Flaming Sussex. Ian Sansom

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СКАЧАТЬ exactly what I was going to say.’

      ‘Good.’ She flashed me a smile.

      ‘Miss Morley,’ said Willy Mann, getting up and extending his hand.

      ‘Have we met?’ asked Miriam.

      ‘In Essex, miss.’

      ‘Ah, yes,’ said Miriam. ‘Never mind.’ She settled herself at our table. ‘One of your regular haunts, Sefton?’

      ‘Not exactly,’ I said. ‘Would you like … some pie and mash?’ Even the question seemed absurd.

      ‘It’s a little early in the day for me for pie and mash, thank you, Sefton.’ She stared at our mugs of stewed tea, and at Willy Mann’s plate of half-eaten burned brown pastry, grey minced mutton, creamy mashed potato and pool of thin green parsley sauce – and shuddered. ‘Though thinking about it, any time is a little early in the day for pie and mash.’

      ‘Can I get you anything, miss?’ asked the café owner, who’d appeared at our table on Miriam’s arrival, rightly anticipating that this was a customer who might expect a rather more attentive than average standard of service.

      Before saying anything, Miriam looked up at the man, slowly and appraisingly. For a moment I thought she might actually finger his rather stained apron. He was a dark-skinned gentleman, extraordinarily handsome – perhaps from Ceylon – who spoke the most perfectly accented East End English. I was reminded of the old Jewish joke about the Chinese waiter in one of the East End’s many kosher restaurants who spoke perfect Yiddish. ‘Don’t tell him,’ the restaurant’s owner begged his customers, ‘he thinks he’s learning English!’

      ‘A cup of coffee would be wonderful,’ she said, after another moment’s pause. ‘If you can manage it.’ She had him, as they say, in the palm of her hand. The café owner flushed and became flustered.

      ‘I could do you tea, miss,’ he said apologetically.

      ‘Do you know, tea would be almost as equally wonderful, thank you,’ she said.

      ‘Are you sure we can’t tempt you, Miriam?’ I said, gesturing towards Willy’s pie and mash.

      ‘Quite sure, thank you.’

      The café owner departed, doubtless to brew some fresh tea for Miriam, rather than serving the swill that he was happy to dish out to the rest of us.

      ‘So,’ said Miriam. ‘Here we are.’

      ‘Indeed,’ said Willy Mann, pushing around some mashed potato on his plate. ‘Here we are.’

      I’d told Miriam that I’d be free to meet her at one o’clock. It was now midday: for the first and last time during our long relationship, she was early. This was awkward. I’d hoped to have concluded my business with Willy before having to deal with Miriam. As it was, we were all now going to have to deal with each other.

      While I stared out the window, still scanning the street for the Limehouse chap, Willy and Miriam eyed each other up. Or at least, Willy eyed Miriam up, and Miriam allowed herself to be eyed: this was one of her techniques. So many men found her alluring, she seemed to have found the best way to deal with them was to allow them their admiration – and then, like a praying mantis, she would crush them mercilessly. Her ruthless impassivity was a technique I had observed in practice many times and it was, invariably, devastatingly, outrageously successful. To see Miriam at work among men was to witness something like a Miss Havisham, who just happened to look like Hedy Lamarr.

      ‘So what brings you to Club Row? Have you come for a dog, Miss Morley?’ asked Willy, rather teasingly, I thought.

      ‘Not exactly,’ said Miriam, ‘no.’ She looked at me. ‘Though I do love dogs. On more than one occasion a stray dog on the street has followed me home. Isn’t that right, Sefton?’ I had no recall of any stray dog ever having followed her home and wasn’t quite sure what she was referring to. ‘Dogs just seem to come to me,’ continued Miriam. ‘But they must be trained properly, don’t you think?’

      ‘Indeed,’ said Willy, who had lost all interest in his pie and mash and who was now staring at Miriam, fascinated. It was always the way. I wasn’t quite sure how she did it.

      ‘I like dogs who are – what’s the word, Sefton?’

      ‘I’m not sure, Miriam,’ I said. ‘Docile?’

      ‘No,’ said Miriam.

      ‘Ferocious?’ offered Willy.

      ‘No, no,’ said Miriam.

      ‘Loyal?’

      ‘No.’

      ‘Obedient,’ said Willy.

      ‘Yes. That’s it. That’s the word.’

      ‘Obedience is important,’ agreed Willy.

      ‘Isn’t it,’ said Miriam. And she laughed, throwing back her head in studied abandon.

      I was beginning to see that this was not really a conversation about dogs at all, except perhaps that like a dog spying an open gate, Miriam was taking off in whatever direction her whim took her.

      ‘And, remind me, what is it you do, Mr …?’ she asked.

      ‘Mann,’ said Willy.

      ‘Mr Mann. Curious name.’

      ‘It’s German,’ said Willy.

      ‘Ah. Sprechen Sie Deutsch?’

      ‘I’m afraid not,’ said Willy. ‘My parents came here many years ago. Their first language was Yiddish.’

      ‘Ah. The Mame Loshn. Das schadet nichts,’ said Miriam. ‘I do like to practise my German whenever I get the chance.’

      Miriam’s tea arrived, in an actual cup, in an actual saucer, with an actual jug of milk, the café owner also seemingly having donned a fresh apron for the sole purpose of visiting our table.

      ‘Can I get you anything else, miss?’

      ‘No, thank you,’ said Miriam dismissively, returning to her captivation of Willy Mann. ‘So what brings you here this morning, Mr Mann?’ The freshly aproned café owner shuffled away. ‘You have business in these parts?’

      ‘I have business in many parts of London,’ said Willy.

      ‘Well, lucky you,’ said Miriam. ‘But here in particular?’

      ‘Willy and his business partners help protect the local community from the Black Shirts,’ I said.

      ‘Is that right?’ said Miriam.

      ‘That’s certainly a part of what we do here, yes,’ said Willy.

      ‘Well, СКАЧАТЬ