September Song (3 page)

Having paid my respects, I retraced my steps back to Vic's.

I was sweating slightly, but the harsh, nose-wrinkling smells of the lotions and powders Vic applied to hair, faces and necks would mask any odours emanating from me.

Vic was a sour, dapper, little man whose accounts I'd look over for him, to make sure they would make sense to Her Majesty's Inspector of Taxes. Vic didn't like me knowing that much about his business affairs, but I was cheaper than a legit accountant.

He looked up from the neatly trimmed grey head he was fastidiously pecking at with the scissors. ‘Hello, Tony,' he said. ‘Is it that time of year already?'

‘Don't come it, Vic,' I said. ‘I was in here not three weeks ago.' I remembered what Jerry had said and bit off the ‘after I got back from Paris'.

He gave me a bleak smile. ‘It was just, from the state of your hair, I thought it must have been longer,' he said.

I ignored him and took a seat next to the thin-faced young man who was idly flicking through an elderly copy of
Reveille
, paying particular attention to the pictures of young starlets that graced its grubby and torn pages. There was something familiar about him, but I couldn't place him. He probably just reminded me of someone.

Vic stepped back from the chair, appraised the haircut he had just wrought and, seeing that it was good, swished his razor up and down the leather strop a few times. He stepped back to the haircut and carefully stroked the razor along the back of the man's neck. Then, in a cloud of magical barber's powder, he flourished a mirror so the customer could see the back of his head and nod appreciatively.

The old boy stood up and pressed silver into Vic's hand. Vic took a clothes brush to the man's suit jacket and trousered the money. Clearly, he couldn't see any point in troubling his till.

After the ritual pleasantries had been grunted and the pensioner marched briskly out of the shop, the young man settled noisily into Vic's creaking and complaining red leatherette and chrome chair, waiting for the white cloth that Vic was flourishing to cocoon him.

As my thoughts drifted back to the night before and Jeannie Summers, I was dimly aware of the hollow-cheeked, pasty-faced youth waving his left hand at Vic and sniggering.

‘Blimey,' Vic said, ‘that's a wedding ring, ain't it? So, you're getting it regular now, you randy little devil.'

The youth sniggered again. ‘Yeah,' he said, ‘she loves it.'

‘Mind you, that'll cramp your style with all the others,' Vic said.

‘Nah,' the boy said, ‘I'm wearing it on me finger, not me prick. And, anyway, it's good to have a reserve at home.' He paused. ‘Especially one who's always ready to play – in any position.'

Something about the way they both laughed, in an unpleasant, sleazy, conspiratorial way, really cheesed me off, and I stood up. ‘You know what, Vic?' I said, aware that I was about to sound like a complete prig. ‘I think I'll find somewhere else to get my hair cut.'

He looked at me, his eyes narrowed. ‘Just for now?' he said.

‘No, something more long term,' I said.

‘Any particular reason?' he said.

‘I don't much care for the conversation,' I said.

He looked puzzled and then shrugged. ‘Fair enough,' he said. ‘I can probably stand the loss of your custom. Sling your hook.' And he jerked his thumb at the door. The boy sniggered again.

I took one step towards the chair and stared down at the lad. ‘You,' I said, ‘should show some respect to your wife.'

The boy's mouth turned down in an ugly sneer. ‘Bugger off, mush,' he said. ‘How I talk about my wife is my business.'

‘Not when you do it in front of me,' I said. ‘In front of me, you show her some respect.' And I turned and left, feeling a little bit foolish but, when I thought of Ghislaine, of Mrs Williams, the widow I'd been spending pleasant Saturday evenings with for a few years, and, finally, of Jeannie Summers, unrepentant. In fact, I almost wished he'd given me cause to wallop him. It occurred to me that, for someone who liked the quiet life, I hadn't been keeping my head down anything like enough over the past twelve hours. Philip Graham would have blood in his eye the next time he saw me, and I'd just seriously cheesed off Vic, and a kid I didn't know, for no good reason.

I felt better out in the sunshine – although I still needed a shave, badly, and a haircut, less urgently – and I started walking briskly towards the tube station. Then I remembered who the boy reminded me of and some of the spring left my step.

