September Song (13 page)

‘That's right,' I said. ‘I visited a few old friends. From the war.' How did he know about that?

‘That must have cost a few bob,' he said. ‘Come into some money, have you?'

‘It's not that expensive,' I said defensively. ‘Half a crown goes a long way in France.'

He looked thoughtful. ‘Never fancied it much myself,' he said. ‘Abroad.'

‘Well,' I said, ‘each to his own.'

He nodded. ‘As you say, each to his own. I'll stick to the allotment, I think. Maybe a trip to Chalkwell with the missus.' And, apparently lost in thoughts of prize runner beans and the delights of the stony beach at Chalkwell, he wandered off.

I wondered what he did know. Probably a great deal less than he hinted at. But what he suspected was another matter altogether.

Obviously, the Frighted Horse was out of bounds, so I ambled aimlessly towards Soho Square.

It was cool and cloudy, in contrast to the last few weeks, but pleasant enough, and I stood for a moment on the corner, lost in my own thoughts. They didn't include any green veg or deck chairs and rolled-up trousers.

‘Penny for 'em,' someone behind me said.

I sighed. ‘I thought this only happened in Trafalgar Square,' I said.

‘What?' Big Malcolm looked genuinely confused.

‘Never mind,' I said. ‘It's just that this morning I seem to have run into everyone I've ever met.'

‘Well,' he said, ‘I was just going to give you a friendly warning.'

I waited.

‘Your mate,' he said, ‘the Yank. He's in a spot of bother.'

I laughed. ‘You could say that,' I said.

‘No,' he said. ‘Really. You could do worse than have a spot to eat in the Acropolis at dinner time. There'll be someone there who wouldn't mind a word.'

‘And if I'm not hungry?' I said.

‘I were you, I'd be there,' he said, and he patted me on the shoulder hard enough to hammer me three inches into the pavement.

I stood there for a few more minutes, thinking about my mother and wondering if she'd ever been just here in the sleazy centre of the great city she'd been brought to as a young bride. I'd never know.

The one thing I did know was that she would have disapproved. And that I would have been a disappointment to her. Shabby suit, badly shaved, hatless in Soho, mixed up in things and events that brought me to the attention of policemen  . . .

I remembered that Papa used to take her up West sometimes, to see a show when one of the French stars came to the Palladium or the Hippodrome, which wasn't often. And then she'd fuss with his tie and fuss with his hat and fuss with his suit, and Grand-père would tease her: ‘Mireille, he's in the audience, not on stage.' And she would look hurt and ask what was wrong with being smart. She didn't come from the bourgeoisie, but she had standards and aspirations, and here was I leading what she would have thought of as
‘la vie bohème'.
No, she wouldn't have approved.

In the Antelope once, Mickey Morgan had not been in his accustomed place by the dartboard but had been sitting at the bar, looking thoughtful and uncharacteristically morose. ‘You know, Tony,' he said, ‘that war cost me the best years of my wife.'

I sympathized, but at least he'd had a wife to come back to, and, as far as I knew, she hadn't been playing around with Eytie prisoners of war or rampant GIs. Coming home had been hard for everyone. Even Mickey Morgan. I was nothing special.

I tried to shrug off
le cafard
, but the music that played in my head as I strolled slowly around Soho Square was a sombre, sedate New Orleans funeral march I'd once heard, and, although the music was full of a subdued exuberance, it still filled me with a profound melancholy.

But, funnily enough, I was no longer thinking of Maman, Papa and Grand-père. I thought of Daphne. Losing a child must be the hardest thing to bear.

The Acropolis restaurant was a gloomy place. Even in the middle of the day, very little light from outside penetrated the large, grimy, greasy window because of the faded blue-and-white awning, the function of which in Greece, presumably, was to protect the three outside tables from the strength of the Mediterranean sun. Quite what it was doing on a murky September day in London is anyone's guess. Inside, the only illumination came from candles flickering on two tables at the back of the long, thin room.

I waited for a moment next to the door, partly for my eyes to adjust to the darkness and partly to see if anyone acknowledged my presence.

No one did.

