"You'll get chilled."
"Not me. I'm as healthy as they make them. I go walking barefoot right out the lobby of my building."
"I still rather you didn't."
"What's got into you Mr. Smith. You mean you don't want me to give those poor kids sustenance. Is that what you're telling me."
"Miss Tomson, please, you're misunderstanding me."
"I wonder if I am. Then why shouldn't I. Look how cold and hungry they look down there. If I were a kid I'd wish someone would come out of a rich place like this and give me something, even though it was only food"
"I've got my reasons."
"I guess you have, Mr. Smith. But they're a mystery to me. If I had some kids and they were out singing I'd like to know someone was going to react. I've got my pad if you want to dictate."
"Miss Tomson, O.K., Matilda will give you some cold chicken from the kitchen. Take it down to them."
"No, it's all right."
"Now please do."
"No no, it doesn't matter."
"Miss Tomson, it does matter. It matters to me now."
"It was nothing."
"Matilda will put it all out on a big platter. There's a silver one in the alcove."
"It doesn't matter what it's on."
"She'll give you a tray."
"It doesn't matter now."
Miss Tomson sitting, bending her head forward. Her book opened with the pages curled back, scribbling with her pencil. World of woe. Couldn't tell her. And I can't tell her now. She's hurt. Now I'll be blamed for hating children. I don't like them but I don't hate them. Miss Tomson, remember what you said, it's you they're after. I don't expect you to examine every little thing for signs of hostility. But how do I know this bastard watching me get the letter from the doorman didn't send these kids as a decoy. If I told you this you'd ridicule me for imagining things. For getting scared out of all proportion to the threat. Take the damn platter, rip open the cupboards, load it all on. Get Hugo up here to help. We'll all march down.
"You'd like to go home now, wouldn't you Miss Tomson."
"I've got my pad ready and pencil poised."
"You're upset."
"I'm just waiting for the dictation."
"Well I'm so upset I can't dictate."
"Well maybe we better leave it till another day then, Mr. Smith."
"Miss Tomson, I apologise for not letting you go out to those children with a platter of chicken."
"Let's forget it."
"And see you sitting there miserable. Miss Tomson I'm not in the habit of asking people their feelings about me but because of this, do you think I hate singing."
"Mr. Smith you're making a mountain out a mole hill, just a whim. Just a plain ordinary whim."
"O.K."
Smith turning abruptly crossing into that space the management likes to call the dining foyer. Sound of Matilda moving out of the kitchen. Smith pulling a cape over the shoulders. Opening the mechanically assisted door. Matilda's voice in the sitting room, talking to Miss Tomson.
"You upset Mr. Smith, what about."
"None of your business."
"Don't talk to me like that."
"Look Gertrude."
"Don't call me Gertrude, don't call me Matilda either."
"Get off my ear."
"Don't you talk to me like that. I'll pull that blond mop right out of your head."
"You come near me you black bitch. Just dare."
George nimbly stepping outside the door. Let that situation simmer. Pausing for the elevator. Flashing down the stairs instead Whoosh. By Hugo out the front glass doors.
"Anything the trouble Mr. Smith."
"Just fetching somebody."
"Can I help."
"No thanks. Just up the street. Only a second."
George moving forward, elbows well in, ankles supple, chin up, fingers flapping and well relaxed. Loping past tenement stoops and garbage pails on the other side of the street. Lungs gasping as Smith cleverly switched to mental power to give the muscles a rest. Stopping to ask a slow moving pedestrian.
"Pardon me, see any little kids up this direction."
"You want a fight bud."
"No thank you."
George hurried on. Overt good fellowship everywhere. Peering into the beer saloon on the corner. I've got to get them. If they climb onto a bus I'm whipped. Hold on heart, I hear the voices of urchins. Thin little sounds. Coming up out of warm young hearts in the distance.
Further on the avenue between the remains of two derelict buildings, the urchins standing together on a pile of rubble. Embers of a fire glowing from the wreckers. George stepping from brick to brick and up on an unwieldy plank. One two three four five six of them. Two sizeable girls and a small one. Three rather tough looking boys.