I'd come across Dave Mountjoy before the war. I'd just left school, so it must have been the summer of 1937, when I was fourteen. My dad's painting and decorating business was a one man and a dog affair, and, for a month or two, I'd been the dog, mixing plaster, stirring paint, preparing walls, making tea and carrying ladders.

Mountjoy was a scrap-metal merchant with a biggish house in Woodford Green, and for four weeks Papa and I had cycled there at eight o'clock in the morning and stayed until six o'clock in the evening, except on Saturday when we knocked off at four. We decorated the kitchen, lounge, dining room, hall, bathroom and three bedrooms and never got paid a penny. Mountjoy found fault with the plastering, with the colour of the paint, the quality of the paper-hanging and so on. In fact, about the only thing he didn't object to was my tea-making. Of course, he'd never tasted my tea. But his reasons for not ponying up had little to do with the job we'd done and more to do with deep-seated and strongly held beliefs.

Mountjoy didn't believe in paying for anything, unless he could help it, and, because he was a villain, and a fairly nasty one, he could be very unpleasant. My dad reckoned that we'd done the work and bought the paint so we ought to be recompensed. And Papa, unfortunately, could be very obdurate. He finally went to confront Mountjoy at the scrapyard off Temple Mills Lane, thinking to embarrass him in front of his father, uncle and brothers. As a tactic, it didn't work out too well. It turned out that not only was Mountjoy unembarrassable but the entire clan held the same basic philosophy on paying bills. It could have been worse. They knocked Papa about a bit, but he was only laid up for a couple of weeks.

It must have been about then that my mother decided I should be articled to a small accountancy firm, where my experience as a qualified tea-maker really came into its own.

Now that I thought about it, Mountjoy had a couple of boys roaring about the house at the time. The younger one had been a toddler, which would make him about twenty now, so it could have been him. He had the same thin face as his father, the same lank dark hair, a similar wiry build – though he was slightly taller and heavier – and he certainly seemed to be every bit as charmless. It occurred to me that he might have been away, either doing time or his National Service. I was suddenly very glad I hadn't thumped him.

I found a barber close to Hoxton Films' office in Wardour Street, and he only charged me twice as much as Vic would have done. Still, the shave was a good one and the haircut more than passable. And my ears and cheeks escaped unscathed, without so much as a nick. I didn't even smell quite as poncey as I would have done emerging from Vic's. All in all, apart from the odd shilling or two, it wasn't a bad result. I didn't even mind losing the fiver Vic slipped me for cooking his books for him. In fact, I wasn't altogether sure that I had. When he discovered what a legit accountant would charge him, he'd probably remember that he was a thoroughly unprincipled individual and suggest that bygones be bygones. Whether I'd agree was, of course, a different matter.

I strode up Wardour Street, signally failing to turn any heads. Still, I felt better about my appearance.

The dingy reception area of Hoxton Films was unusually quiet. One scrawny messenger lad tapped his foot on the worn carpet and took long, greedy drags on his cigarette while he waited for someone to notice he was there.

I slumped down on the lumpy, brown sofa, content to sit for a few minutes until Daphne reappeared from her trip to the Ladies. I shouldn't have been there anyway. I was more than two hours early for my two thirty appointment with Les. But, of course, I wasn't there for that. I wanted to hear what Daphne made of the summons. As Les's ex-wife and in-house nemesis, she made it her job to know what he was up to and she'd happily tell me what it was all about. She'd also know if Philip Graham had appeared on the set yet and so save me a trip to his flat and a whole lot of unnecessary grief if he had.

After about ten minutes, the messenger was getting decidedly antsy. The drags on his second cigarette were shorter, and the rhythm of his tapping was faster and erratic. He'd never make a decent drummer. I decided to put him out of his misery and stood up.

‘If you're in a hurry,' I said, ‘I'll sign for that. Who's it for?'

‘Er  . . .' He looked down at the package. ‘Mr Leslie Jackson,' he said. He looked at me. ‘You work here then?'

‘Sort of,' I said, picking a pen off Daff's desk and advancing on him with malice aforethought.

He thought about it for a few seconds and then put the package on the desk and thrust a crumpled docket at me. I scrawled my name, and he snatched the scrap of paper from me, murmured, ‘Cheers,' and was gone.

I stood by the desk for a minute or two and then picked up the package, negotiated my way through the door that led to the offices and strolled down the corridor, whistling ‘Let's Face the Music'.

