We pick it up in ‘The Clockhouse’ on Leather Lane, a little after Jimmy—or rather, ‘Boy’—has brained Gary, an obnoxious costermonger, with a metal milk crate…
Ew-owe Wupert…
Due to its close proximity to the City, the Clockhouse may have had a few more office bods scattered about than The Intent but, being market taverns, both housed a high proportion of daytime drunks and they, what with Christ’s birth being so close, were more inebriated than usual. Spotting Roy at the bar, Jimmy was surprised to see that he was accompanied by Scrambled. It was then, with something of a heavy heart, that the teenager approached: “Ellwo, Wupert!” Scramble’s gaze was drawn to the right sleeve of Jimmy’s Mac. “Wou’ve got bwud on your sweeve Wup? Who’th been a nawtwee bwoy? Jimmy noted Gary’s blood on his sleeeve but felt confident he could get it and therefore, thought no more about it.
As Tina and George were nodding/waving to people, it left the Outside Man to once again, ponder over how it was, that while Londoners, barely knew a soul beyond their own street, Cockneys had a city-wide network. It wasn’t that they knew everyone but everywhere they went, they always knew someone. In the corner three postmen from the nearby Mount Pleasant Sorting Office, began a rendition of “My Way”. Jimmy meanwhile, sipped his beer and considered the irony of Boy Balantyne’s birthplace being there, on that old Clerkenwell market…
At the behest of the Oxford Street Traders Association, a body headed up by the likes of Selfridges and Debenhams as opposed, to say, Bonkers and Babe.
Three years earlier, on the approach of Christmas, his first up “The Street”, the callow youth was surprised by the entire spiv community’s exodus from W1…
Their Christmas Tour prompted the purge conducted by the Metropolitan Police, at the behest of the Oxford Street Traders Association, a body headed up by the likes of Selfridges and Debenhams as opposed, to say, Bonkers and Babe. This was how Jimmy, with his outgrown feather-cut and too large Parka, found himself commuting to Lambeth Walk for nine each morning and climbing into the back of a Kenroys rental van, to sit amongst the assorted boxes of Funkum, Tom, hankies and wrapping paper.
Jimmy’s early arrival each day, wasn’t exclusively down to diligence. For alongside him in the back would be a few Ricks and a prompt arrival ensured one of these sophisticated older women would be perched on his lap, for the entire journey. The duration of which, varied from day to day. Until that was, they found the right gaff. Jimmy couldn’t fathom how they came to that decision as Romford, Croydon, Ilford, Wood Green and a host of others, all seemed equally ghastly to him. He, unlike Smiler though, was not a “Shrewd Nut”. This term was used in admiration, or at least acknowledgement, of an individual’s ability to magic money- lots of it.
Shrewd Nuts were usually middle-aged men with dour demeanours who wandered the West End, brows furrowed, shoulders, hunched. Whether this gait was due to the weight of expectation or, they were looking for loopholes, Jimmy wasn’t sure.
Smiler’s youth and gregarious nature may have precluded him from being an archetypal Money-Getter but no one could dispute his status as a genuine one. Despite a complete and utter disinterest in all things scholastic, the machinations of the street fascinated Jimmy. Hence, his puzzlement as to why Smiler’s success didn’t garner more resentment in what was an essentially competitive and, he suspected, bitter community. The answer came one morning in the Bonbon, when he overheard a couple of spivs discussing how, unlike Bonkers and a host of others, Smiler not only paid his debts, but did so promptly. The subsequent goodwill this generated, wasn’t wasted on Jimmy and, though unaware of it at the time, Smiler’s policy was one he’d adopt and adhere to, for the rest of his life…
Got to Pick a Pocket was Jimmy’s favourite…
They’d opted for Romford and within days that single rented van became a convoy of three. On arrival, they’d line up along the high street Smiler in the saddle working the Funkum and runners flanking him left, right and, across the street. They’d be flogging hankies, cards and wrapping paper while Jimmy buzzed around, making sure no one ran out of stock. The Londoners reigned until, with four shopping days left, the local constabulary decided enough was enough and Smiler, being far from slow on the uptake, pulled his troops and headed back to the Smoke. Thank fuck, was Jimmy’s sentiment. Romford had been full of Divs with West Ham scarves and exaggerated Cockney accents.
