‘Oh, damn it, here comes Allard.’
Edward looked towards the bridge as the bright red car screeched around the corner. ‘Go to him, go on Harry — no goodbyes, no nothing, just go...’
She turned back only once, then she ran towards the red car, waving her sandals above her head. ‘Allard, whooo hoooo, Allard!’
Edward heard Allard shouting, asking where the hell she had been, they had all been looking for her. Then Edward heard the car turn and drive back over the bridge. She sat at the back, he saw her turn, give a small wave... and with her red hair flying out behind her she was gone in the little red sports car.
George thundered up the worn, lino-covered staircase and rushed into the bedsit. ‘Now then, Alex, I got some good news for you. This bloke I work for, right, I’ve told him all about you, said you was good at bookkeeping, an’ he wants to meet wiv yer. It’s a real job, with wages.’
Alex asked George if he was sure the man was straight, as he had to report to his probation officer every week.
‘I got it all worked out. He knows you done time and he still wants to meet you. He’s honest, Alex, a real nice bloke — you can at least try it.’
Suddenly George stopped and looked around the small flat. ‘Oi, what you been doin’, you moved everyfink.’
‘It was untidy, I just cleaned it up and put what we don’t need away. I hate mess.’
George sniffed and checked his things, discovering that Alex had allocated space for each of them in the drawers, places for shoes, shirts and jumpers.
‘Hey, just don’t make it too tidy, don’t wanna be reminded of the cells, like. But it’s nice.’
‘I’m going to get some paint, see if I can clean the walls — it’s that wallpaper, makes me go nuts.’
George rather liked the heavy, maroon flock wallpaper, and it was quite new, but he said nothing. When he went to the tiny cupboard they used as a kitchen, he gasped. Every pan was polished, every cup washed and neatly stacked. Alex had even rinsed out the dishcloth and hung it on the sink to dry.
‘Oh, yes, you done a real fine job, yer could eat yer dinner orf this floor, Alex. You’ll make me a good wife.’
George whipped round as Alex sprang towards him, his fists clenched.
‘Hey, hey, it was just a joke, all right?’
‘I just like a clean place, that’s all, George. There’s nothing nancy about that.’
George sighed. Sometimes Alex could be so touchy. Grinning, he said there was no harm meant, then he put the kettle on. He even wiped the drips of water off the small draining board. He noticed Alex had his nose stuck in a book again. Not that they were real books to George, no stories, just rows of calculations. He began to hope that Alex would get a job soon, because he doubted if things would work out between them.
Harry Driver was very sceptical about the new chap Stubbs. He had always run his business single-handed, but lately he had been branching out. He had a small drinks place, but his main income was from five backstreet tailoring and dressmaking sweatshops. He put Alex to work on his club books first so that, having complete knowledge of his accounts himself, he could test the lad out.
With his paunch and his ever-present stubby cigar Harry was a real character. He was from a Russian immigrant family that he complained were forever bleeding him dry. Harry did take care of a vast family, having six kids of his own plus various aunts and uncles. And in the sweatshops he was always discovering yet another impoverished relative who had come looking for work. He was a penny-pinching man, but a decent one, and he had got very fond of George Windsor, so if George said the chap was a good’un, he was inclined to believe it. He put Alex on trial for three months at half the salary he would have dared offer any man with credentials. ‘Understand me, Alex, I am taking a risk on you, so I can’t shell out the money before I know I can trust you. All you gotta do is prove yourself, you’ll not hear a bad word about Harry Driver, but you gotta prove your worth first.’
Alex pored over Harry’s books, and made careful, detailed notes alongside his figures. He checked the bar takings, the warehouse, the staff, leaving nothing out, and by the end of the week he made Harry nearly swallow his cigar.
‘I think, Mr Driver, you are losing between one and two hundred a week, it varies at different times of the month. I’ve made a list of the takings from the club for each week over the past six months, and I think you’ll find my assessment interesting.’ He went over each detail with Harry, who hummed and hawed and shook his jowls until his head spun. ‘Added to that, Mr Driver, you are paying certain taxes that need not necessarily be paid if you purchase articles within a certain time limit. If you are outside that limit, then you are paying more tax. They work by the fiscal years, you see, sir.’
Harry chomped and spat and relit his dog-eared cigar. He told Alex to leave the work with him, he would have a look at it.
‘Wally, listen to me, I’ve got a lad here I think you should have look over your books, he’s a whiz-kid, I’ve not seen anything like it. I’ll let you have him on loan, mind, he works for me, but I want to see what you think of him.’
Alex was put on a salary of seven pounds a week by Harry Driver, and he was tickled pink. He knew, of course, that he was earning it, and he knew he was worth twice the amount, but he had to start somewhere.
George and Alex went shopping in Petticoat Lane for suits, shoes and ties. Some were second-hand, some new, and Harry gave them both special prices on his sweatshop goods. Alex displayed his new wide-collared, single-breasted suit. It was brown with a thin blue stripe, and he had bought a brown-and-pink striped tie and polished brown shoes to go with it.
‘Gawd help us, Alex, wiv the briefcase, my son, you could be a City gent.’
Alex marvelled at his friend’s stunning bad taste. George loved the wide, hand-painted ties, the huge square jackets with the padded shoulders and two-toned shoes reminiscent of the old movie gangsters.
Alex was now also on loan from Harry Driver to a number of East End Jewish tailors and stall-holders. They joked between themselves that for a goy, a non-Jew, he was the meanest man they’d ever come across.
‘This boy, Solly, he knows the tax system better than I know the wife, no word of a lie. You know how much he just saved me? Fifty quid — I got it from the government — and know what else this boy can do? Save on your taxes — save! If you knew the loopholes that are legal... On my word, this boy is gold dust.’
Alex was passed from manufacturer to tailor, to sweatshop, to clubs, and Harry Driver reaped the benefits and raised Alex’s salary to twelve pounds a week. Alex was no fool, he was getting to know everyone with the best cash flows in the East End. At the same time he was still learning.
Once a week Alex had to report to his parole officer, who would shake his hand and congratulate him, saying that they were proud of how well he had adapted to his new, straight life. While he was on parole they could, at any time, walk into his flat or his place of business to see if he was doing what he said he was.
Alex bided his time, waiting for the day when he would be free of the probation officers. He was determined not to put a foot out of line until he was not only free from prison but completely free of prying eyes. He wanted to find his brother, to confront him, but he was careful never to mention his name. It became an obsession with him and this, along with his shyness, added to the strange, solitary air about him.