Les heard me coming and was standing by his door when I arrived. He looked anxious and was rubbing his eyes which were a little bloodshot.

‘Tony,' he said. ‘Thanks.'

‘You're welcome,' I said, handing over the package.

‘No,' he said, ‘no. I meant about the other thing. I just got the call. Phil Graham arrived on the set ten minutes ago.'

‘Oh, that,' I said. ‘Good.'

‘Well, thanks.'

I shrugged nonchalantly. He'd find out I hadn't done anything soon enough.

‘Overslept, apparently. No one phoned him. Or knocked. Lying little  . . . Everyone's fault but his,' Les said. ‘Sometimes, Tony, I swear I think Walt Disney's got the right idea. Cartoon characters only go on benders when it's part of the plot in the film.' He took me by the arm and steered me into the comfortable armchair he'd put in his office a month or two back, then he carefully closed the door. ‘Since you're here already, I can tell you about the other matter. The private one.'

‘Sure,' I said. ‘But, Les, there's no one on reception. Daff isn't out there—'

‘I know,' he said. ‘That's the thing, Tony.' He paused. ‘Listen, how about we grab a bite? Fancy Bert O'Reilly's?'

I nodded. I'd only ever eaten in Bertorelli's with Les, and then only the once, but I certainly fancied it. He'd probably let me choose the wine.

He did. And, since he'd said, ‘Something meaty,' when I'd asked him what he fancied, he'd find himself forking out a few bob for a Barolo.

We'd walked up Wardour Street, crossed Oxford Street and made our way to Charlotte Street without saying a word. Les had looked uncharacteristically morose, and that, combined with the empty reception, gave me a bad feeling. I felt that I would probably be grateful for a substantial wine.

I was, too, when he told me.

‘Daff's got a cancer,' he said. ‘It's the size of a cricket ball. In her lung.' He pushed his prawn cocktail around a bit and then gulped down some wine. ‘She ain't going to make it, Tony.'

I didn't know what to say, so I said nothing. But that kind of news takes your breath away and stings the eyes a bit.

‘We don't know how long she's got, but it's not too long. The thing is, she wants a favour.'

He looked at me, and I realized that something in Les was going to die with her. I'd never understood their relationship since their divorce, but then I hadn't known them before, when they were, I assumed, all lovey-dovey.

I sucked minestrone soup far too noisily from my spoon and nodded at him. ‘What?' I said. ‘You know I'll do it if I can. I'm very fond of Daff  . . .' I was a bit wary. I always am when people want favours.

‘I dunno,' he said. ‘She won't tell me. Just asked me to ask you.'

‘OK,' I said, reaching for my glass, ‘I'll go talk to her. Which hospital is she in?'

‘She's at home at the moment. And expecting you this afternoon. Well, more hoping that you'd agree.' He paused. ‘The thing is, Tony, she's not at all well. Even if you can't do it, say you will.' He was almost pleading with me.

‘I'll do what I can, Les,' I said. ‘You know I will.'

He looked relieved. ‘Thanks, Tony. I knew I could rely on you. I don't know what it is, but I do know it's important to her.'

He gulped down some more wine and pushed his uneaten food to one side. For a moment, I thought he was going to cry.

THREE

D
aphne's gaff is the old family home in Leytonstone, very close to Wanstead Flats. She kept it after the
decree nisi
came through. It isn't all that posh, of course, but it is a couple of rungs up from Hoxton where Les hails from, and it's the sort of decent three-bed terraced house you'd hope for as your first (and, in their case, only) marital home if you were raised in a couple of rooms in a rundown, overcrowded house in Beaumont Road in Leyton, like Daff.

It was about a quarter to four when I hopped off the fifty-eight bus at Cobbold Road and walked past the new Secondary Technical Commercial School, Headmaster P. Claydon BA (Commerce). It was called Tom Hood now, but I couldn't, for the life of me, remember what it had been called when it was still one of the old Central schools. I could hear the frantic clack of typewriters and the discordant dings of the little bells as the carriage return was slapped and the sound of a male teacher's raised voice. A sad-looking boy in a grey blazer, grey shorts, grey shirt and red tie dawdled across the playground towards the toilets. Apart from that, the place could have been deserted.