Young Phillip Maddison (37 page)

“The feelers are red when they come out of the sea,” replied Gerry. “That’s what most people don’t know. Can you tell me what author made a famous blunder over the lobster?”

“Doctor Watson?” ventured Phillip.

“He was a detective, not an author! No, I am wrong! Sorry! Of course Watson told the Sherlock Holmes stories, so he was the author. No, it was Victor Hugo. Gran’pa told me. Victor Hugo wrote that the lobster was ‘the cardinal of the sea’. A cardinal is a sort of Catholic bishop, and wears all red. Get the idea?”

Phillip was puzzled. “A lobster has no religion,” he guessed.

“Go to the bottom of the class, young Phillip. The lobster is
blue
until it is boiled, so Victor Hugo was caught bending. You can always catch people over that fact. I caught our English
master in the end-of-term general knowledge questions yesterday with it. So you owe me a tanner.”

“But we didn’t bet!”

“Oh, sorry. Have a fag instead.”

Gerry took out his packet of Tabs and offered it to Phillip. Greatly daring, Phillip took one. Calmly Gerry offered him a light, before lighting his own; then opening the door, he walked into the restaurant.

Phillip hid his cigarette as he followed Gerry, overcome with awe of such a rich-looking place. There were men in evening dress serving people at the tables. Wine glasses were on the tables, with flowers. A fat dark man with greasy locks and buffalo-horn moustaches, and waving fat be-ringed hands, came bouncing towards them. Staring round-eyed at the winders in their hands, and the tin of lug-worms, he demanded what they wanted.

“Fried fish and chip potatoes, if you’ve got it,” said Gerry, with a grin, puffing his cigarette.

“This is Fattorini! Into the next street, please you go, right away!”

With a flutter of be-ringed fingers the fat man led them to the door.

“Now you a-go to Sam Isaacs’ for feesh an’ cheeps, never to Fattorini!”

“Keep your hair on,” said Gerry; but Phillip almost ran before the black-eyed figure. Then hearing Uncle Charley’s laugh, he glanced over his shoulder to see him sitting at a table with Uncle Hugh, a bottle of wine between them, just as in the oyster bar.

“That’s my uncle,” said Gerry. At once the restaurant owner stopped.

“Many many many pardons, sir, please you-a come-a right-away with me,” he exclaimed, turning without pause on his heel, a sparkling smile on his face. “Many thanks, please come this-way-a-rightaway!”

“It suits me rightaway this-a-way!” said Gerry, and dashing for the door, he and Phillip ran through, no longer able to keep back their laughter.

“Golly,” said Gerry, “that was a close shave! Did you see Roly-poly’s eyes pop out when he saw the lugworms? I thought he was going to explode! What a name, Fattorini! Just suits him!”

“Do you think they saw the fags?”

“No, they didn’t spot us. They wouldn’t split if they did. Here, this place is more our mark, young Phil.”

They looked into a window with a big ham in a pink frill surrounded by tomatoes, beside another plate holding a baron of beef. There were oblongs of pressed beef in brown jelly, pies of pork and steak and kidney, cooked sausages of all shapes and sizes.

They entered, and bought two meat pies, a pound of tomatoes, four hard-boiled eggs, some cold sausages, and a packet of beef sandwiches. This, said Gerry, would keep them going until tea.

*

When the uncles met them by the West Pier, Gerry presented Uncle Charley with his catch—an ugly, toad-like fish with big mouth and blue-white belly, saying that it would do for his supper, if fried. Uncle’s laughter rang out, as he exclaimed, “A sting ray!” Phillip’s contribution was a handkerchief tied at the four corners containing an assortment of green crabs, and a small dab.

The turnstiles clicked; they were on the magic pier, the shingle roaring in surf far down below, waves rolling past the iron supports. There was too much on the pier itself to see, to think any more of the waves, however. They ran ahead of the grown-ups, passing the glass-panelled shelter down the middle of the pier, pausing to look at anglers with empty baskets and rods elevated on the railings, some with little bells on their tips to announce a dreamed-on catch of the season.

“Any luck?” asked Gerry, of a solitary fisherman. The man turned away; the question broke into his illusion of being alone in a world of sea and air, away from domesticity and civilisation.

