A Singular Man

3

AT four this Friday George Smith walked along Golf Street and west across town on the cold evening pavements. The tall buildings alight, long dangling jewels. Threading through the hurrying shopping throng and river of cars. Under the dingy trellis of the elevated train, down a street of dusty book shops. And out upon a splashing fountain and the great dark oasis of winter trees in the park.

The marble lobby of The Game Club was full of hearty handshakes and members' backslaps. Lights twinkling with Christmas, the gift counter piled with white teddy bears and boxes of beribboned candies. Miss Tom-son said she loved to hug soft things and taste the sweet. And as I left number Thirty Three I said see you my apartment at seven.

Smith after a few quick sparring rounds with the instructor followed by a beginner's lesson in wrestling, retired to the smoke room where he quaffed a tall beer overlooking the darkened park. Flagging a taxi back to Merry Mansions. The doorman with a brisk salute. Handing across an envelope.

"For you sir."

"Thank you, Hugo."

Safely inside Merry Mansions. Don't like the look of this envelope. Relax. Miss Tomson will be here soon. Have another little rosner.

"Matilda."

"Good evening Mr. Smith."

"Get me a whisky. And two omelettes. Miss Tomson will be here shortly to eat with me."

"Leave the garlic out, Mr. Smith."

"Leave it in."

"If that's the way you want it."

"Just get me the drink, please."

Soon as Miss Tomson is mentioned Matilda's good natured fat frizzles. When she first saw Miss Tomson there was a half hour's heavy breathing coming from the kitchen, as I attempted to be an attentive host. Lifting the fur from Miss Tomson's shoulder. Tying up Goliath to a leg of the marble table in the hall. Then a crash from the kitchen. Matilda trampling the delfinrage. Miss Tomson looking all about saying, not bad, not bad, not bad at all, strictly not what I expected Mr. Smith. And at this cosy interval the hall table crashed with my Tang pot. Miss Tomson put her hand to her mouth. I was up and just got to the hall in time to see. Matilda was pulling a Iamb chop back into the kitchen on a string. Miss Tom-son said, Matilda just needs her legs opened.

"Here you are Mr. Smith, a big whisky."

"Thanks a lot."

"You're welcome."

Nice exchange. With the right amount of formality. Take a gulp of this corn stuff. And open up this envelope.

Dear Sir,

I am aware of the nature of your business. And perhaps it has come to your attention that you are infringing upon my own area of operations.

I should like to take this opportunity of warning you of any further encroachments. I am sure you will be guided by expedience in this matter.

I have witnessed the delivery of this letter to you by your doorman.

Naturally you know who I am.

Yours faithfully,

JJJ.

Get up and go over to the window. Witnessed delivery by your doorman. That denotes a certain sheepish vulgarity. A man over there selling roasted chestnuts. Or is this rogue renting yonder cold water flat outfitted with instruments of spying with the brass telescope on the automatic ball bearing swivel. To watch my eye-whites going brown. Gives that distinct stab of pain between the shoulder and up the keester too. Miss Tomson please come quickly. Ah, the doorman's buzzer.

"Sir, a young lady, Miss Tomson."

"Have her come up immediately."

My Christmas gift to Hugo, was snuff, which some idle jokester sent me last year. Of the menthol variety. I treat him as an equal. Not using that handy maxim a man is what he makes his dough at and alas how much. Sometimes it is a gentle gesture to remind people of their big time possibilities. Makes them like you. big time possibilities. Makes them like

"Miss Tomson, good to see you."

"What's the matter Mr. Smith you look as if you've seen a ghost."

"You're cold, Miss Tomson, do come by the fire."

"Gee what nice big logs. But aren't they scared you'll burn down the building."

"That's it, get comfy. The people upstairs have one too. Prevailed on the management. They finally allowed it, for a consideration of course."

"You could barbecue in front of that with all that nice blazing ember. Would you take me for a campfire girl, Mr. Smith."

"Ha ha, Miss Tomson. What would you like to drink."

