The Talisman (33 page)

George rather liked the heavy, maroon flock wallpaper, and it was quite new, but he said nothing. When he went to the tiny cupboard they used as a kitchen, he gasped. Every pan was polished, every cup washed and neatly stacked. Alex had even rinsed out the dishcloth and hung it on the sink to dry.

‘Oh, yes, you done a real fine job, yer could eat yer dinner orf this floor, Alex. You’ll make me a good wife.’

George whipped round as Alex sprang towards him, his fists clenched.

‘Hey, hey, it was just a joke, all right?’

‘I just like a clean place, that’s all, George. There’s nothing nancy about that.’

George sighed. Sometimes Alex could be so touchy. Grinning, he said there was no harm meant, then he put the kettle on. He even wiped the drips of water off the small draining board. He noticed Alex had his nose stuck in a book again. Not that they were real books to George, no stories, just rows of calculations. He began to hope that Alex would get a job soon, because he doubted if things would work out between them.

Harry Driver was very sceptical about the new chap Stubbs. He had always run his business single-handed, but lately he had been branching out. He had a small drinks place, but his main income was from five back-street tailoring and dressmaking sweatshops. He put Alex to work on his club books first so that, having complete knowledge of his accounts himself, he could test the lad out.

With his paunch and his ever-present stubby cigar Harry was a real character. He was from a Russian immigrant family that he complained were forever bleeding him dry. Harry did take care of a vast family, having six kids of his own plus various aunts and uncles. And in the sweatshops he was always discovering yet another impoverished relative who had come looking for work. He was a penny-pinching man, but a decent one, and he had got very fond of George Windsor, so if George said the chap was a good’un, he was inclined to believe it. He put Alex on trial for three months at half the salary he would have dared offer any man with credentials. ‘Understand me, Alex, I am taking a risk on you, so I can’t shell out the money before I know I can trust you. All you gotta do is prove yourself, you’ll not hear a bad word about Harry Driver, but you gotta prove your worth first.’

Alex pored over Harry’s books, and made careful, detailed notes alongside his figures. He checked the bar takings, the warehouse, the staff, leaving nothing out, and by the end of the week he made Harry nearly swallow his cigar.

‘I think, Mr Driver, you are losing between one and two hundred a week, it varies at different times of the month. I’ve made a list of the takings from the club for each week over the past six months, and I think you’ll find my assessment interesting.’ He went over each detail with Harry, who hummed and hawed and shook his jowls until his head spun. ‘Added to that, Mr Driver, you are paying certain taxes that need not necessarily be paid if you purchase articles within a certain time limit. If you are outside that limit, then you are paying more tax. They work by the fiscal years, you see, sir.’

Harry chomped and spat and relit his dog-eared cigar. He told Alex to leave the work with him, he would have a look at it.

‘Wally, listen to me, I’ve got a lad here I think you should have look over your books, he’s a whiz-kid, I’ve not seen anything like it. I’ll let you have him on loan, mind, he works for me, but I want to see what you think of him.’

Alex was put on a salary of seven pounds a week by Harry Driver, and he was tickled pink. He knew, of course, that he was earning it, and he knew he was worth twice the amount, but he had to start somewhere.

George and Alex went shopping in Petticoat Lane for suits, shoes and ties. Some were second-hand, some new, and Harry gave them both special prices on his sweatshop goods. Alex displayed his new wide-collared, single-breasted suit. It was brown with a thin blue stripe, and he had bought a brown-and-pink striped tie and polished brown shoes to go with it.

‘Gawd help us, Alex, wiv the briefcase, my son, you could be a City gent.’

Alex marvelled at his friend’s stunning bad taste. George loved the wide, hand-painted ties, the huge square jackets with the padded shoulders and two-toned shoes reminiscent of the old movie gangsters.

Alex was now also on loan from Harry Driver to a number of East End Jewish tailors and stall-holders. They joked between themselves that for a goy, a non-Jew, he was the meanest man they’d ever come across.

‘This boy, Solly, he knows the tax system better than I know the wife, no word of a lie. You know how much he just saved me? Fifty quid – I got it from the government – and know what else this boy can do? Save on your taxes – save! If you knew the loopholes that are legal . . . On my word, this boy is gold dust.’

