Fowlers End (6 page)

“Next morning I ‘ave this ‘ere Panatrope delivered an’ put in a conspicuous place in the lobby. D’you foiler? So the musicians come in, so you give a mysterious smile an’ you say in a friendly tone o’ voice, ‘Lovely little machine,’ you say, ‘smashing invention. On this little record,’ you say—I always send along a few dummy records—’on this ‘ere little record I got Paul Whiteman, Jack Hylton I got, Caruso I got, the London Milharphonic Orchestra I got! An’ at the turn miv a knob I could deafen ‘alf Fowlers End,’you say. You know, nice an’ diplomatic like Dr. Fu Manchu. ‘An’ pe
ople wonder why so many musicians are selling matches in the street.’That fixes those independent bastards for a little while. Because they all work kind o’ locally, an’ in the first place if they could get another part-time job in a show they wouldn’t be able to get there from Fowlers End; an’ in the second place even if they could, they’d ‘ave to spend all their wages on tram fares; an’ in the third place they’d miss the last tram ‘ome. So they can’t, an’ that goes for the artists too.

“If you ‘appen to get some specially nice-looking gel—say, for instance, a contortionist—give me a buzz an’ say, ‘Mr. Yudenow, come over quick, I got trouble in the genevator room.’Because, between you an’ me, variety is a thing o’ the past, so you’d be surprised what smashing turns you’ll get out ‘ere. People what earned fifty, sixty, seventy pound a week a few years ago come out ‘ere for thirty bob for three days, an’ glad of it. Adouble turn—that’s two people—gets two pound ten.”

I once knew an old boxer who, clumsily, picking the lint of airborne vocabularies off the fuzzy black wool of his mind, used to explain why he had failed to win the welter
weight belt. It was, he said, because he had a super-brain; he was too quick. “Too busy” was what he said of himself in self-criticism, by which he meant one jump ahead of himself. Only some flatterer, when this battered little scrapper could still lay his hands on a fifty-pound note, had talked of his overactivity as “supersensitivity,” and so forth—had a bit in the papers about it too, which was all that the much beaten man had to cling to in the gutter to which he gravitated after he could no longer be relied upon to carry a bucket at Blackfriars. It amounted to this: that Kn
ockout Rugg lived in a dream world, in a mirror, fighting his own reflection. He countered too fast. Defending himself against an “inevitable punch” that his opponent never even thought of, he delivered to the ambient air what he liked to call his “sleeping draught”—and so awoke in the drafty dressing room. And, to his dying day, Knockout Rugg could not get it out of his head that he had been fouled. Even when his peculiarly aggressive tactics worked, and he walked up the aisle as the winner, his triumph was soured by a sense of grievance. “I dessay you saw what that yeller bastard was goin
g to do to me in the tenth if I hadn’t nailed him in the eighth?” he would say. So it was with Sam Yudenow. It seemed to me then that he despised Godbolt for not having anticipated him, and then hated him for trying to anticipate him.

“You don’t believe, I dare say, what stinkpots a certain type people can be,” Sam Yudenow said, leading me out into the High Street. “That toe-rag! The minute I turned my back, the reptile, what does he do? These ‘ere premises next door ‘e tries to buy up over my ‘ead for a cafe miv a license to sell tobacco! Would you believe it? No. An insult, a bloody insult to my intelligence! Is Sam Yudenow a newborn baby in drapkins sucking ‘is toes? Yesterday was I born? Anybody else, I’d put it dahn to ‘is ignorance, but that twicer ‘e
knew—’e
knew—where there’s a cinema there’s
got to be a cafe. So he goes to Gutter the butcher miv a mysterious smile like a diplomat already, an’ bribes an’ corrupts im to get ‘old o’ these ‘ere premises. ‘E might ‘ave known anybody in show biz miv enough sense to find ‘is nose to pick it at once realizes that in a silent ‘all a showman’s nicest bit o’ bunce comes out o’ eatables. Miv talkies, monkey nuts an’ potato crisps are a thing o’ the past, but in a silent-picture palace they’re ‘alf show biz.

“Treat Sam Yudenow straight an’‘e’s a die; treat ‘im crooked an better thvow a corkscrew into an electric fan. Yes, call me straight an’ I’m a poker; otherwise I too can be a permanent wave.... But it only goes to show you the ... the ... the
mentality
of such hypocrites! So this Godbolt didn’t know Sam Yudenow would be kind of a jump ahead, sort o’? I ask you—if you say to your grandmother miv a mysterious smile, ‘Darling, let me teach you to suck eggs,’ wouldn’t she be right to give you the left arm in the thvoat an’ the right ‘and in the arse from the trousers? Naturally. But li
ttle did Godbolt know.... Two stones miv one bird I knocked dahn. I took the shop an’upper part. The shop I run as a kind o’‘igh-class snack place, sort o’style. Two rooms upstairs is dressing rooms for my variety turns. I wanted to put a bit of a beaver-board partition up in the genevator room, miv a curtain, so the artists could change an’ nip out straight into the ‘all. But Godbolt writes an anonymous letter an’ the sanitary inspector says, ‘Not enough laventries!’ What, a laventry I should build for variety turns? A earthly paradise I make, ‘ere, so laventries they should ‘ave on top of it like May
fair? Miv velvet seats praps, very likely? ‘Don’t make me laugh,’ I says. ‘I got a cracked lip.’ So upstairs over my restaurant I got two lovely dressing rooms, one male, one female. No sexual intercourse.