"I could really get stupid tonight. The girl living below my apartment is just driving me nuts. Always waiting to jump me with her troubles. I'll have what you're having Mr. Smith. What troubles that girl's got. She goes out into the back garden and starts making faces at me through the window. She hired a detective to watch her husband and catch him with the huzzy. But the detective catches him with a guy. How do you like that, Mr. Smith."

"Irregular certainly."

"Crazy. Say what's got you so nervous."

"A letter, Miss Tomson."

"Not again."

"I'm afraid so."

"May I see it Mr. Smith."

"Of course."

Smith reaching for his back pocket. Too near the keester for comfort. Put things there which are upsetting and sit on them. Handing it over to her long comforting fingers. With a flick of a talon across the paper. One blond lock falls forward as she reads.

"This is a new one, Mr. Smith."

"I thought so too."

"You see anybody, Mr. Smith."

"A chestnut vendor on the corner. I suppose someone could be on a rooftop."

"Be no chestnut vendor. This guy prides himself. Sees himself as a big important operator. Coming on with the dignity. Get this encroach crap. Big bark no bite."

"I'm not particularly anxious to be barked or growled at."

"Old Goli put the wind up you didn't he, Mr. Smith, ha ha. But got to admit though this guy's approach is nicely sneaking in from die side."

"Precisely why I'm not underestimating him."

"But Mr. Smith if you want to know the truth you overestimate these things. And take it personally as well. Here now, don't you get up, let me pour you a drink.

You really look white."

"Thanks Miss Tomson, I suppose it has got under my skin."

"Mr. Smith, don't let it."

"You're right, Miss Tomson. I shouldn't let it. But it does."

"Ignore it Mr. Smith and see what develops. Soon as you show you're worried that's when they've got you."

"I do feel it's an imposition of the worst kind to involve you like this in matters which quite frankly are extremely distasteful."

You're kidding."

"I'm not."

"It's life, Mr. Smith. I mean millions are trampling and struggling towards the top, I'd quit if I didn't like it.

Anyway, you're not bad to work for. I thought working was going to kill me. Besides it's not me they're after.

It's you."

"Alas."

"But whatever you do, don't let them shove you around."

"Matilda's making us omelettes, that all right, Miss Tomson."

"Are they going to reek."

"Dear me, I hope not. I instructed her to leave out particularly strong ingredients."

"Just so I don't leave here smelling like a dago. How did the sport go."

"O sparred a few rounds. Let the instructor have a few on the button/'

"You must be tough."

"I can handle my dukes. Also took a beginner's lesson in the rudiments of wrestling, never know these days.

Some terrifying physical specimens around that wrestling room."

"Gee tell me about them Mr. Smith. I love hearing about these big tarzans, that's the way my brother's built, the one who gets his picture on the social page, he goes right out under the arms, you'd swear he had no stomach at all. Shape of a V. At home in our kitchen he'd come in without a stitch on and open up the ice box, take out the milk and drink a whole quart in one gulp. His body is really magnificent. Our parents brought us up letting us look at each other. I think that's the way it ought to be. He lifts weights. You should see him. And throws that thing they have at races, that round ball. But Mr. Smith aren't you afraid of being killed by one of these guys."

"I can take care of myself."

"Cut the kidding Mr. Smith one of these guys could break you in half, I'd be careful if I were you. You're just not built."

"Miss Tomson, this is a club for sportsmen and gentle-men."

"I don't know, Mr. Smith, you just seem too frondlike for that kind of thing. I just don't see it, you grappling with one of these tarzans, not one like my brother anyway, he's really beautiful. Even big as he is, he moves like he was a panther."

"I'm sure he does, Miss Tomson."

"Hey come on Mr. Smith, I hurt your feelings didn't I. Come on now, I did."

"On on o."

"I have, I know when I have. But you're just not one of these big apes. I mean you're no weakie Mr, Smith, you've got things they haven't got."

"What Miss Tomson."

