Second Violin (29 page)

‘It’s still light. British Double Summertime. The day goes on forever . . .’

‘Not this one. Not this one don’t. This one’s over. I’m not going back in there. Not with them two. You know what they are? They’re just snobs, just bleedin’
snobs!’

‘I was about to say . . . let’s go on somewhere.’

‘But . . . your folks . . .’

‘My dad is in a world of his own. He won’t even notice we’ve gone. Let’s go on somewhere.’

‘Maybe . . . Archie Rice’s got a new show at the Holborn Empire.’

‘I was thinking more of a club. Let’s go to a club. Let’s see a band.’

‘You never want to go to clubs.’

‘That’s usually because there’s no one I want to see. Right now there is.’

‘Like who?’

‘Like Snakehips Johnson.’

‘Who?’

‘Ken “Snakehips” Johnson. He’s on at the Café de Paris.’

‘Snakehips? He’s not black, is he?’

‘You ever met a white man called
snakehips?’

She had the makings of a smile playing across her lips now.

‘I’m from Stepney. Everybody there’s called Snakehips. Snakehips Cohen, Snakehips Kantor . .
.’

On Monday morning, Stan appeared in the doorway of Troy’s office. Closed the door behind him. Looked at the bruise on Troy’s face. Made no comment. Took his usual
seat by the gas fire, which had been off since April. Stood up again, patted down his pockets. Said, ‘Bugger. Can’t seem to find me fags.’

Troy opened a desk drawer and handed Stan an unopened packet of Woodbines.

‘I didn’t know you smoked.’

‘I keep them for you.’

‘You never offered before.’

‘You’ve never run out of fags before.’

Stan lit up, coughed up a bit of sputum and sat down again.

‘Always meant to stop, y’know. My old dad were a pipe man. Always fancied meself with a pipe. Just never got round to it. Now there’s a war on, seems like too much of a luxury
to want to give it up.’

He coughed again.

‘They’re stale. Have you had ’em in that drawer long?’

‘Since September. You don’t have to smoke them.’

‘Beggars . . . choosers. Now . . .’

He coughed again, this time a prolonged fit Troy thought might be put on to show how bad a stale cigarette tasted.

‘When are you off to Stepney?’

‘Any minute. A late start today just to let me and Walter catch up on our own offices.’

‘Good, good. Now . . . Chief Inspector Steerforth has asked MI5 to have you vetted. He’s got on to B5b. Whatever that is.’

‘Maxwell Knight’s operation. Political Subversion,’ Troy said. ‘Nazi watchers . . . and if the tide turns back, Commie watchers. They’re not fussy.’

‘I never know how you know these things. Spookery baffles me. But . . .’

‘But?’

‘They’ve been asked to see if you’re a security risk.’

Short and shocking. It required an equally stark answer.

‘I’m not,’ Troy said simply.

‘I know.’

‘Then get it stopped.’

‘I can’t. Wheels have been set in motion. It’ll get bounced back to the Branch and someone other than Ernie Steerforth’ll be checking you out. They’ll be checking
out your Uncle Nikolai too.’

‘This is just bollocks.’

‘I know. And I’ve no doubts you’ll pass, but I’m powerless to stop it.’

‘All because I bumped into Steerforth at the Russian Tea Rooms when I was off duty?’

‘He says you nearly kyboshed an arrest.’

‘I didn’t.’

‘Shut up and listen. I’m telling you more than I should, but I want you to watch your step from now on. Steerforth rounded up a lot of people at the Russian Tea Rooms and some bloke
at the American Embassy too. There’s even a whisper an MP will go down for this. All very hush-hush. And big, believe you me, big. Probably the biggest case Steerforth’ll ever crack.
And a peacock feather in his cap. He’ll not take kindly to anyone trying to pull that feather out. So, I can’t say I blame him having you checked out.’

‘Vetted is a bit more serious than checked out,’ Troy said.

‘Whatever . . . but this is orders not advice. Stay away from the Tea Rooms. Find some other caff that serves stewed tea without milk and calls it Russian – or you and your uncle
could both end up in the shit.’

The blue eyes met his now in a steady gaze, searching out assent from Troy. Troy shrugged his assent, allowed a long enough pause to know Stan had taken it in and said, ‘Stan, it may be
indiscreet to say this . . . but what do you think my uncle does at Imperial College?’

Stan said nothing.