The automatic machines were of every sort, far too many to try in one day, even with unlimited cash. Why were there so many, when so few people were on the pier? It was hard to think where to begin. You could try your strength on two brass handles, trying to make them meet, when your penny would be returned. Or there were football matches behind glass, little metal marionettes worked by levers. A goal on either side earned twopence for the lucky one. If no goal, the pennies dropped into the machine; the game was over, the marionettes rested, painted and still, their duty done—to the proprietor. There were horses to race; silver balls to be shot into penny-back holes; bags of
sweets and pink-and-white sugared popcorn to be grabbed by miniature cranes, while clockwork ticked away the seconds allowed during the short penn’orth of time. Dark-eyed gipsies with fingers pointing to revolving coloured disks printed with fortunes, told your own fortune by nodding as the disk stopped. Others shot them out on little printed cards. Gerry’s card said that he had a noble nature which would bring its own reward, but he must beware of a dark woman, whose wiles sought to entangle him, while a fortune awaited his endeavours. Phillip was generous, and inclined to accept others at their own valuation; a life of hazard and adventure lay before him, and romance in which fair hair and blue-eyes were indicated. Phillip was astounded: he put this ticket of fortune with some care in his pocket-book, thinking with elation of Helena Rolls. How
could
the gipsy have known? Or was it all just spoof? Either way it was the same thing!

They looked into the shooting gallery, and Phillip saw a small revolver on the counter. He hesitated; he needed a plan to nick it; and after asking how much the rifle shots cost—“Seven for thruppence”—his heart quailed; and saying he would come back later, left with Gerry.

The uncles sat on a seat near the end of the pier; Uncle Charley then asked Gerry for the change. Phillip wondered what he would say when he found out they had spent some of the money on winders, as Gerry pulled various coins from his pockets.

“Well, you haven’t spent much,” was all he said, as he examined the money in Gerry’s palm. “Hugh, the younger generation doesn’t know how to enjoy itself, I can see that. Keep those brown things,” said Uncle Charley, as he picked out the silver from the outstretched palm, and put it in his pocket. “Too early for tea, you boys run away and play and come back in half an hour.”

“He’s decent, isn’t he?” said Phillip. “He never minded about us buying the winders. D’you think he knew?”

“Yes, but he didn’t say anything, being a sport, young Phillip. Let’s go down the steps, under the pier. You can climb about all over the shop down there. Then we’ll go back to the shooting gallery, shall us?”

“Carramba!” cried Phillip, scared at the thought of nicking the revolver. Dare he tell Gerry his plan? Supposing it failed, and he was copped!

They crept down slippery iron steps, past many green circular
piles, to a lower sunless level where the most serious of the fishermen stood, some with many rods elevated before them. Not one seemed to have caught even a sting-ray, judging by the empty rush bags. “I bet they’ll go home with some kippers, and swear they caught ’em!” said Gerry.

After climbing about in the underworld, pretending they were in a submarine, they got on deck again, and made for the shooting gallery. It was Phillip’s idea that, while Gerry was occupying the attention of the attendant with a rifle, firing at the balls on jets of water, and the moving targets of ducks, rabbits, and old men’s faces with clay pipes stuck in their mouths, he would nick the revolver on the counter, and hide it among the crabs in his handkerchief. If caught, he could say it had slipped down there without him knowing it. The very idea made him feel faintly sick.

They entered the gallery, and there the revolver was, on the counter as before.

“I’ll have seven shots with the rifle,” said Gerry, while Phillip pretended to be interested in the man dropping little copper cartridges into the magazine with a clicking noise. While he did so, Phillip thought of policemen, himself being led off; and his mouth filled with water. His hands were wet, too; and he imagined his finger-prints all over the revolver. He began to wish that the man had not left it there. Was it a trap, to tempt someone to steal it? He saw Mother’s face, if he was caught. More water ran into his mouth. His hands smelt horribly fishy.
Crack
crack
crack,
went Gerry’s rifle. He counted seven shots.

“What’s up, young Phillip? You look green about the gills.”

“Leave me alone,” said Phillip, miserably. “I think I’m going to be sick. Oh damn.”

“You’ll feel better when you’ve shot your bundle.”

Gerry took his arm, and led him to the rails. Phillip leaned over. Nothing happened.

“Put your ringer in your throat, Phil, try that.”

All that happened was retching. Then Gerry shoved the bait can under his nose.

“You sod!” moaned Phillip weakly, as water drowned his tongue. Then the worst happened. Past the row of fishermen below fell a mixture of chocolate, ice-cream, meat pie, hard-boiled egg,
sausage, ginger biscuit, toffee, cocoanut, and American ice-cream soda.