"Well. Maybe you're not mentally weak, maybe that's what I'm saying. Like you're gentle. Got nice hands. You show consideration. Those things are something, Mr. Smith. I just could never, but never, you know see you stark at the ice box under a bottle of milk, that would be just, it would be just — "

"I think dinner's served, Miss Tomson."

"See there I go, can't control my mouth. How did we get on this anyway."

"I believe you asked me how the sport went."

"O yesh."

Miss Tomson in black. She wore green this afternoon. And she's wearing flat shoes for my sake. Makes me half an inch taller. She stands up straight and walks swinging her hips. Those two handy melons wandering around under the backside of her skirt. As she flashes her head back and catches my globes glued.

"You think I'm walking like I was compromised, Mr. Smith."

"I don't quite get you, Miss Tomson."

"You know, Mr. Smith."

"I don't Miss Tomson, why are you shaking your head."

"Because Mr. Smith you're one of the most innocent guys. Ha ha, I think. Can't you see I'm walking as if I'm looking for it."

"For what."

"For it. Don't force me to say it because I will."

"Please, Miss Tomson. I don't mind myself but there's Matilda."

"Don't think she's not looking for it either."

"Miss Tomson, do you like asparagus."

Miss Tomson tall, sat at the other end of the maple, Smith's favorite tree. George reaching out to push aside the thriving ferns which Matilda had placed squarely between the diners so they couldn't see each other. The asparagus comes in. Laid out cooked and dead on the moss green plates. Naturally I reached for my napkin and let it fall over my thigh. Miss Tomson spreading hers across her lap. She's looking and waiting. For the asparagus. Can't possibly take it lankly with the fingers until she does. Surely she'll use the knife on them. Not make a move till I see. She's going for the fork. Isn't there some rule don't use a fork when a knife will do. Goodness, she's after butter.

"Matilda, the butter, please."

"Sure. If that's what you want."

A simple thing like the butter. Deal with it with careless nonchalance. Pretend I'm waiting for butter too. If I pick up this piece of asparagi and she cuts hers with a fork. Just wait and see. Adjust napkin. And reach for the bread. No. Offer some.

"Miss Tomson, let me cut you bread. White or brown."

"That brown looks good Mr. Smith."

"Of course, brown. Ah, here's the butter. Thank you Matilda."

Good appetite has Miss Tomson. And a forceful chewer.

"Mr, Smith, you don't mind my gobbling this."

"Of course not, Miss Tomson, I intend to gobble myself. Much healthier that way."

"Say Mr. Smith, you really go in for this health."

"Taken an interest in a certain robustness, Miss Tom-son."

"Sure, but why kill yourself."

"I'm not killing myself. A little exercise to keep my figure."

"After thirty you can't go back. What's a little pot. Real cute. I like it. No kidding. Why don't you try a corset."

"Miss Tomson, will you have your omelette runny in the middle."

"Yesh, please."

"Matilda, both soft in the middle please."

"If that's the way you want it. You better get that wine while I'm cooking. I got my hands here full. Never enough time for nothing."

Miss Tomson leaning across the table. She cocks her head towards the kitchen, whispering.

"Mr. Smith, she distinctly dislikes me. Why don't you some evening come to my apartment. I've got a typewriter there."

"That's kind, Miss Tomson, but I wouldn't think of such an imposition. You've got your own personal life to lead. I'm already imposing myself too much on your free time."

"What free time. I go home now, mess around, listen to music, make some clothes. I do nothing."

"Some nice young man will be around."

"That's a laugh. My brother he likes to come around, crowds the apartment out with celebrities. Bunch of stuffy stuck up deads. I told him to stop bringing them around, that I just wasn't interested. They all have to do the talking. I used to be crazy for that kind of crowd. And one day living in the nest, everybody showing up for tennis. You know, seeing them standing in the hall, a really healthy bunch of looking people. You know and just like that, I took a look at this crowd. Just stood and listened, you know, Mr. Smith, I was hearing them for the first time. And same day I'm standing on the court with my racket, resting when I get this poke in the back through the fence. It's a guy passing on the street. I turn around, I'm going to say who the fuck, sony about that, but who the, and he hands me a piece of paper. It's my first sight of the poetic curiosity. There's a poem on the paper and his address on the back. Hey, am I talking like mad. Must be the wine."

