Sons and Daughters (18 page)

‘’Ere, I know you,’ said Large Lump, twitching.

‘Good morning, gents,’ said Michal.

‘Nice weather we’re having, ain’t we?’ said Jacob.

‘Get ’em out of here,’ said Fat Man.

Rollo made another attempt to assert himself, this time by trying to eject Michal. Michal, with a flip of his hand, put him on his backside.

‘That’s assault and battery,’ said Fat Man, solidly wedged in his chair. But, recognizing the intruders, he decided not to lift himself to his feet, anyway. ‘I’ll have the law on the pair of you. And what the hell happened to you?’ he asked Sparky.

‘Good question, I tell yer,’ said Sparky, looking tired out. He sniffed forlornly. ‘These geezers—’

‘Copped him,’ said Jacob.

‘With a bag of fire-lighting naughties,’ said Michal. ‘Would you like to sign a receipt for his delivery? It’ll let Mr Tommy Adams know he’s now all yours.’

‘Drop dead,’ said Fat Man.

‘There’s a message from Mr Tommy Adams,’ said Jacob.

‘I hate Mr bleedin’ Tommy Adams, and his brother Sammy,’ wheezed Fat Man out of his purpling face, ‘and I ain’t listening to any message.’

‘You’d better,’ said Michal. ‘Mister Tommy says if you don’t behave yourself you’ll end up stuck on the spire of your Sunday church. He further says he’ll get his brother, called Boots, to lift you off and shove you under a tram.’

The Fat Man’s purple face swelled and darkened. Many years ago, Boots had threatened to wrap him up in barbed wire and roll him all the way down Brixton Hill.

‘You dogs’ dinners,’ he howled, ‘I hate that bleedin’ Boots worse than I hate bleedin’ Sammy, and I ain’t taking messages like that from a pair of fleabags like you two.’ He turned his glare on Large Lump and Rollo. ‘Get rid of ’em.’

‘We’d like to, guv, honest we would,’ said Large Lump, ‘but we need some back-up on account of that recent ding-dong at—’

‘Shut up!’ bawled Fat Man.

‘I’d like to go home,’ said Sparky, ‘I’m all wore out.’

‘Well, there you are, Mr Ford, the geezer’s delivered back to you,’ said Michal, ‘and you’ve had the message.’

‘Yup, that’s all,’ said Jacob. ‘Good day, gents.’

He and Michal left.

In due course, they reported to Papa Eli at his Camberwell yard.

‘My sons,’ he said in Hebrew, ‘for that I am proud of you, and so will your mama be. Always, since I first knew them, I have had fine and steadfast friendship from Boots, Tommy and Sammy, and their kin. True, in some business deals, Sammy has had the shirt off my back with his percentages not coinciding with mine, but friendship counts for more than a shirt or two, which is good to remember. In helping him and his brothers so well with their little problems, you
have pleased me more than if you had sold that piano for twenty pounds, say, it being worth no more than five as it stands. Go home now and sleep, while your mama spends the day baking special cookies for you.’

That evening, a telegram was delivered to Boots in Cornwall, where he and all the others had acquired a handsome holiday tan.

‘FAT MAN FOILED STOP ALL TAKEN CARE OF STOP NOW ENJOY YOURSELVES TOMMY.’

‘The Fat Man done in the eye? Lovely,’ said Susie.

‘Better than a picture postcard,’ said Polly, who had received one from her parents, presently sunning their ageing selves in the South of France.

‘Mind, a telegram’s expensive,’ said Sammy, ‘but the news was worth it, and I daresay Tommy will claim reimbursement out of the petty cash.’

‘Will it hurt, I wonder?’ said Boots.

‘Hurt what?’ asked Jimmy.

‘The overheads,’ said Boots, which created mirth.

‘I don’t know why everyone’s having a fit,’ said Sammy, ‘overheads ain’t funny.’

‘But you are, lovey,’ said Susie.

‘Thank heaven for Sammy,’ said Polly.

‘And for me and Paula?’ said Phoebe.

‘Heaven must be thanked for all its angels,’ said Polly.

‘There, aren’t you lucky, Daddy?’ said Phoebe
who, although knowing she was adopted, was a girl happy with her lot. ‘You’ve got two angels in me and Paula.’

‘You bet I’m happy, pet,’ said Sammy, ‘but I’ve still got to watch the firm’s overheads.’

Sunday morning
.

The Fat Man wasn’t at church. Church wasn’t his style, nor were sermons. Sermons were all about loving thy neighbour, and he didn’t go in for the impossible.

He was thinking about the poncy Adams family.

I ain’t finished yet, he told himself. I’ll get ’em one way or another. I’ll cripple the lot.

Now that’s an idea.

Accidents do happen.

I need a clever bloke, one that don’t go to church and couldn’t care less about his neighbours.