The only other person in there seemed unaware of me. He sat at one of the only tables with a lit candle, a creamy
serviette de table
, as my mother would have called it, tucked neatly into his collar and splashed across his dark jacket. He was sawing away valiantly at a large slab of meat, pausing occasionally to sip white wine from a small glass. During one of these pauses, he finally noticed me, put down his fork and glass and beckoned me to him.

He indicated the chair opposite him, and I sat. Almost immediately, a white-jacketed waiter bustled through the door from the kitchen and set a place for me, complete with glass and my very own beautiful
serviette de table
. While he quietly fussed around, I looked at my new-found companion.

He wasn't much older than me, maybe thirty-five or thirty-six, but he was clearly much more prosperous. His chubby, boyish face and the large corporation that he was carrying around his middle suggested a sedentary life and a willingness to indulge his appetites. His mean little eyes suggested that he didn't indulge anyone else's. Oddly, his suit, though much better cut than mine, was worn, shiny and shabby. I suspected that this was because such things didn't bother him too much. Petty vanity was obviously beneath him. Even in the poor light in the restaurant, I could see an unhealthy sheen on his face, as though the act of cutting into his meat and then consuming it was physical activity enough to raise a sweat.

He dismissed the waiter with an airy wave of his small, plump hand. ‘I've taken the liberty of ordering for you, Mr Gérard,' he said, beaming at me. ‘I hope you don't mind.' His cultured, public-school pronunciation surprised me. I'd been expecting a thick European accent. ‘Can I offer you a glass of Retsina?'

He lifted an almost empty green bottle and waved it at me.

I nodded, and he poured a dribble of yellowish wine into my glass before replenishing his own rather more liberally.

He beamed at me again. It wasn't a completely reassuring sight. His little eyes almost disappeared completely, and there was a flash of stained, crooked teeth. He raised his glass to me. I picked mine up, and he clinked his against it before taking a great swallow of wine. I sipped a little. The taste surprised me.

He laughed. ‘It takes a little getting used to,' he said. ‘It's resinated, and, to be honest, that means it doesn't travel well, but it is the perfect accompaniment to Greek food. It cuts right through the grease.' He chuckled as though he'd just cracked a great gag. And, when I thought about it, I supposed there was a pun or something in there somewhere.

I offered him an appropriately weak smile and took another sip of wine. I tried not to shudder. He was wrong. It was going to take a lot of getting used to.

He leaned back on his chair, drank deeply again and contemplated me thoughtfully. ‘Mr Gérard,' he said, ‘may I call you Tony?'

‘If you like,' I said, ‘but what do I call you?'

‘Forgive me, Tony,' he said. ‘James. James Fitzgerald. No relation, alas, to the famous American writer.'

‘I'm pleased to meet you, Mr Fitzgerald,' I said, although I wasn't being entirely honest. I made a mental note to ask Jerry about American writers called Fitzgerald.

‘James, please. I'm sure we are going to become firm friends.'

I nodded slightly and tightened my lips into a thin smile. I was sure of no such thing. ‘James,' I said.

‘You know,' he said, waving his hand around expansively, ‘I got a taste for all this during the war.' He paused and leaned forward conspiratorially. ‘I was in Crete. SOE and all that. Just like you, I believe.' He tapped the side of his nose. ‘Not supposed to talk about it and so on, but it was all a long time ago now. No harm, eh?'

I shrugged in a non-committal sort of way. I was wondering how he'd come by his knowledge of my background.

The waiter bustled out of the kitchen carrying some small dishes, which he set down on the table.

‘Aristotle,' Fitzgerald said, ‘would you be kind enough to bring another bottle?'

The waiter nodded deferentially, whisked the empty bottle from the table and slipped away.

‘His name really is Aristotle, you know. The Greeks still have a sense of their ancient culture, however far removed from it they are these days.' He leaned across the table and pointed to some pink sludge. ‘That's one of their specialities. Cod's roe, olive oil and lemon juice. Delicious.' He pointed at another dish of dark mush swimming in oil. ‘Aubergine dip,' he said and almost smacked his lips. ‘In fact, I'll join you if you don't mind.' He took a piece of bread from a basket, tore off a piece and dipped it in the dark mush.