The following morning, in his parka, maroon loons and gold-sprayed Martens, Jimmy climbed from the van, after what felt like a far shorter journey than usual. Though the parka was still too big, it bore a label inside claiming to keep its wearer warm, down to thirty below zero and Jimmy had found no reason to doubt it.
“Where you going?”
“Told me to get another couple more reams for Alan…”
“Crates first, James. Always, crates first.”
Jimmy idolised Smiller… Milk crates could sometimes be strangely elusive but a plentiful supply was soon discovered around the back of a United Dairies. Locating Alan, out on the busy market hadn’t been quite such a breeze. The bespectacled heavy rock freak was working the wrapping paper but he’d left two reams in the van. As, ‘The Buck’ Jimmy needed to deliver those and then get to the cafe with the breakfast orders. Finding Alan, though, was proving onerous. This was partially due to Leather Lane being so crowded but also, to the outside man’s enchantment with it. He’d been to a cattle, a flea, a flower and once, when Dear Mother worked there, a stock market. Leather Lane, though, topped them all.
Firstly, there was an Italian vibe and, what with being an expert on the Mafia, Jimmy found all things Italian glamorous. The second aspect was, though less visibly apparent, probably more important. He felt a sense of Dickensian London and though he’d not read any of the novels, Charlie’s view of the city had shaped Jimmy’s own. He’d watched various TV adaptations of Oliver Twist and Great Expectations but preferred the old movie versions of both. They all though, paled in comparison to Oliver! Without which, along with The Great Escape, it just wouldn’t be Christmas. He’d already checked Dear Mother’s TV Times and been reassured that both were to be screened on Boxing Day: 2pm, Oliver!, with The Great Escape at six. For some reason Boxing Day always seemed to have better telly than Christmas.
Alongside the 19th century novelist’s London, there was another portrayal of the city etched, more deeply, in Jimmy’s mind. One he was far more intimate with. Set for the most part in the 1920s, Nan’s version made Dickens seem positively light-hearted. As a child he would dance around the living room with her each Christmas, singing along to Lionel Bart classics. “Consider Yourself” was Nan's favourite. Her grandson’s “You’ve Got to Pick a Pocket or Two”. Good old Dickens! Good old Lionel and come to that, good old Fagin! As neither Nan’s nor Charlie’s London extended beyond its central zone Jimmy had developed a subconscious disdain for anything that lay beyond it. This was evident in the despair caused by ground level tube stations…
Having delivered the three reams and declined not only Alan’s offer of a puff on his hashish cigarette but a pill called a downer which, the Heavy Rocker had assured him, “Numbs you right out,” While making for the cafe, Jimmy tried to puzzle out why anyone would choose to miss the wonder of Christmas on Leather Lane. It was on passing ‘Peter’s Barber Shop’ that the former junior swimming champ was subject to what can only be described as a Spiritual Experience. His spine tingled as a voice in his head announced, “This is it.”
The timbre, it had to be said, sounded very similar to his own. As the voice chose not to elaborate he couldn’t be entirely sure but surmised it meant he’d located something he’d long pondered. The heart of the city. No, that wasn’t right. The heart could be deemed the centre and Jimmy was well aware of that being an office block on Tottenham Court Road. What the boy sought was not London’s centre but its soul and here, on Leather Lane… he’d found it. According to the voice at least…
His study of Arsenal and Juventus teams, past and present, was interrupted by the makeshift tray, a cut-down cardboard box, being thrust towards him. Having already paid, Jimmy checked the box’s contents: four teas (two with), three coffees (two without). Six slices of toast. One sausage, two bacon rolls. An egg and a ham sandwich. As accepted by Smiler, the Buck pocketed the change.
Back on the market and weaving through the costermongers, shop and office girls, Frummers from the garden, along with brokers from the City, he knew the inner voice had been right. In that instant Jimmy understood that this locale, of which he knew nothing and nobody, was where he’d settle. The thirteen year old wasn’t sure if the surge of joy that charged through him was due exclusively to the thought of his living in Clerkenwell. Or simply, his doing so, without Dear Mother?
You Taking the Piss?
The posties were still doing “My Way”, Tina chatting by the door, Georgie playing pool and Jimmy, at the bar with Roy and Scrambled. Their conversation didn’t include him but as it was being whispered, with the added precaution, of hands covering mouths, the only sense Jimmy felt over this exclusion… was relief.