No, I ain’t finished yet. On the other hand, I don’t want any accidents that point at me. So who’s clever enough to arrange clueless accidents? There’s got to be someone.

It was a little past two in the afternoon when Jenny, wearing a short blue skirt with a light creamy shirt, addressed her ball on the first tee. Jimmy was wearing trousers because shorts were barred in the
clubhouse, and he had hopes of enjoying a pot of tea with Jenny at the end of their round. He watched the graceful movements of her body as she drove off. The ball flew away.

‘Good shot,’ he said.

‘Go to it,’ said Jenny, ‘and look here, having told me about your lesson with the pro, you’d better follow my drive with a scorcher of your own, or I’ll tear you limb from limb.’

‘Believe me, Miss Osborne,’ said Jimmy, ‘I’m against coming off this course in bits and pieces.’

He teed up. He addressed the ball, his nerves frankly taut. He reached high with his club and executed his swing. Smack!

‘Great Barnaby Bill,’ said Jenny, ‘that’s a genuine scorcher. Play you for five bob, then.’

‘I’ll take the bet,’ said Jimmy, chest a bit puffed up with pride.

He played a good first hole, including a nifty putt, and claimed a half with Jenny. Jenny said he ought to be giving her a stroke on the long holes, seeing she was only a girl. Jimmy said that only a girl was a disinformative term. Further, she was experienced, and he wasn’t. Jenny, going to the second tee with him, said experienced at what?

‘I’m talking about golf,’ said Jimmy, ‘what are you talking about?’

‘I’m vague about that,’ said Jenny. ‘All right, no strokes, just a straightforward game for five bob.’

She hit another scorching drive. Jimmy followed with a fairly decent one, and then his game fell to
pieces. Jenny groaned with anguish, sighed with pity, and delivered some broadsides.

‘You’re all over the place with your swing, you dummy.’

‘I’m all over the place with everything,’ said Jimmy.

A little later. ‘Stop bending your knees, you wretched man, and stop trying to hit the ball to God’s heaven.’

‘Be nice to it, you mean?’ said Jimmy. ‘That little white devil?’ He’d topped it and it had travelled a mere three yards.

‘Get rhythmic,’ said Jenny.

‘Rhythmic, right,’ said Jimmy. ‘Come on, rhythmic, where are you.’ He swung. The ball galloped and bumped for about the length of a cricket pitch. ‘Rhythmic failed me,’ he said.

‘Never mind, keep going,’ said Jenny. ‘You’re a trier, anyway.’

He had a horrible time as a trier in a deep bunker, one of the few on the course. What made it horrible was that one attempt was such a clumsy miss that he lost his balance and fell over. Jenny shrieked with laughter.

‘You’re amused?’ said Jimmy, flat on his back in the sand. ‘I’m not. I’m livid.’

‘I’m not surprised,’ said Jenny. ‘You’ve forgotten all the pro taught you.’

‘I haven’t forgotten it,’ said Jimmy, climbing to his feet, ‘I’ve just got human failings.’

‘Haven’t we all?’ said Jenny. ‘Never mind, it’s
great to be out here. It feels like miles and miles from the madding crowd.’

True. The views were vastly panoramic, the sky a clear blue, the sea a hazy blue, the course full of gentle sandhills covered with green, and the shades of green were varied, light or mild or deep. Here and there, other golfers were visible. Jimmy felt that none of them could be as hopeless as he was.

However, he was a little better over the second half of the course, but in the end there was no denying the fact that generally his round had been another disaster.

‘I think I’ll go in for bowls,’ he said on the last green.

‘Bowls, why bowls?’ asked Jenny, golden-brown.

‘It’s the game old people play,’ said Jimmy, ‘and I feel as old as any of ’em. Ninety, in fact.’

‘Well, cheer up, you don’t look it,’ said Jenny.

‘I owe you five bob,’ said Jimmy, and paid her.

‘Fair?’ said Jenny.

‘Fair,’ said Jimmy. ‘Can we get a pot of tea and a slice of cake in the clubhouse?’

‘You can,’ said Jenny, looking at her watch, ‘but I have to dash as soon as I’ve handed in my bag of clubs. Me and my lovely lot are driving to Newquay for dinner this evening, and I need a bath before I put my glad rags on.’

‘Dash away, then, I’ll hand your bag in for you,’ said Jimmy.

‘Good-oh, you’re a sport,’ said Jenny.

‘Thanks for the round,’ said Jimmy. ‘I think I’ll look at it as an education and forget what it did to my self-respect.’

‘If your self-respect feels wounded and I spot you on the beach tomorrow, I’ll find a bandage for it,’ said Jenny. ‘Bye now, and thanks for handing my clubs in.’ She gave him the bag and departed.

‘That’s it,’ said Jimmy to both bags, ‘that’s my last time on a golf course. I think I’ll take up knitting. After all, what am I if not an old woman?’