I watched him suspiciously as he ate. Then, very tentatively, I picked up a small piece of the bread, brushed it against the dip and brought it to my lips. This time he was right. It
was
delicious. I found myself wondering what sort of beast aubergine was and why I'd never come across it before. I risked a small sip of wine to wash the bread down and had to repress another shudder.

Fitzgerald smacked his lips and sank back against his chair again.

Aristotle swept in with another bottle, which he opened. He poured a glass for Fitzgerald, who nodded at him. Aristotle vanished again.

‘Enjoy,' Fitzgerald said, lifting his glass. ‘I'll talk for a while. You just have to listen.'

I dipped some bread enthusiastically into the pink sludge and munched on it while I waited for him to talk.

‘I'm a businessman,' he said. ‘“In trade”, as my sainted mama puts it.' He chuckled. ‘She's not that proud of me. Wanted me to go into the City, like my big brother. Imagine! I've told her that the Square Mile is home to the biggest crooks in the country, but she won't have it. Anyway, I import goods, I export goods, and I distribute the goods I import through my, er, agents here.' He finished his wine and refilled his glass. ‘You have come across some of my agents recently.'

I looked up, but I didn't need to ask.

‘A few of my Young Turks,' he said. ‘In fact, “come across” hardly comes close to what happened. There was what we used to call at school “a rumble”, I understand.'

‘Not of my making,' I said.

‘Of course,' he said, ‘that goes without saying. Some of my younger employees can be very hot-headed. Impulsive. The indiscretions of youth, eh?' He put down his glass, leaned forward, placed his hands together as though praying and adopted a decidedly ecclesiastical manner. ‘I understand that matters went beyond a mere rumble, though, and that is a very serious matter.'

‘I'm afraid,' I said, ‘that I can't help you there. I know very little about what happened after I came across your, er, “agents” in the Frighted Horse.'

‘That's most unfortunate,' he said. ‘I was hoping for some cooperation. A little assistance. You see, some important items went missing after the “events”, and they have caused me some financial loss.' He paused. ‘I understood that you might, at least, know the whereabouts of the missing items, or the whereabouts of the person who has occasioned me that loss. I would be most grateful for any information. Naturally, I am also very keen to see the full force of the law take its course, but I would like my goods returned to me first.' He paused again and gave me a long, hard look through his mean eyes. ‘I hope you understand me.'

‘I understand you perfectly,' I said. ‘But, as I've already said, I'm unable to help.'

‘That's a great pity, Tony,' he said, ‘a great pity. But thank you for stopping by.'

I realized that I'd just been dismissed, dabbed my lips with the fine
serviette de table
, pushed back my chair, nodded at him and walked towards the door. Before I reached it, Aristotle, the waiter, came bustling up and presented me with a bill. It seemed that I was liable for James Fitzgerald's meal as well as for what little I'd eaten.

Aristotle looked so nervous and embarrassed, continually glancing to the back of the restaurant where the fat toad sat, that, rather than add to his obvious discomfort, I carefully counted out the money and added a modest
pourboire
. I had no beef with the sad-looking and anxious waiter.

I glanced back at the table and saw James Fitzgerald still sitting in the gloom, still drinking his – well, mine really – filthy wine, dipping bread into the exotic dips. He was staring straight through me. I realized that there was something I needed to ask him about and walked slowly back. When I was standing just in front of him, casting a slight shadow over him, he deigned to look up.

‘I think you'll find, Tony,' he said, ‘that our business is concluded for the day.' There was no threat in his voice or any more meanness than usual in his eyes.

‘There's just one thing,' I said. ‘I was wondering what Philip Graham has invested in.'

‘Philip Graham?' he said.

I nodded.

‘Never heard of him,' he said and turned his attention back to the dips and his glass of wine.

Clearly, information was a commodity, like everything else, to be bought and sold.

I turned and left. I haven't met many public-school boys. There had been a few officers in the army, though, and, for the most part, they could have come from a different planet to me and the other enlisted men. James Fitzgerald inhabited a world much closer to mine, but he had done nothing to improve my general view of posh boys who oozed privilege, a sense of entitlement and a complete indifference to other people's well-being. In my experience, blokes like that get you shot at.