He had his own concerns. The most pressing was whether or not Boy Balantyne was Runyonesque? He’d just arrived at the disappointing conclusion that it wasn’t when, via the side door, Gino and Franko Marinello entered. What were they doing here? Whatever it was, it probably didn’t bode well for society in general. Watching Mickey making the introductions, Jimmy was surprised to see Roy almost smile. Which, by his standards, constituted an all-out charm offensive. Following anxious glances, the drinkers in close proximity began making artful departures. Who in their right mind would want to be privy to a conversation conducted by these, the four horsemen of the apocalypse?
Certainly not Jimmy, nodding to the assembled, he strolled over to the jukebox. It’d been with the intention of playing a couple of Phil Spector’s Christmas hits but on arrival, his attention was drawn from the Wurlitzer, to the window. Through which, he had an unobstructed view of Gary being stretchered to an ambulance. Waiting, doors open, almost directly opposite The Clock House.
The Boss, the Outside Man still was still mystified as to what the fuss was about. The resemblance Johnny bore to Bruce, was one Balantyne couldn’t deny. It invoked in him, a searing jealousy..
In spite of the obvious anxiety in the eyes of the medics, Jimmy felt no remorse. There may have been a tinge of concern over the number of coppers flying about but, wanker though Gary was, it was unlikely he, or anyone else, was about to start grassing. It came then as a surprise therefore, when from behind Jimmy heard the three most dreaded words in the English language:
“That’s him, officer.”
That sentence was swiftly followed by a firm hand on his shoulder. Jimmy’s heart stopped - as though it’d been tossed into the deep-end at the Lido, in February. Forcing himself to turn and meet his fate, Jimmy came, face to face, with Johnny and Nolte, grinning. Oblivious to what had gone down the boys were merely employing a touch of criminal humour. Nolte, spotting Jimmy’s fear and clearly in search of more gags. Went all caring: “What’s fucking wrong with you then?”
“I'm all right.”
“Yeah, you look it.”
By way of confirmation, Nolte turned to Johnny, who was sporting a baker boy and looking like a cross between the American star of the silver screen, Al Pacino, and recording artist, Bruce Springsteen. Tina loved Springsteen. Called him ‘The Boss.’
“Don’t look too clever, Jim.”
“No. I thought…”
“What?”
Jimmy turned and nodded out at Gary being carefully hoisted into the ambulance.
“That down to you?”
Again, the question stemmed from Nolte.
“Sort of.”
Nolte raised his brow. Jimmy’d never seen this inquisitive side of his friend’s nature and he wasn’t entirely sure he liked it.
“More the milk crate really.”
Nolte laughed. Johnny piped up, “Know the geezer.”
The Outside Man’s stomach turned. Nolte, having stopped laughing, lit a cigarette and, in as a care freet tone as he could muster, enquired, “Who is he?”
“Used to hang about up the club.”
As this was accompanied by a flicked glance towards Clerkenwell Road, Jimmy realised the lodge referred to was none other than St Peters Boxing Club. The thought of them being brothers in the noble art caused the Outside Man to wonder if Boy Balantyne ought to be summoned but rejected the notion on the grounds that hitting Johnny Marinello with a metal crate or, come to that, anything else, may prove unwise. So, with only his meagre self to rely on, Jimmy cut to the quick: “Pal of yours, then?” He’d used pal as it was the heavy boats de facto preference over mate. Jimmy didn’t know why but then most things about tough guys mystified him. Johnny meanwhile, stared at the white fly front, as though trying to decide if it met with his approval:
“Nice Mac. Him? No, he's a complete cunt.”
Jimmy wasn’t sure which judgement relieved him most but took the prefix complete to mean that no one Johnny considered problematic would be making themselves busy on Gary’s behalf. This meant, as far as retribution was concerned, all Jimmy ahd to worry about was the barrow boy himself and as the outside man was confident Gary lacked the heart for a re-match, that was the end of it. Then again: forewarned, as they say, is forearmed. Summoning a breezy tone and feigning an expression of nonchalance, Jimmy ventured,
“Any good at it, is he, the old Marquis of Queensbury?”
Johnny shrugged:
“He’s missed a milk crate flying at him. What do you think?”
What’s fucking wrong with you?
Eyeing the white flyfront, Nolte commented, “You want to get rid of that.” Again,Jimmy inspected the blood splatters along its right hand sleeve: “They can get blood out. Had a yellow bowling shirt that-”
“Might get you nicked.”