‘Knitting?’ said Susie over a quickly prepared supper of cold pork, sauté potatoes and a salad. No-one asked that she and Polly should use up hours of their holiday by spending unlimited time cooking. ‘Knitting?’

Jimmy explained.

Sammy said something had got to be done about falling down on a job. Golf isn’t a job, said Susie. Sammy said that wasn’t the point. The point was that their younger son was making a charlie of himself in the presence of a proud and haughty female girl.

‘Proud and haughty?’ said Paula, giggling.

Sammy said that was what she would look like to suffering Jimmy, so what could be done about it? Jimmy said if anybody tried to do anything, he’d jump on them.

‘What would you do, Boots?’ asked Sammy.

‘What would I do if I were in Jimmy’s shoes?’ said Boots. ‘Nothing.’

‘Nothing?’ said Sammy.

‘Jimmy’s himself,’ said Boots, ‘he’ll stand or fall by that.’

‘Quite right, old sport,’ said Polly, ‘Jimmy doesn’t need to mount a white horse and slay dragons to impress the young lady.’

‘Right, Aunt Polly, I’m standing or falling,’ said Jimmy. He let a grin escape. ‘Mind, I think I’ve already fallen. Flat on my bottom in a bunker.’

‘Help, that’s serious,’ said Susie.

‘Crikey,’ said Paula, ‘what a palaver over a girl.’

‘But we’re girls,’ said Phoebe. She was prepared, even at only twelve, to defend what she knew her dad would call the valuability of girls.

‘Yes, but we’re not soppy,’ said Paula, ‘and Jimmy’s girl must be soppy if she’s –’ She thought. ‘Yes, if she’s playing hard to get.’

‘Who said that?’ asked Boots.

‘Me,’ responded Paula.

‘Where’d you get it from?’ asked Boots.

‘From a play on the radio,’ said Paula.

‘What’s everyone talking about?’ whispered Gemma to James.

‘Don’t ask me,’ said James, ‘it’s not about sandcastles.’

Simply, of course, the families being what they were, close-knit, Jimmy’s problem with his golf and the photogenic young lady was everyone’s, even Polly’s. Polly, the one-time giddy flapper and Bright Young Thing, had metamorphosed into a complete Adams.

As far as Jimmy was concerned, the collective
interest was irrelevant, but he bore it good-naturedly, even though his personal interest in stunning Jenny Osborne was no light thing. Blow me over, he thought, I think I’m hooked, and I didn’t get that from any radio play.

Paul, back from his week’s holiday, arrived at his little office in the Labour Party’s Walworth headquarters at the same time as Miss Lulu Saunders. She was wearing a brown beret, and with her curtains of hair and her glasses she looked not unlike Greta Garbo, the Swedish film star who wanted to be alone, except that Garbo was fair and her glasses were dark.

Lulu, her long dress a muddy brown, said, ‘Hello, there we are, then. Had a good holiday?’

‘Very good,’ said Paul, brown-faced. ‘Look here, Saunders, didn’t I tell you to get your hair styled and make this place look pretty?’

‘And didn’t I tell you to grow a moustache?’ said Lulu. ‘You haven’t. Wouldn’t or couldn’t, I suppose. Anyway, don’t be personal about my hair. Or bossy.’

‘Put some curlers in it every night for a week,’ said Paul. ‘Now, any crises?’

‘Plenty,’ said Lulu. ‘All taken care of. Like one lippy bloke who came in binding about your leaflets. Pack of lies, he said. Asked who wrote them. The secretary, I said. So he wanted to know where you were. So that he could tread on you and
dump you in a dustcart. Couldn’t find you, so he started on me. I conked him a oner. He left with a split lip.’

‘What was he?’ asked Paul. ‘A Young Conservative?’

‘No, a drunk,’ said Lulu. ‘I hope you don’t drink.’

‘I’d get dehydrated if I didn’t,’ said Paul, opening the mail. ‘You can die of that.’

‘I don’t include tea or water,’ said Lulu.

‘Kind of you,’ said Paul. ‘Any more cases like the drunk?’

‘Loud cases,’ said Lulu. ‘Such as what the hell are the Young Socialists doing that’s useful. Things like that. I coped.’

‘How?’ asked Paul.

‘Calmed them down,’ said Lulu. ‘My soothing touch is well known.’

‘Who to?’

‘Me and the beneficiaries,’ said Lulu. ‘All last week’s letters have been answered. You’ve come back to a tidy desk.’

‘My gratitude is enormous,’ said Paul, reading a letter.

‘Think nothing of it,’ said Lulu. ‘Told you I was brilliant. I’ve been jotting down ideas for the next leaflet. And suggestions. I think they’re an improvement.’

‘On whose?’ asked Paul.

‘Yours,’ said Lulu.

Paul took that like a bloke who knew there were times when the last word belonged to one’s
opponent, or the crosstalk would go on for ever. So he gave Lulu best and changed tack.