“This way it’s simple. Like this, all you got to do is show ‘em in. Let ‘em dress, let ‘em make up to their ‘eart’s content—there’s a looking glass in every room, and in the
yard a lovely laventry. Comes five minutes before the hour nip out o’ the ‘all an’ get ‘em out. Then all they got to do is nip dahnstairs, nip into the front entrance, nip through my vestibule, nip up the back o’ the ‘all an’ wait. This you should synchronize to the tick miv the end o’ the second feature, which naturally comes on first. Sometimes, at the last minute, the variety turns get ‘ysterical which one goes on last. Tell ‘em you’ll report ‘em. Never mind who to— that one little word
report
is quite sufficient. Nip up front, whistle for fights, thvow switches, kick on the p
artition for the band, swish curtains—an’ for Christ’s sake pull the right string or you go up in flames an’
I’m
the sufferer—nip back, rush ‘em on, rush ‘em off, rush ‘em out, rush ‘em in.... A couple kicks on the partition, nip back, three buzzes, an’ there you are—first feature, which naturally comes on last. In case of emergency, the show must go on. If necessary, borrow a lipstick, paint your nose ved—one-two-three—an’ get up on my stage an’ tell funny stovies. Or do paper-tearing—miv the Situations Vacant page
Daily Telegraph
you can tear out a doily, or a row dancing dolls, miv a running
commentary. Remember Fowlers End ain’t Buckingham Palace. If you tear paper, tell the doorman to shout from the back, ‘Oi, Dad, don’t tear up the tablecloth till I read the football results!’—an’ there won’t be a dry seat in the ‘ouse. You’ll see.

“An’ always remember not to forget this: When in doubt, talk very slow; it makes up for not having nothing to say. Otherwise, when in doubt, talk very quick; it gives you time to think. But above all, when in doubt, shut up; then somebody else in doubt will talk and make a fool o’ himself. If everything else fails, tread heavy on somebody’s foot an’ shout, ‘Where you going, can’t you?’

“Now look at the dressing rooms.”

Sam Yudenow took out a large key and opened a side door adjacent to a mean little shop front—a deplorable,
a repellent shop front made up of three gray panes of smeared glass rattling in Gothic frames. All the woodwork was painted in a singularly unsavory shade of blue. There is blue, and blue. Some kinds of blue remind you of babies’ eyes, Mediterranean skies, sapphires, or flowers. Other blues suggest midnight and deep melancholy. But the blue of this place was of such a quality that, if you had seen it anywhere else, your first impulse would have been to call a doctor. It was something like the color of the lips of an asthmatic plumber dying of lead poisoning who has put himself ou
t of his misery with cyanide. At every join in the woodwork there was a bubbly bluish-white froth of putty and poisonous paint expelled in a last gasp. The window frames on the floor above were of the same hue, only paler. Those of the second floor were gray streaked with orange. But on the fascia over the window was fixed a long glass plate, deeply engraved or countersunk with bold Roman letters in bright gold, which said: cafe cosmopolitan. Over the door, on a heavy wrought-iron bracket, hung a sign: RESTAURANTVITELLIUS. Yet on the lintel of the shop door some palsied hand had painted in pale orange,
in small letters: S.
Yudenow Licensed to Sell Tobacco.
Behind the left-hand panel of the window I could see a plaster-of-paris ham, a celluloid bowl of wax fruit, and a pyramid of dummy cigarette packets half unstuck. The center panel was chaste, in the Japanese style—there was only a frying pan painted silver in which lay two slices of cardboard ham, a wooden tomato, a clay cutlet, and a lacquered red sausage. Over these goodies hung an appetizing vapor of cotton wool suspended on a bit of string nailed to the ceiling. The panel on the right was full of dummy chocolate bars and empty tob
acco tins; but there was also a large gilded frame embossed Hotel Carlton-Waldoria, containing the menu of a special banquet given by the American Ambassador in honor of the Chinese statesman Li Hung Chang in 1897.
Lower left, a photograph of a Greek wrestler autographed with a cross; a
Vanity Fair
caricature of Lord Palmerston; and an ostrich egg. Toward center, a printed card: COSTAS. LADIES AND GENTS TAILORS AND REPAIRS, APPLY WITHIN. Right, again, another card:

!!!BILL OF FARE!!!

SPECIAL THIS DAY!!

Eggs 1

Fried ” 1

Boiled

3d!

2d!

2d!

"2 Fried"

2 Boiled

5d!

5d!

Sausages 1

2

3d!

6d!

Fish

Chips

Fish & Chips

Egg & Chips

5d!

3d!

8d!

6d!

Meat Pie

“ & Chips

Tea

Coffee

Cocoa

3d!

5 1/2d!

1 1/2d!

2d!

2d!

VALET SERVICE ON REQUEST
COME AGAIN!!!