Alex was passed from manufacturer to tailor, to sweatshop, to clubs, and Harry Driver reaped the benefits and raised Alex’s salary to twelve pounds a week. Alex was no fool, he was getting to know everyone with the best cash flows in the East End. At the same time he was still learning.

Once a week Alex had to report to his parole officer, who would shake his hand and congratulate him, saying that they were proud of how well he had adapted to his new, straight life. While he was on parole they could, at any time, walk into his flat or his place of business to see if he was doing what he said he was.

Alex bided his time, waiting for the day when he would be free of the probation officers. He was determined not to put a foot out of line until he was not only free from prison but completely free of prying eyes. He wanted to find his brother, to confront him, but he was careful never to mention his name. It became an obsession with him and this, along with his shyness, added to the strange, solitary air about him.

George popped into Harry Driver’s sweatshop on his way to work to see Alex, but was told he always had that particular afternoon off. This puzzled George, as Alex had never mentioned it. Harry insisted George stay for a cup of coffee, anyway. ‘Look, I’ll come right out with it, George. This guy you sent me seems too good to be true. I mean, he works like a friggin’ beaver, and don’t talk to nobody. Now don’t get me wrong, I can’t fault his work, he doesn’t even stop for a bite to eat. So, what is it with him? I mean, what makes him tick?’

George was guarded, not liking to be questioned about his mate. ‘Like you said, Mr Driver, he works his butt off for yer, so why don’t you just accept it? Just don’t cross him, leave him alone. You an’ me both know you’re gettin’ ’im cheap.’

George went off to his job as a bouncer, but Driver’s remark nagged at him. He wondered why Alex had never told him about his afternoons off.

Alex wished he’d worn something old, he was getting filthy digging around the grave. It was in a terrible state, the weeds choking his mother’s cross. He dug and snipped with his scissors and filled the tin can with water from the tap to put the flowers in. He told himself he’d get a nice stone urn or something for next time. The grave was looking nice now, the grass cropped around, all neat and tidy, and he placed the flowers on it and stood back.

‘Doing all right now, Ma, I’m doing all right, you’ll see, I’ll make it, gonna be somebody, you got my word on it . . . Amen.’

He was washing his hands at the tap when he saw her, her blonde hair rolled into a tight bun at the nape of her neck. She looked one hell of a lady, with her black mink draped over her shoulders and her ears glinting with what looked like diamonds. She was wandering up and down between the gravestones, peering at each one, a ten-shilling bouquet of flowers in her arms. Alex straightened his tie, smoothed down his jacket and followed the searching figure.

‘Dora . . . Dora!’

She turned, bewildered, and stared at him.

‘It’s me, Alex Stubbs . . . it’s Alex.’

She almost dropped her flowers, then she smiled and shook her head. ‘Well, I hardly recognized you, good heavens, it’s been years, hasn’t it? How are you?’

He felt embarrassed as he put out his hand to shake, but she just waved her gloved hand. ‘I’m lookin’ fer Mother’s grave, but it’s been so long I can’t remember where she is, isn’t that awful, I know she’s ’ere somewhere.’

Alex followed her as she teetered around on her high heels, peering shortsightedly at one gravestone after another. Eventually she stopped by some old grave and dropped the flowers. ‘I can’t ruin my shoes any more. Give me your hand, Alex, it’s ever so muddy.’

He guided her back through the narrow lanes and they reached the gates.

‘You need a lift anywhere?’

He marvelled at the way she looked, the way she spoke, it was hard for him to believe it was the Dora he’d known.

‘I haven’t a car, I come by bus.’

She walked over to a white sports car and told him to get in, she’d give him a lift.

They drove along the familiar streets and she pulled up outside his flat.

‘So you’re back in this neck of the woods, are you? I must say I couldn’t stand to live here. Besides, I couldn’t leave my motor outside, the kids would wreck it. What do you do with yourself now then?’

He told her about his job with Harry Driver, and she nodded, said she knew of him, he’d got a small drinks place. ‘You married are you, Alex?’

He shook his head, looked at her hand but couldn’t see whether she was wearing a ring or not because of her gloves.

‘I was, remember Johnny Mask? We got married but it didn’t work out. I ran a club, well, bit more than that, actually, you must come down sometime, Mayfair – Masks. Just mention my name at the door. How’s that brother of yours? I’ve not seen him down the club for ages, what’s he up to?’

