner, smear this Hektograph Ink all over ‘er fingers, an’ send ‘er to Godbolt
’s she should look at piller slips. Or neckties.

“Yes, call Sam Yudenow a gentleman an’ ‘e’s a prince; but call Sam Yudenow a pig an’, oh Christ, what a
bugger ‘e can be! Don’t you let Godbolt scare you, swelling up like a blubber. To some people Godbolt gives the creeps, ‘e gives. Don’t let it. Screw up your eyes to a gimblet like I do an’ hyptonize ‘im. I know ‘is sort, believe
me.
Puntcher the bastard miv a look—a sharp look give Godbolt an ‘e’s got a prick like a balloon.
Phut!—the
dirty schemer. Do unto others, but not Godbolt, that twicer! Love your neighbor as yourself, okay, but there’s a limit, an’ that limit is Godbolt.... What do I ask?” cried Sam Yudenow to the chandelier. “Little. To be loved for myself. Love Sam Yudenow an’ it’
s the shirt off ‘is back; ‘ate Sam Yudenow an’ vice versa. Better ‘ate Godbolt.”

“Why?” I asked. “What has Godbolt done to you?”

And now Sam Yudenow began to stutter and splutter, gesticulating like a semaphore. It was not, he finally explained, anything that Godbolt had done—not anything he’d
done—but
what he would do if he could. Done? What, Godbolt? To Sam Yudenow? He begged me not to make him laugh because he had a cracked lip. Envy, that was what was wrong with Godbolt, plain jealousy. And the cheek of the man was enough to give you the sick; so help Sam Yudenow, but the nerve of that hypocritical shrimp with the unsanitary mustache, it got you groggy! Just because Sam Yudenow had had the initiative to turn th
ese lousy premises into a Pantheon, Godbolt had it in for him. There were, he assured me, certain people in the world like that—I’d be surprised. Why, if it hadn’t been for Sam Yudenow, Godbolt would still bave the church on his hands, a dosshouse for tramps, a restaurant for rats, a brother
cum
public lavatory for layabouts of all ages. Godbolt should be grateful; grateful Godbolt should be—instead of which all he did was he awake at night with that bitch of a wife of his, inventing new ways and means to ruin poor old Sam Yudenow, bighearted Sammy who never did anybody a bad turn in his life, who n
ever passed a blind beggar in the street without
feeling sorry for him and thanking God that, if he had nothing else, at least he had his eyesight. And this too he would have given away already if it hadn’t been for his wife and children.

Godbolt was trying to break Sam Yudenow’s lease. So what if he
had
said verbally by word mouf that he intended to use the premises for a warehouse? A man had a right to change his mind, wasn’t it? Anyway, a purely verbal agreement was not worth the paper it was written on. Besides, couldn’t Godbolt read? Hymn books he could read, yes—if you gave that worm hymn books he’d pray you out of house and home. But if you showed that type hypocrite a businesslike lease he’d be so greedy for his quarter’s rent money in advance that he’d lose his eyesight. He’d be in such a hurry to get good money out
of you for a crappy old church that he’d sign anything. And complain afterwards! This kind of unsportsmanlike and ungentlemanly conduct, Sam Yudenow told me, gave him a pain in the left tit and, in general, shook his faith in his fellow men. Special leases he had printed yet, with typography of such delicacy that in places you needed a magnifying glass to read it, and so exquisitely drawn up that the Lord Chancellor himself couldn’t find a loop hole.