Outside, the police were very much in evidence and while everyone they spoke to was shaking his head as though they’d been elsewhere when the incident took place, all it took was one mention of a white Mac and the instant Jimmy stepped outside he’d be arrested. Possibly, given the police’s custom of starting- insanely high up the charge ladder, for attempted murder. By the time the case got to Crown Court it’d be down to GBH. That, though, would still get him a borstal.
“I’ll just shove it in the case. They’re not going…”
Johnny interrupted, “Buy another coat, Jim.”
Johnny was right but, more importantly, he was cool. They, he and Nolte, had grown up in environments where expensive clobber was the norm. Jimmy hadn’t. He’d never owned a garment as luxurious as an Aquascutum before. Not a new one anyway. Rolex aside, that Mac was his most prized possession. Slipping it off, he rolled it and placed it between the three wrought iron legs of the nearest pub table. Unable to bear the sight of his fabulous fly front (most opted for the trench coat) on the hideously stained carpet, Jimmy adjusted his stance and thus, spotted the approach of a beaming, slightly inebriated, Tina.
“Whose having what, then?”
This was accompanied the drinking motion. On turning to Johnny:
“Oh you’re a ringer the Boss in that!”
Despite Tina having forced Jimmy to listen to The Boss, the Outside Man still was still mystified as to what the fuss was about. Johnny’s resemblence to the recording artist suddenly invoked in Jimmy, a searing jealousy. Matters worsened, as Johnny handed Tina his cap she, on slanting it over one eye, turned to Jimmy:
“How’s it look?”
“Ridiculous.”
All eyes were on him, Tina's displaying hurt mixed with confusion, the other two’s shock and quite obvious, disapproval. Shit! He’d exposed himself. Not only, as an insecure wanker but worse, a liar…
“No it don’t.”
Continuing, Nolte turned to Jimmy: “What's fucking wrong with you?”
Jimmy sensed Nolte was close to chinning him. Filled with shame and self-loathing, his face flushed with embarrassment, Jimmy lowered his gaze, to the beer-stained, fag-burnt carpet. From the corner of his eye he caught a glimpse of Tina, attempting to hand the baker boy back to Johnny and Marinello shaking his head:
“Suits you. Keep it.”
Nudging Nolte, Johnny winked playfully at Jimmy, a gesture which, despite his having seen it, the Outside Man chose to ignore. Johnny’s generosity was not only disgustingly charming but from Jimmy’s warped perspective, an act of provocation. As was Tina’s response:
“I’ll give it back in a minute, going to give my dad your orders.”
Jimmy watched her walk to the bar. She looked great in that cap. The only surprising aspect to what happened next ,was its having taken so long. Jimmy’s Old Internal had decided enough was enough: Can’t stand for this. He’s taking the fucking piss out of you. Jimmy's Voice of Reason tried to counter but it’d never stood a chance against Old Internal. Despite it usually being right: You’ve got to be a cunt suffering his bollocks.
Johnny and Nolte were talking when the former turned to Jimmy:
“You?”
“What?”
If Jimmy’s tone surprised them, it horrified him. He was making a mug of himself but seemed powerless to stop it. Voice of Reason was shouting something in the background but it was so, so faint: Out? Still struggling to hear his Voice of Reason, Jimmy’s response to Johnny was a wince of unfeigned confusion. Nolte interceded: “Coming up my brother’s gaff.” This was a rundown hovel on Wardour Street but having fully regressed into that hysterical child, chasing Dear Mother’s taxi, Jimmy was on the brink of tears and, despite standing in such close geographical proximity to a couple of genuine chaps, he’d never felt mentally, emotionally or spiritually, more distant, from becoming one himself.
Taking a deep breath, he finally managed a response: “No.” The problem was that, being so unused to jealousy, at least, the sexual variety, the former junior swimming champion had no defence, against it…
With the three postmen’s version of “Jingle Bells” filling the awkward silence, Jimmy looked out of the window in search of a building high enough to ensure his demise. Unable to locate anything tall enough, Jimmy returned his bitter and twisted attention back, to the smiling Johnny Marinello.
“You taking the piss?”
Breathing a deep sigh, Nolte shook his head This wasn’t going to end well. Not for Jimmy at least. Nolte despaired of the kid at times and this, this was one of them...
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