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 pedigree 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 grease-proof paper. Tony opened a drawer and took out a kitchen
knife with a ten-inch blade. He tested the edge 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 stall-holder 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 yare, 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–lid 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 White-chapel 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. But they ran in the family. The
kitchen knife was sharp enough. He tried 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