"Excuse me kids, weren't you just singing around the corner."
"Who says so."
"I heard you. What are you singing here for, there's no one to hear you."
"We don't want to be heard."
"Look I've got a proposition. You, are you the oldest."
"Yeah I'm the oldest."
"Look will you come back to my apartment and sing forme."
"Hey what do you want mister. You a pervert, mister."
"I've got my girl friend there."
"We read in a book that don't mean nothing."
"I see. Well she thinks you're all a bunch of swell singers. She'd just like to hear you close up. And there's cold chicken and lemonade."
"We want dough."
"O.K. I'll give you money as well as cold chicken and lemonade."
"You live in that swank apartment round the corner."
"Yes."
"Hey you must be rich. We want a whole lot of dough from you. You sure you're not kidding us."
"Come and see."
"O.K. Come on. I give the order follow this guy."
Smith leading this youthful rank and file. Past the beer saloon where inmates jerked their thumbs out at the parade. To this apartment which may be given over to mayhem. Miss Tomson and Matilda, what a match. The dark solid heft against the light tall sylph. Be a certain amount of head banging on the parquet, an entrance hall alive with tufts of hair, and torn foundation garments. No whalebone on Miss Tomson but perhaps a lot on Matilda.
Smith moving with military bearing, calling left flank in under the orange canopy of Merry Mansions.
"Hey mister you talcing us really right into your house."
"Yes."
"Hey we're going in."
Hugo steps forward. Head a little askance. Mouth tight.
"Mr. Smith I don't know about this."
"What do you mean, Hugo."
"Well. I think maybe you better use the service entrance."
"These young people are my guests."
"I had to kick them out of here just a quarter of an hour ago."
"At the moment they're my guests."
"I'm sorry but if you bring these little bums in here I'm going to report it to the management."
"Come on kids, follow me."
"I'm telling you Mr. Smith."
"You've told me, onward kids."
"It's not permitted on the premises. It's a rule of the management."
The platoon making its way across the blue lobby. Two kids pausing for perusement in the big mirror. Smith instantly ordering these stragglers to take up the rear. As the spokesman warned Smith to watch the dirty language, his little brother was with them.
Platoon halt. At the top of the landing the military commander facing the white chilly faces outside the thick steel door of Flat 14.
"You, what's your name son."
"Snake."
"I see. Well look, here's some money, divide it up later."
"Hey wow, this is a lot."
"Well you're good singers."
"Well give us more then."
"Wait a minute kids, I'm not made of money. Here, now this is all I've got. Now when I open the door you're to assemble in
the hall in two rows and sing."
"What do you want us to sing, mister."
"What you were singing in the street."
"If you give us some more money we'll sing you a dirty song."
"Not tonight, boys and girls."
"You mean we come back sometime and sing real dirty ones."
"Thanks kids, but just go in the door now. And sing a carol or two. I'd prefer for the sake of my girl friend if you kept it clean. More of a friend than a girl friend, you know what I mean."
"We know mister."
George inserting his key. Gently making way through for these good little kids. Snake practicing the scales. Rather froglike. Girl blinking and taking deep breaths. Kids I beg of you to keep it clean.
Miss Tomson standing with her coat on to go. Sound of Matilda crashing delf. The expense of keeping happiness. I can't possibly get down on my knees in front of all these kids and beg her to stay. And the racket in the kitchen.
"Kids, sing."
All lined up. Not a bad bunch of little boys and girls. Could get them some publicity and send them touring somewhere. The singing paupers. Matilda just bust something big then.
Silent night
Holy night.
"Please Miss Tomson, don't go. Please stay and listen, the children will be disappointed."
"I'm too mad. You ought to get somebody civilized to work for you."
"Miss Tomson aren't you going to watch them cat die chicken"
The slam of the door sent a neat crack zigzagging to the ceiling. Together with the Goldminer's parties upstairs and Miss Tomson, this little nest I've outfitted here at considerable expense is not going to last long. The management's representative Mr. Stone will no doubt bring this up in due course. I've got to stop her.
