'… sit tight and we'll get you some assistance, in a few minutes…'
Over the years he had improved both his equipment and his understanding of what the newspaper wanted. He learned that they were grateful for more or less anything early in the morning, but as the day wore on they became more choosy, until by about three p.m. nothing less than murder in the street or large-scale robbery with violence interested them. He also discovered that the paper, like the police, was a lot less interested in a crime done to a colored man in a colored area. Herbert thought this quite reasonable, since he, as an Evening Post reader, was not much interested in what the wogs did to each other in their own parts of London; and he surmised, correctly, that the reason the Post was not interested was simply that people like Herbert who bought the Post weren't interested. And he learned to read between the lines of police jargon: knew when an assault was trivial or a complaint domestic; heard the note of urgency in the operations-room sergeant's voice when a call for assistance was desperate; discovered how to switch his mind off when they decided to read out great lists of stolen-car numbers over the air.
The speeded-up sound of his own alarm clock came out of the big speaker, and he turned the deck off. He increased the volume on the radio, then dialed the Post's number. He sipped his tea while he waited for an answer.
'Post, g'morning.' It was a man's voice.
'Copytakers, please,' Herbert said. There was another pause.
'Copy.'
'Hello. Chieseman here, timing at oh seven fifty-nine.'
There was a clatter of typewriters in the background. 'Hello, Bertie. Anything doing?'
'Seems to have been a quiet night,' Herbert said.
EIGHT A.M.
7
Tony Cox stood in a phone booth on the corner of Quill Street, Bethnal Green, with the receiver to his ear. He was perspiring inside the warm coat with the velvet collar. In his hand he held the end of a chain, which was attached to the collar of the dog outside. The dog was sweating, too.
The phone at the other end of the line was answered, and Tony pressed a coin into the slot.
A voice said: 'Yes?' in the tone of one who is not really accustomed to these newfangled telephones.
Tony spoke curtly. 'It's today. Get it together.' He hung up without giving his name or waiting for an answer.
He strode off along the narrow pavement, pulling the dog behind him. It was a pedigreed boxer with a trim, powerful body, and Tony had continually to yank at the chain to make it keep pace. The dog was strong, but its master was a great deal stronger.
The doors of the old terraced houses gave directly on to the street. Tony stopped at the one outside which was parked the gray Rolls-Royce. He pushed the house door open. It was never locked, for the occupants had no fear of thieves.
There was a smell of cooking in the little house. Pulling the dog behind him, Tony went into the kitchen and sat on a chair. He unhooked the chain from the dog's collar and sent it away with a hefty slap on the rump. He stood up and took off his coat.
A kettle was warming on the gas cooker, and there was sliced bacon on a piece of greaseproof paper. Tony opened a drawer and took out a kitchen knife with a ten-inch blade. He tested the ledge with his thumb, decided it needed sharpening, and went out into the yard.
There was an old grinding wheel in the lean-to shed. Tony sat beside it on a wooden stool and worked the treadle, the way he had seen the old man do it years ago. It made Tony feel good to do things the way his father had. He pictured him: a tall man, and handsome, with wavy hair and glittering eyes, making sparks with the grinder while his children shrieked with laughter. He had been a stallholder in a street market, selling china and saucepans, calling his wares in that strong, carrying voice. He used to make a performance of pretending to needle the grocer next to him, shouting: 'There y'are, I just sold a pot for half a nicker. How many spuds d'you sell afore you take ten bob?' He could spot a strange woman yards away, and would use his good looks shamelessly. 'I tell you what, darling'-this to a middle-aged woman in a hairnet-'we don't get many beautiful young girls down this end of the market, so I'm going to sell you this at a loss and hope you'll come back. Look at it-solid copper bottom, if you'll pardon the word, and it's my last one; I've made my profit on the rest, so you can have it for two quid, half what I paid for it, just because you made an old man's heart beat faster, and take it quick afore I change my mind.'
Tony had been shocked by the speed at which the old man changed after the one lung went. His hair turned white, the cheeks sank between the bones, and the fine voice went high and whining. The stall was rightfully Tony's, but by then he had his own sources of income, so he had let it go to young Harry, his dumb brother, who had married a beautiful Whitechapel girl with the patience to learn how to talk with her hands. It took guts for a dumb man to run a market stall, writing on a blackboard when he needed to speak to the customers, and keeping in his pocket a plain postcard bearing the word THANKS in capital letters to flash when a sale was made. But he ran it well and Tony lent him the money to move into a proper shop and hire a manager, and he made a success of that, too. Guts-they ran in the family.
The kitchen knife was sharp enough. He tested it and cut his thumb. Holding it to his lips, he went into the kitchen.
His mother was there. Lillian Cox was short and a little overweight-her son had inherited the tendency to plumpness without the shortness-and she had much more energy than the average sixty-three-year-old. She said: 'I'm doing you a bit of fried bread.'
'Lovely.' He put the knife down and found a bandage. 'Take care with that knife-I done it a bit too sharp.'
She fussed over his cut, then, making him hold it under the cold tap and count to one hundred, then putting on antiseptic cream, and gauze, and finally a roll of bandage held with a safety pin. He stood still and let her do what she wished.
She said: 'Ah, but you're a good boy to sharpen the knives for me. Where you been so early, anyhow?'
'Took the dog up the park. And I had to ring someone up.'
She made a disgusted noise. 'I don't know what's wrong with the phone in the parlor, I'm sure.'
He leaned over the cooker to sniff the frying bacon. 'You know how it is, Mum. The Old Bill listen to that one.'
She put a teapot in his hand. 'Go in there and pour the tea out, then.'
He took the pot into the living room and put it down on a mat. The square table was laid with an embroidered cloth, cutlery for two, salt and pepper and sauce bottles.
Tony sat nearest the fireplace, where the old man used to sit. From there he reached into the sideboard and took out two cups and two saucers. He pictured the old man again, overseeing mealtimes with the back of his hand and a good deal of rhyming slang. 'Get your chalks off the Cain,' he would bark if they put their arms on the table. The only thing Tony held against him was the way he treated Mum. Being so handsome and that, he had a few women on the side, and at times he would spend his money buying them gin instead of bringing it home. Those times, Tony and his brother would go up the Smithfield market, stealing scraps from under the tables to sell to the soap factory for a few coppers. And he never went in the Army-but then, a lot of wise boys went on the trot in wartime.
'What are you going to do-go back to sleep, or pour that tea out?' Lillian put a plate in front of Tony and sat down opposite him. 'Never mind, I'll do it now.'
Tony picked up his cutlery, holding his knife like a pencil, and began to eat. There were sausages, two fried eggs, a mess of canned tomatoes, and several slices of fried bread. He took a mouthful before reaching for the brown sauce. He was hungry after his morning's exertions.
His mother passed him his tea. She said: 'I don't know. We was never afraid to use the phone when your father was alive, God rest his soul. He was careful to stay out of the way of the Old Bill.'