‘He’s a scientific advisor to the intelligence services. And Steerforth knows it, because one of Nikolai’s roles is to reassess all the boffins Walter and I bang up to see if
they’re of use to the war effort.’

Stan got to his feet now. Pinched out the Woodbine and dropped the stub in his top pocket for later. Headed for the door. Said with his back to Troy, ‘Wheels within bloody
wheels.’

‘So Steerforth is asking MI5 to check out one of their own.’

‘I don’t care – walk a mile round it. All of it.’

Door open. Gone. Argument over.

It was fuck-up time in the Jacks household. Given the disposition of the head of the house, a not uncommon occurrence.

Lena Jacks wanted a new coat. A new winter coat – in early summer – and she had expressed no wish that her father make the garment for her. She wanted her mother to lend her the
money.

‘I thought if you could lend it to me, I could get the coat now and not wait for winter. There’s talk that there’ll be rationing on clothes soon. So if I could get it now . .
.’

Judy cut her short. They were in the kitchen – they might be out of earshot, but Billy had big ears.

‘Don’t say that in front of your father. He goes purple if you mention clothes rationing.’

And his voice boomed out from the living room, ‘I ain’t deaf yet, y’know!’

Judy put a finger to her lips to silence her daughter, hefted a plate of upturned spotted dick and pointed to the jug of custard. Lena followed. They set the pudding down in front of Billy,
seated at the dining table, far from purple, far from peaceful.

‘I just thought you’d like to finish your supper in peace,’ Judy said.

Billy pointed to the vacant chair opposite, between Hummel and Schuster. Hummel bent over his copy of
Lord Jim,
Schuster staring calmy and idly into space, silently counting suet duff
among his British blessings.

‘Peace? With that great booby acting like something out of Old Bedlam? I thought he might at least be in on his last night. Eat with his own family. Is that too much to ask?’

Judy served Hummel and Schuster.

Billy protested, ‘You might at least wait. Is that too much to ask?’

‘You sound like a record, Bill. What’s the point in holding up a single course if Danny’s out? You and me haven’t eaten the same course at the same time for fifteen
years, ’cos you always bolt yer grub. Nothin’ new in that. And Manny loves his duff, don’t you Manny?’

Schuster set his spoon upright, a tin soldier waiting for the duff.

Billy pushed his empty bowl away.

‘I’m not hungry any more.’

Lena said gently, one hand resting on her father’s forearm, ‘Danny’ll be back soon, Dad. He can’t stay out too late. His train’s at half past eight in the
morning.’

‘Is that it? Is that all I get? “Goodnight Dad”?’

‘Won’t be for long,’ Judy said. ‘There’ll be leave, as soon as he’s done his basic training.’

Billy sneered.

‘Basic training? You got all the jargon off pat ain’t yer? All bloody blanco and gaiters. Basic training for what?’

‘For the war, of course.’

‘Right. People don’t come back from war, do they?’

‘This one won’t be like that.’

‘Your dad didn’t come back from the last.’

‘And yours did. That don’t prove nothing. They say we’ll cop the worst of it this time.’

‘Wot?’

‘Papers have been full of it. That Blitzkrieg thing. Like they done on Holland and Belgium. We could all get bombed silly. Wake up one mornin’ and find your bed in a pile of
rubble.’

Lena said, ‘Mrs Wisby says we can go down her cellar.’

Judy said, ‘We got our own cellar. I don’t need to go down her cellar. And if I’m going to die I’d rather be hit by a German bomb than catch typhus.’

And Billy said, ‘Shuuuttuuup!!!’

Schuster paused in his duff, Hummel looked up from his book.

‘Dad!’

‘Shut up! Just answer me one question, will yer? One straight answer. Where’s Danny? And don’t say out!’

‘With his mates,’ Judy said.

‘In the Brickie’s Arms,’ Lena added.

‘Fine. Right. Gottit. He’s gone out to get legless. And I’ll be up till bleedin’ closing time!’

Billy rummaged in the pocket of his waistcoat for the end of a cigarette, got up, found matches by the fireplace, lit up and left his family to finish their meal in strained silence.