“Hi, you up there! Look what you’re about!”

“It’s some ground-bait for you, old cock!” Gerry shouted back.

“Ugh!” said Phillip, shuddering. “I think it was that last pie. Oogh! I’d like some beef-tea, it always puts me right.”

Returning to the uncles, Gerry said that Phillip had been poorly, and needed beef tea to settle his stomach.

Uncle Charley slipped another half-sovereign from the round metal purse on the end of his watch-chain, and said, “Go and have some tea, boys. We’ll wait here.”

In the tea-room, which they had to themselves, Gerry ordered a cup of Bovril, to be followed by a pot of tea for two, a plate of cakes, and two Neapolitan ices, the largest sizes, sixpennies.

“Coo, I say,” said Phillip, never having had such a splendid ice before. The biggest he had had was a penny vanilla, served in thick glass holder, in the Refreshment Room on the Hill. This sixpenny Neapolitan was pink and yellow, about four inches long, two wide, and one and a half inches thick, half strawberry and half vanilla. It was smooth and cold with real cream and real strawberries; while the vanilla end was utterly different from the ices on the Hill, good as they were.

“I’d like a stone-ginger beer with it,” he said, having recovered completely, with the aid of the Bovril. “Make it two,” said Gerry to the girl.

“What, with tea as well? You’ll be sick!”

“Oh no, we’ve both been vaccinated!”

The waitress brought the glasses, each with a straw in it. Gerry poured out the tea. “A good strong cup for you, just in case your turn-turn isn’t yet in order, young Phillip. Have a doughnut, or a custard tart? What else is there on this plate? Not so bad. Marzipan sandwich in three colours. Real shortbreads. How about that cocoanut macaroon? Eccles cakes, too. Jam puffs. How hypocritical is this cream puff? Some human rat may have been here already.”

Gerry opened the sugar-powdered shape with his fork, found it intact, prodded, and tasted. “Yum Yum! Real cream! Bags I this one! You’ve got to take it easy for awhile, young Phil. Anyway, we can always order another plateful.”

Phillip had an excellent appetite.

“Two more ices, please,” said Gerry, after about five minutes. “Yes, like the last.”

They had another plate, of greengage and raspberry tarts, custard tarts, mince pies—they sat at the table, enjoying themselves
the more that Phillip’s revolver-pinching plan had been abandoned. Phillip gave up after three Neapolitan ices; but Gerry seemed able to eat them without effort. At the end of the half-hour he asked for the bill.

“Let me pay it,” said Phillip. “It’s my turn, really.”

Gerry gave him the half-sovereign. Phillip took the precious coin, so heavy in the palm of his hand, and stared at it, fascinated with the feel and presence of gold. Somehow it felt to be the only real and true thing in the world, like the sun itself. Ordinary acid could not dissolve gold, he had learned from the chemistry master at school. Gold was not a base metal like iron, copper, zinc, or lead. It was a precious metal; somehow it seemed to be part of the sun, which never set on the British Empire, lasting for ever. It was almost with a wrench that he gave the gold coin to the waitress smiling beside the table. He watched her taking it to the till, to get the change. Gerry took this; and having tipped the waitress with sixpence, they went back to Uncle Charley leaning on the rails of the pier, beside Uncle Hugh.

Uncle Charley looked at the change Gerry had given him. “Good God!” he cried, and then laughed loudly. “Where did you stow it all?” He showed his brother two shillings.

“Two bob change from half a sovereign, for two teas! How many sixpenny ices did you say? Ten? Talk about the fat boy of Peckham! Ha ha ha!”

It was time to leave the pier. As they went back Phillip and Gerry removed some of the little dull-looking electric light bulbs from the continuous chain under the glass shelter along the middle of the pier, and hid them in their pockets. They were old ones, with looped carbon filaments. The glass bulbs were dull with sea-salt, from storms.

They kept the bulbs hidden until they were on the Marine Parade above Madeira Drive, then threw them down behind passing motorcars, hoping that the chauffeurs would think the
pop
they made was a burst tyre. One automobile did stop. The driver, in a coat of hairy skins, looked up and shook his fist. The boys did a monkey dance above, to mock him, before running off to find the uncles waiting by a cab.

*

In the train going back to London, Uncle Charley discussed with Uncle Hugh the chance of finding suitable lodgings in the neighbourhood of the Hill, for the rest of the summer. Staying
with the Old Man, Phillip heard him say, was a bit of a strain.