But Godbolt had to come running, crying, “I’ve been robbed, I’ve been robbed!” Not once but a dozen times Sam Yudenow had, with the forbearance of a saint, patiently begged Godbolt to stop worrying him. And when at last he had, with all the delicacy in the world, warned the little rotter that if he didn’t stop pestering him he, Sam Yudenow, would personally kick his arse from Godbolt’s Corner to the tram stop, what did Godbolt do? Brought a summons out against him for uttering threats, or something. Actually, the shoe was on the other foot—it was Godbolt who had done all the threatening.
Sam Yudenow politely, even piously, merely begged the Lord God Almighty to commit an unnat
ural offense against this pestilential man. And what did Godbolt do? Threatened to give him in charge for foul language and blasphemy! Anything to make trouble. And all the time Godbolt and his wife were writing anonymous letters to the police, to the inspectors, to the sanitary inspectors, to everybody you could think of, complaining. No, Fowlers End was not big enough to hold Sam Yudenow and the reptilian Godbolt. If that black beetle crossed my path I was, without fail, to stamp him flat, the same as a rattlesnake. If I was not too busy, while I was about it, I might tear out hi
s liver and stuff it down his throat.... In the meantime I was to use my imagination and devise little bloodless ways of making his life a misery, such as: leaving newborn babies on his doorstep (you could get one for five bob in Fowlers End, blanket and basket thrown in, Sam Yudenow surmised); strewing the contents of his dustbin all over the pavement and ringing up the local authorities in a disguised voice; bribing methylated-spirits drinkers to defecate in his doorway; and breaking all his windows....

“But don’t do nothing beneath your dignity. Little Tommy’s all right for the dirty work. Keep in miv that one. He’s growing up to be a proper little Al Capone. Cross that little bastard an’ it’s better you should smear your arse miv honey an’ stick it into a wasps’ nest; it’d be soothing compared to crossing little Tommy. His own mother ‘e ‘alf killed miv a rusty stair rod when she tried to chastise ‘im miv a copper stick for pinching ‘er false teef an’ selling ‘em for eighteenpence to buy ginger beer for ‘is girl. Yes, less than thirteen years old, an’ a proper little womanizer ‘
e is already. An’ ‘is girl, she’s another one—thirteen an’ a half, an’ already on the bash, already, at from sixpence a go an’ upwards. She’s already keeping ‘im in cigarettes an’ comics. ‘E may ‘ave ‘is faults but ‘e worships the ground I tread on.

“And while we’re on these unpleasant topics I want you should keep an eye out for an Irishman called Darby O’Kelly O’Toole. ‘E ought to be out in about three months now—’e won’t get no time off for good behavior—and when ‘e does get out, well, ‘e’s declared war on Sam Yudenow. An’ that’s another little thing I got against that sod Godbolt.”

Now it appeared that this Darby O’Kelly O’Toole was distantly related to Mrs. Godbolt, the wayward son of some cousin by marriage—he came from the north. Even among the Liverpool Irish he was regarded as quite a lad. Egged on by the Godbolts, who put him up to it, Darby O’Kelly O’Toole applied to Sam Yudenow for a job as manager. “I got a manager.” Darby O’Kelly O’Toole replied, easily, “That’s all right, me boy, you won’t have no blerdy manager for blerdy long. Where is he? Show me him, and you’ll be needing a new manager in three minutes.” A man called Left-Handed Hopkins
was manager of the Pantheon at that time—sixteen stone of bone and muscle, and onetime heavyweight champion boxer of one of the Guards’ Regiments. He had been a policeman in Greenock but had been dismissed from the Force for killing a docker. He lacked imagination, said Sam Yudenow, but was very good at keeping order. Before the three minutes were up Left-Handed Hopkins was running for the tram stop. He never came back.