"Hey kids, keep singing."
"Sure, mister."
Smith taking a quick look at the crack above the door to the ceiling. Moving headlong down the stairs in shirt sleeves. Catching a side view of his ignoble appearance as he made it to the curb to see Miss Tomson disappearing in a taxi around the corner beer saloon.
George Smith in front of Merry Mansions. Hugo humbugging inside the door. Cold night wind blowing dust and torn newspaper floating by. Miss Tomson took umbrage. Go ahead, go for good. Plenty of good secretaries around. You think you're something special. Social and smart.
George walking towards the river. Shivering in the chill. Black with glitterings of green and yellow and red on the water. Miss Tomson did not want me to catch her. She could have hesitated. She could have loitered just those few seconds in the lobby. Long enough to effect a reconciliation. Could mean I'll never see her again. No one to inspire pride in my appearance. Or make a laughing stock of me either. O my God what an arse she has.
The park all shut up, locked. Save where there are some little steps to a terrace over the river. Hands in pockets, shoulders hunched. Pneumonia brewing. Planned that little eating occasion to bring us closer together. Looking into each other's eyes, both our elbows on the maple. Knew she'd love asparagus. And the apricots with the neat follow up of mellow distilled fermentate of same.
Tug boats, barges. Car lights streaming across the bridge. Ships have always cheered me up. And the warm light of cabins making a way to sea. Someday I'll take a ship.
And on this terrace, George leaning on the iron rail, growling as both elbows sank in sea gull shit. A woman leading three wretched little dogs of some variety minute and snuffling. Pink hat, bundle of fur coat and pair of furry boots. As George freezed his balls and looked destitute standing there with the white crap stained elbows.
Woman looking George right in the eye. He had only enough fortitude left to sustain a stare for an instant. How do madam. You looking for a piece of ass. I beg your pardon, you stranger. She'd scream. And the arm of the law would extend its fat cowardly hand to clutch me by the garment. If they could spare time away from taking graft.
George was out of that park rapidly having a mind for nightly behaviour in those shrubbery places. To get back to his own cosy fireside. And the urchins. Whom, my goodness, I've left them singing.
Speed was now essential. Smith taking the relaxo stride down the pavement to Merry. Up the steps, three at a leap. No time for elevators. These days. Inside the vault door of Flat Fourteen there was sheepishness. Each urchin trying to stand behind the other and one trying to squeeze out the door as I came in. With no sign of Matilda. And this kid Snake slithering away.
"Hey you Snake, where are you going out that door."
"Free country."
"What have you got behind your back.'1 [34]
"Just my ass."
"Ungracious brat."
"Hey mister don't touch him. We'll tell the cops you brought us up here to sing dirty songs and take off our clothes."
"Little blackmailers. Give me back that bottle and get the hell out of here."
George Smith lunged. Exodus ensued. The rush for the stairs. Give one of these kids a boot in the hole to remember me by. Boy they can travel. They're going up instead of down. The noise is terrible. Just get round this landing. Whoa. Goldminer's door is open. They'll see me. See me chasing six urchins. This will slander me just nicely. First time I've ever seen Mr. Goldminer look serious in his life.
"Say George, what are you doing."
Smith pausing quietly in his shirt sleeves, rolled to obscure the sea gull dropping. Resting one calm hand on the glass bannister. And with a generous show of front teeth.
"O nothing. Just a youth club. It's exercise night. Giving the kids a chase up the stairs."
"O."
"Toodle oo, got a rush. Put them through a few contortions on die roof. Got to build good sound bodies these days. Stops delinquency."
"O."
Mr. Goldminer, frowning in his doorway didn't laugh at that last remark. Usually laughs at everything. Uncontrollably. And then slaps his wife's bare back and gives her a little nudge under the tit. Distasteful habit.
Deep down below the voice of Hugo shouting up the stairwell. George travelling four steps a leap, attaching a left hooked hand and flying round each landing. Up above a door slamming. Little buggers have reached roof [351 already* If I make the top alive and out of breath they might turn on me all at once and I'll scarcely be able to handle six. Onward. Never show cowardice in die face of children.