And over all a burned-grease odor, as of Landru’s kitchen.

Gesticulating with the key, Sam Yudenow said, “My cafe. Like the color, eh? It’s blue. In show biz waste nothing. Abit paint ‘ere, a bit paint there—never let ‘em dry up. D’you roller? Miv a drop turpentine, the bottom o’ one tin add to the bottom another, an’ you’d be surprised the results! So long it’s natural, it matches anything. I forget the indigredents o’ this ‘ere color, but look what a lovely shade blue it turned out to be! I was going to call it the Blue Cafe—a smashing title—only my old friend Hacker, ‘e’s a breaker. D’you foller?”

“A broker?” I asked.

“I said a
breaker,”
said Sam Yudenow. “You ‘eard of a ship breaker? A ‘ouse breaker you ‘eard of? So my friend Hacker’s a general breaker. A breaker, not a broker. After a broker goes broke, then comes the breaker. My friend Hacker’s a shop breaker, a restaurant breaker, a theater breaker, a ship breaker—a
breaker,
you know? Say a business is sold up, say: my friend Hacker’s on the spot like a leopard miv a bid. Fixtures an’ fittings, bars an’ counters an’
cupboards, signs an’ shelves an’ linoleum an’ doorknobs— anything an’ everything. Boarding an’ beading, frames an’ doors an’ panels, sinks an’ mantelpieces an’ mirrors—whatever nobody wants my friend Hacker buys. Rags, bottles an’ bones. ‘You chunk it out, I pick it up’—that’s my friend Hacker’s motto; an’ you’d be surprised!

“As I was saying, I was going to call this ‘ere cafe the Blue Cafe only my friend ‘ad this ‘ere ‘and made Cafe Cosmopolitan fascia plus that there Vitellius sign thrown in. ‘Chunk me in a mincing machine,’I says, ‘an’ it’s a deal for thirty shillings.’ In the end it was thirty-five bob,
plus
the ostrinch egg.... Mivout a mincing machine in a cafe you’re a think o’ the past. Rissoles—on the steam alone o’ my rissoles they get fat rahnd Fowlers End. An’ I dare say you wonder why I got two different signs ‘anging outside my cafe? Go on, say it!”

I said, “I wonder why you have two different signs hanging outside your cafe, Mr. Yudenow. Well?”

He was delighted. “So you admit it got you asking questions, eh? It got you on the guess? You’d look twice at a place miv two signs, ain’t it? You pause. You stop. Before you know where you are, you come in miv a mysterious smile an’ say, ‘Uxcuse me but whereas you got two different signs?” An’ you go out miv a packet cigarettes or a rissole or a bar chocolate. Show biz... But you mustn’t keep me ‘ere chatting all day long. To the dressing rooms, for Christ’s sake!”

As he opened the door, a girl looked out of the first-floor window. I caught a glimpse of a broad oval face, downy and juicy as an apricot, and one burning black eye surmounted by an eyebrow like a kitten’s tail. Then she was gone.

“That’s Costas’ sister,” said Sam Yudenow. “She’s bad medicine. ‘Ave nothing to do miv ‘er. You know what these Greeks are, jealous, the uncivilized bastards. Only the
other day, single’ anded, Costas practically lynched half a dozen blokes for whistling at ‘er. She’ll make eyes at you.
She
won’t mind your face—she never looks ‘igher than anybody’s f
ly. If Costas catches you so much as laying a finger on ‘er, God ‘elp you. So you better be careful. You never can tell. Some women like Victor McLaglen, some women like cripple
s. Not even you will be safe. Come on.”

“Even I?” I said, following him. “I like that!”

“Don’t get me wrong,” said Sam Yudenow. “Personally I like your face. It’s just the face for the job.”

3

SINCE I am of a timid and retiring disposition, I must admit that I am not displeased with my face. It enables me to pick and choose my company. If I do not like some importunate stranger I have only to look at him steadily; then he falters and edges away. If, on the other hand, I like the looks of somebody, it is necessary for me simply to say, “Nice weather we are having” to hold him, terrified. People are so surprised to find that I am an easygoing, even a gentle, soul that they tend to fall in love with me out of sheer relief. I am the kind of man who is glanced at quickly out of the co
rners of eyes. Men fear me and women are fascinated by me. “He must have been through hell,” they say, with a thrill of sympathy or with a delicious tremor. “What a ruthless brute he must be!” Perhaps you remember the old heavyweight boxer, the Chopping Block, George Cook of Australia. It was almost impossible to knock him out; consciousness and unconsciousness were all the same to him. He used to be one of the barriers that had to be passed before anyone got to be a runner-up for the British Heavyweight Championship.

His sad, bewildered eyes glittered under heavy banks of scar tissue, and he had ears like a double portion of sweetbreads. Hundreds and hundreds of promising young heavyweights had hit him in the face with all their might. An old sportswriter told me once that George Cook must have taken, in the course of his career, at least fifteen thousand punches on the nose, which was not only flat and boneless but bent east and west in a lazy zigzag. He had the appearance of a man who, by supernatural toughness, has emerged alive from a concrete mixer. I look something like him; and I have ne
ver regretted the circumstances that made me so.