“This Irisher give ‘im a Liverpool Kiss. You know what it is, a Liverpool Kiss? Make a quick grab for the lapels o’ the coat, an’ pull somebody forward. At the same time bunt ‘im in the face miv the top o’ your ‘ead an’ kick ‘im in the balls miv your knee. Naturally ‘e falls forward. While ‘e’s falling, punch ‘im in the jaw miv all your might so he gradually falls dahn senseless. Then, at your leisure, kick ‘im in the ‘ead. Naturally, I don’t want
you
should do such things.... Well, the police was called an’ they tell this
O’Toole to go away he should stay away. But two days later so ‘e comes back miv a mob ruffians from the fulsuric acid factory to smash the show up. I got a new manager by then. ‘E used to fight by the name o’ Kid Knuckles. So this O’Toole goes for ‘im miv two razors an’ cuts ‘is face to shreds. For this, O’Toole got nine months—’e got a record for such carryings-on. The police ‘ad to break three cruncheons on ‘is ‘ead and even then ‘e fell dahn only because ‘e slipped in the blood.... I was sorry for Kid Knuckles; but that’s show biz. The show must go on! Well, they got the cuffs on this O’T
oole an’ took ‘im away, but before ‘e went ‘e said, Tm coming back to murder you, you old bastard, and I’ll bum your effing show down to the effing ground; eff me if I don’t, you old effer!’And confidentially between us, there was something about that fellow I didn’t like.

“Yes, I been unlucky in my managers. After that, there was Booligan, an’ your worst enemies shouldn’t ‘ave ‘alf a quarter the trouble that bugger got me into! But I think I’ll be lucky miv you. If O’Toole comes in, act first! And don’t be too gentlemanly miv ‘im. ‘E carries razors, ‘e’s got a criminal record. ‘E did a feller in once in Glasgow only ‘e got away miv it. There’s a mallet in the cashier’s box. You ‘ave my permission to use it on O’Toole. You needn’t worry if you kill that one. Be firm. Command respect.... Now I want you should see the stage an’ the lighting system.”

Now at the front of the hall there was a screen, on either side of which hung plush curtains, originally peach-colored but tinted by time and the atmosphere to the variegated shades of a black eye. Sam Yudenow explained that if I pulled the right string at the right time, these curtains would come together with the rush of a storm, covering the screen and thereby turning the Pantheon into a Palace of Variety. “Pull the wrong string,” he said, “an’ the ‘ole bleeding lot is likely as not to come dahn an’ smother you. An’ then the bastards in the fi’penny seats will very likely come
out miv a box matches an’ set you alight just out of spite. So you want to watch out for that. Can you whistle through your teef? ... No? You’ll learn. Better, you see, because while you’re ‘andling the curtains miv the right ‘and, an’ the light switches miv the left up front, you ain’t got much time to sign miv the buzzer back.... the ‘all three quick buzzes for the spotlights. For the band to start, kick on the partition an’ tip the wink to the piano leader. Whereas, you got to get your turns up on the stage at the same time. As long as you realize this ain’t the opera ‘ouse you’ll be
all right.... It’d be better if you could whistle through your teef. Better buy a dog whistle. In show biz it comes in ‘andy.

“Yes,” said Sam Yudenow, lighting a cigar, “not only is this Pantheon of mine the only show in Fowlers End, it’s also the best. Work it out for yourself. For fi’pence, eightpence or tenpence from twelve o’clock in the morning till six o’clock in the evening I give the swine two full-length features, three shorts, and three first-class West End variety turns. From six to eleven or so, the same again, only after six, it’s eightpence, a shilling, and one-and-thrup-pence. Do I poison the bastards? ... With a five-piece orchestra yet in the evenings; in the afternoons, a lady pianist miv
a degree from an academy already. Nothing but the best! Now miv musicians and variety turns you got to be a proper diplomat, I don’t mind telling you. The bandsmen are an independent lot o’ sods. They nearly all got daytime jobs and come in about six o’clock, so a kind of aristocracy they think themselves. Don’t row miv ‘em, whatever you do. If they get too big for their boots an’ start asking for more money, be calm. Make miv a mysterious smile like this—” Sam Yudenow contorted his face in a grimace so frightful that my heart missed a beat—“an’ say, ‘Why, sure, certainly, ladies and gentlemen, I’
ll see what I can do for you. Don’t you worry, ladies an’ gentlemen, I’ll speak to Mr. Yudenow about it this very minute.’Then give me a tin
kle, that’s all. What I do is, I got a amplifying gramophone, what they call a Panatrope; they make musicians unnecessary. A trade secret—my Panatrope’s a dummy.