On the high mantelshelf, at eye level, was a sepia photograph in a shiny, chipped, shellaced green frame with an ivy motif. It had stood on the same spot for twenty-five years, ignored mostly,
and occasionally, as now, observed. A middle-aged man in the uniform of a British infantry private, peaked cap and puttees, with one arm around a boy – recognisably Billy – of fourteen
or fifteen. It was dated Christmas 1915 in his father’s handwriting. One day in late 1914 Abel Sr. had stood at an open-air meeting on ‘The Waste’ – a patch of scrubby green
at the point where Jubilee Street met the Mile End Road – and volunteered for what was soon nicknamed Schneider’s regiment from the preponderance of Jews and tailors in it. The old man
had, as Judy had pointed out, been one of the lucky ones. Survived to the end. Most who’d gone in as early had been annihilated. But the war had got to Abel Jacks. He’d never been the
same man again. Home on leave the following year he had declined to describe anything of what had happened ‘out there’. Billy had heard this unreligious man pray out loud that the war
would end before his son was conscripted. His prayer had been answered. And it didn’t make Billy one jot less the atheist.

He looked at his younger self, looked at the ‘old man’, knowing it had not been the greatest father/son relationship in the world but wishing the one with his own son were half as
good. Danny had not waited on conscription, he had volunteered. With Billy yelling the lesson of ‘Yer zayde’ in his face, he had still volunteered.

Way past closing time, way past midnight, Billy sat by the fireplace in his dressing gown and slippers, not even remotely dozing. The thump on the front door brought him to his
feet.

‘Who is it?’

‘It’s me. Ted.’

‘What do you want? It’s gone midnight.’

‘It’s what you want, Billy. I got Danny here. You can open up or I can just park him on the doorstep.’

Billy opened up to see his son propped up by an ARP warden in blue blouse and tin hat. The warden said no more, lugged Danny in and slung him down in the chair Billy had been in.

‘I saw him. I’d just come off me break. I saw him reeling along Stepney Green. Swimming in it. Look, I can’t stop. It was only me break. By rights I shouldn’t really
leave the street.’

‘S’awright, Ted. You get off. I’ll be fine with him.’

‘Right – see yer Billy.’

Before the door closed, Billy said, ‘Ted? Was there no one with him? None of his mates or nothing?’

‘Nah, Billy. Not a soul.’

‘Bastards. I owe you, Ted. I’m grateful, really I am.’

Billy drew up a chair opposite his slumped son and stared. The stare seemed to penetrate the boy’s consciousness. His eyes flickered open.

‘Dad?’

‘Yes, my blue-eyed boy?’

‘Where am I?’

‘Aldershot.’

‘Eh?’

‘I thought I’d join up with you. We’ve got reveille in ten minutes.’

Danny looked around the room. Grinned.

‘’Ere. You’re havin me ooooooon!’

And on the last syllable leaned over the arm of the chair and puked into the coal scuttle.

When his head rose again, sleeve wiping his mouth, Billy said, ‘I waited up for yer.’

‘I can see that.’

‘What’s it all for, son?’

‘For King and Couuuuuntryyyyyyy!’

Puked again.

Billy said, ‘I can see that. But I was talkin about the state you’re in.’

‘I thought you meant the war. Me joinin’ up an’ that. You been fixin’ me with your beady for weeks.’

‘However . . . now that you bring it up.’

So cued, Danny leaned over and vomited again.

‘Not now, Dad . . . not now, for Christ’s sake.’

‘Oh . . . you don’t think a father and his only son should have a bit of a chat the night before the son goes off to get hisself killed.’

‘Thanks, Dad. That really makes me feel good.’

Billy had sat all evening on his temper, but no more. The rage surged to the surface in an explosion that would have scared anyone less drunk than Danny.

‘You stupid little bugger! I thought I brought you up to have brains. Not to get ’em blown out. I never thought you were dumb enough to go for a squaddie! What’ve I told you?
What’ve I told you? What’ve I always told you? Look after number one . . . Look after . . .’

‘I heard you the first time. You been telling me that as long as can remember. I’ll never forget seeing that ’orrible red phizzog of yours pushed up against the bars of me
playpen saying “who’s a pretty boy – look after number one”.’

‘Very funny. You’re not too old for a back-hander you know.’

Danny staggered to his feet.

‘Fine, Dad. I’m up now. Knock me down if you like. I don’t bleedin’ care. I’d rather make it up the stairs and sleep in me own bed, but you do what you’re
gonna do. Either way, get me up in the mornin’. Seven at the latest. Just don’t give me another of your lectures. I know ’em all by heart.’

Billy stared at the space vacated by Danny as though the boy had not moved, listened to his son banging about in the hallway, at the foot of the stairs. Then, ‘Dad? Dad?? I can’t get
up the stairs. Dad??? I can’t get up the stairs. You’ll have to help me.’