"Miss Tomson I'm most interested to hear you talking."

"You're not kidding."

"Certainly not."

"I was crazy then, you know. Going up with that gold key to the nest, the elevator crammed with presents I'm buying with this guy's money. OS the roof garden socking tennis balls mad laughing, bounce them on the underprivileged, help keep them down. I said everybody get a load of this, some guy's handed me a note with a poem. I started to read it. I stopped right in the middle. I thought Christ, this guy might have meant this and the words are nice and they were about me too, that's why I stopped I guess. I went all moody. Threw a few real crazy tantrums. Turned on all the water in the nest till it was pouring right down the elevator shaft. I was thinking what's this kind of life, what good is it. It was pretty good. But I was selling myself for peanuts. Funny isn't it, there I got all interested in the real things, you know deep things and the poetic curiosity all the while is interested in the free meal ticket and big time living up in the nest. Boy."

There was a tear in Miss Tomson's eye.

"Miss Tomson, please don't say any more. Have a little sip of wine. Good mouthful of omelette too."

"You know Mr. Smith, I do you injustice you don't deserve. You're a nice guy."

"Fresh pineapple. Or apricots."

"Sure. Love some."

"Matilda, the apricots."

Smith reaching to light the candles, scented and rumoured to be aphrodiziac. Out the window in the sky over the rooftops was a twilight of twinkling turned to a blaze of black and gold.

"Mr. Smith, you know what."

"What Miss Tomson."

"You're a strange guy. Why some debutante didn't nab you I don't know. Weren't they swarming over you."

"I regret to say, Miss Tomson, they weren't."

Matilda brought on the raw pineapple all sugar soaked, and a glass bowl full of delightful apricots. Miss Tomson and Mr. Smith eating from a knee in front of the fire. Cosier that way. Miss Tomson undoing a gigantic buckle to let it out a notch. Patting the tiny rotundity.

"I'm getting a pot too. I need more padding on me. I could use more right here."

"You're all right there, Miss Tomson."

"How do you know these are reaL"

"Come come, Miss Tomson."

"Ha ha, almost caught you guessing though, didn't I Mr. Smith, come on admit it."

"For a moment perhaps."

"Mr. Smith, you give me laughs. Your face the day I brought Goliath to the office. Were you white."

"Brandy, MissTomson."

"This stuff made of apricots, Mr. Smith."

"Fermented."

"I could get stinko."

"Shall we have some strong coffee."

"I keep forgetting I'm here to do some work. Come on, let's work. Get the letters out. I'm really all set. Let's spread them all out next to each other. I got choice replies to all of them. Dear Buster, they're holding a big sale somewhere down town, full of kite bargains. You are invited. How's that Mr. Smith. You don't go for that one. Now this guy JJJ. how could he be aware of the nature of your business when I don't even know. Takes an opportunity to give a warning, why not Dear Jack, beat it or we'll give you a hot poker up the roosel. Sorry Mr. Smith, but I mean why doesn't he just come out with it. Ha ha, he might really give you a scare."

"Have more brandy, Miss Tomson."

"Sure. Funny in your house like this I feel relaxed. Mr. Smith I don't want to pry but why hasn't a guy like you got a wife and kids. It's none of my business, forget I asked."

Faintly from the street scraggly children's voices singing a yule song. Miss Tomson going to the window.

"Hey come here Mr. Smith look at this, isn't that sweet, group of urchins, they're singing. How do you get this window open."

"I'm afraid it's sealed."

"I'd throw the kids some money. Poor things singing out there all alone in the cold. Nobody I guess even listening. Can't we do something for them. Maybe I could run down there with a platter of stuff. Let's do that."

"Miss Tomson, I'd rather you didn't."

"Hey why."

"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 nightHoly 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 laterTurningUtterlyTreacherous