The roof. Out the door into the darkness. Over the skylights and round the chimneys. Away in the distance, shaft of searchlight flashing. Could use that here in the dark. Where are they. There. Running across the pebbles. Climbing over to the next roof, which I know for a fact is down twenty feet. With a parachute could leap too and have them trapped, crippled with their broken ankles and begging for mercy.
Smith making it across to the boundary wall of Merry Mansions as the last and biggest urchin, Snake, took a flying leap. With a crunching result darkly below. If there is plaster on anyone's ceiling. Alas it will be there no longer. Retreat out of this. With a shout to send them on their way.
"I'll get you yet. You wretched urchins."
"Hey mister, what cheap whisky you drink."
George silent spectre, right hand placed under the shirt to quieten a throbbing heart. This little group of the younger generation shouting their way down the interior of number Four Eagle Street. Night rife with disrespect. Not to mention outright insolence. Left standing on a rooftop, with probably no maid, no secretary, minus my reputation, a bottle of whisky and God knows what else. Trust Goldminer to be at the door. When mostly they're naked and drunk on the floor, in nude carry on with the indiscriminate display of bare flesh among the tropical flowers they grow in that mad house.
George Smith crossing the pebbled roof. Hands in pockets shoulders hunched. Looking down over the edge into Eagle Street. From a doorway two canopies away, shot die urchins. Snake holding a bottle high. Knifing wind blowing. Sly massive with light and faint with stars. Wisps of smoke from the river. Running lights red and green, tug hooting. Up here alone I can think
of the time of year it is. Gifts. And of gold in some tropic. My own kick growing up without daddy. Me being just myself walking along the pavement hoping someone will look at me, stop, come back, see into my eyes and say I love you.
Without later
Turning
Utterly
Treacherous
4
THAT was some Friday night. At Thirty Three Golf Street Monday morning there was no Sally Tomson pecking away at her machine. Nor Tuesday nor Wednesday. And Matilda locked in her room now for five days. Smith acquiring a contraption to make breakfast which woke a person with soft music and leaked out a cup of coffee. Once doing so the middle of the night upon Smith's arm while he lay defenseless asleep in a disturbingly objectionable dream.
Chaos gathering at Merry Mansions. Whorls of dust and cracked pieces of delf . Smith slipping notes in under the bedroom door to the silent Matilda. Who on Monday grunted once. And to the shout on Tuesday are you alive, growled. Smith making his way as usual along the river desperate to hop into one of the medical institutions for a mental checkup.
Three days of Miss Tomson's empty desk And Miss Martin came in and said Mr. Smith shall I parcel up Miss Tomson's things and send them to her. George shouting no one's to touch that desk, leave it just as it is. And the rest of the day was one of obtuse politeness with Miss Martin coming back with a letter handing it to Smith, saying, Mr. Smith I'm afraid you've made an error.
"Miss Martin, I'm terribly busy, can't you correct k yourself, where is it, what's the matter with you, what are you paid for.'1
And Miss Martin took her silent white finger and with a fat pink fingernail touched the bottom of the page where George had signed the name Sally Tomson instead of his own.
When the fights start to flicker on during the rapidly dark afternoons were the worst moments at Thirty Three Golf Street. George nipping out for a walk. And late Monday at an excavation peering down into the floodlit morass of winches, cement mixers and ladles of concrete swinging through the air. All din, dust and unsad. A man near George on the platform recognising him from prepsterhood, followed Smith as he retreated the short distance to the corner. And saying behind him, why hi, George. And Smith running outright. Hailing a taxi. Taking it to The Game Club where sitting in the library in die deep stillness and chime of a grandfather clock, examining one's behaviour which was getting too weird for words. What harm to say, hello, hi, good to see you, gosh you look great, remember the great things we did as kids and prepsters, the snakes we put in neighbours' kitchens through the window. And I ran. Can't now face the things which happened years ago, both believing in the same God, putting hands up the same dresses.