Alex stared at her, then gripped the side of the car window. ‘You know where he is? You got an address?’

Dora laughed and switched on the engine. ‘You must be joking, he’s quite the toff now. He used to come down the club a few times. Look, I got to go, nice seeing you, Alex.’ In her mirror, Dora could see him standing like a big oaf, watching the car. She shuddered, he reminded her of her own past. She hoped he wouldn’t show up at the club, not in those dreadful cheap clothes he was wearing, anyway. Robert Mitchum had a lot to answer for, all the East End villains tried to copy his look.

While Dora was changing, Johnny walked in, yelling that she had left all the lights on again. What did she think he was, the London bloody Electricity Company?

She came out of the bathroom, her mouth set. He reeked of booze, and his eyes were red-rimmed.

‘Been playing poker, have you? I dunno, I work all the hours God gives me for you to squander it at the first opportunity. Who you been playing with this afternoon then?’

Johnny flopped down on the bed and said he’d been over the East End. He lit a cigarette.

‘Don’t toss the match on the carpet, Johnny, honestly, how many times do I have to tell you? They leave burn marks.’

Johnny snorted and got up to pour himself a drink. She clocked it but said nothing.

‘I been playing wiv Harry Driver and a few of his mates, lost a bundle an’ all, he’s very flush all of a sudden. You hear about him? He’s opening up more businesses than I’ve ’ad hot dinners.’

Dora began to cream her face. The lines were worrying her now – fine lines around her eyes and mouth, and she couldn’t hide them. ‘Funny, I met an old friend – remember the Stubbs boys? It was one of them – Alex . . . He’s doing Harry’s accounts for him.’

Johnny scratched his head. ‘Alex? Christ, I remember ’im – skinny boy, blond. They picked ’im up outside one of the dosshouses, didn’t they? He was a good kid, what you say he’s doing?’

‘You never bleedin’ listen to me, do you? I said he was doing Driver’s accounts.’

‘Yeah, I remember – Christ, he was good even then, and he was straight. He used to bring all the cash down, every penny accounted for. Well, well, working for Driver, eh? I owe him, you know, that kid. He kept mum about me, not like that little shit-head – what was his name? Talked like a canary, he did, that’s why they picked up Alex.’

Dora watched as he poured yet another drink. ‘Oh Johnny, don’t get pissed tonight. There’s a big crowd comin’ down and you make such a fool of yourself. It’s not good for business.’

‘You see the lad, tell ’im to come an’ see me.’

‘Lad? He’s more like a gorilla nowadays. I tell you, I wouldn’t have recognized him. Mind you, he would make a good bouncer . . . Ah Johnny, please don’t drink.’

Johnny slapped her so hard she slid off her stool. She blazed at him. ‘That is the last time, Johnny, the very last time. Sod you, I’ve had you up to here.’

He hung his head in shame, mumbled that he was sorry, he was sorry. ‘I dunno why I do it, I don’t, Dora, but yer git me so mad sometimes. An’ usin’ that phoney posh voice of yours gets on my nerves.’

Dora started unloading underwear and clothes from the wardrobe.

‘What yer doin’, Dora, what yer doin’?’

She snapped that she had warned him that if he ever hit her again it would be the last time. Well, now it was, she was through and she was walking out on him. ‘An’ I’m walkin’ out of the club, too. I can get a job in any place around town, don’t think I can’t. I’m sick of covering up for you and taking your violence. You’ve done it, Johnny, I quit.’

He knew that without her the club would fall apart, and he begged her, then got on his knees and clutched the hem of her dressing gown, crying and begging.

‘I’ll stay on one condition – that is, stay here, in your bed and in the club – if you make it out on paper that I own half – half, Johnny, it’s only fair.’ She had him by the balls and she knew it. She got him another drink, a real stiff one, and cajoled him into signing half the club over to her. Then she undressed him and put him to bed. He lay snoring, mouth wide open, and she looked at him with distaste.

She called her lawyers to make sure the contract was legal, then left for work. All the way to Mayfair she was thinking that now she’d got one half she’d keep Johnny boozed up until she’d got the other half for herself.

Dora was squinting at the accounts when Arnie knocked on the door to tell her there was a gent waiting to see her, name of Stubbs, looked a bit of a punk.