‘You’ve forgotten his moustache,’ Osnard objected.
‘Moustache?’
‘Bloody great big bushy job, soup all over it. Must’ve shaved it off by the time they took that picture of him downstairs. Frightened the daylights out o’ me. Only five at the time.’
‘There was no moustache in my day, Mr Osnard.’
‘ ‘Course there was. I can see it as if it was yesterday.’
But either stubbornness or instinct told Pendel to give no ground.
‘I think your memory is playing tricks on you there, Mr Osnard. You’re remembering a different gentleman and awarding his moustache to Arthur Braithwaite.’
‘Bravo,’ said Osnard softly.
But Pendel refused to believe that he had heard this, or that Osnard had tipped him the shadow of a wink. He ploughed on:
‘ “Pendel,” he says to me. “I want you to be my son. As soon as you’ve got the Queen’s English, I propose to call you Harry, promote you to the front of shop and appoint you my heir and partner -“‘
‘You said it took him nine years.’
‘What did?’
‘To call you Harry.’
‘I started as an apprentice, didn’t I?’
‘My mistake. On you go.’
‘ – “and that’s all I’ve got to say to you, so now get back to your trousers and sign yourself into nightschool for the elocution.”‘
He had stopped. Dried up. His throat was sore, his eyes hurt and there was a singing in his ears. But somewhere in him there was also a sense of accomplishment. I did it. My leg was broken, I had a temperature of a hundred and five, but the show went on.
‘Fabulous,’ Osnard breathed.
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘Most beautiful bullshit I’ve ever listened to in my life and you socked it to me like a hero.’
Pendel was hearing Osnard from a long way off, among a lot of other voices. The Sisters of Charity at his North London orphanage telling him Jesus would be angry with him. The laughter of his children in the four-track. Ramón’s voice telling him that a London merchant bank had been enquiring about his status and offering inducements for the information. Louisa’s voice telling him that one good man was all it took. After that he heard the rush-hour traffic heading out of town and dreamed of being stuck in it and free.
‘Thing is, old boy, I know who you are, you see.’ But Pendel saw nothing at all, not even Osnard’s black gaze boring into him. He had put up a screen in his mind and Osnard was the other side of it. ‘Put more accurately, I know who you aren’t. No cause for panic or alarm. I love it. Every bit of it. Wouldn’t be without it for the world.’
‘I’m not anybody,’ Pendel heard himself whisper from his side of the screen, and after that, the sound of the fitting room curtain being swept aside.
And he saw with deliberately fogged eyes that Osnard was peering through the opening, making a precautionary survey of the Sportsman’s Corner. He heard Osnard speaking again, but so close to his ear that the murmur made it buzz.
‘You’re 906017 Pendel, convict and ex-juvenile delinquent, six years for arson, two-and-a-half served. Taught himself his tailoring in the slammer. Left the country three days after he had paid his debt to society, staked by his paternal Uncle Benjamin, now deceased. Married to Louisa, daughter of Zonian roughneck and Bible-punching schoolteacher, who dogsbodies five days a week for the great and good Ernie Delgado over at the Panama Canal Commission. Two kids, Mark eight, Hannah ten. Insolvent, courtesy o’ the rice farm. Pendel & Braithwaite a load o’ bollocks. No such firm existed in Savile Row. There was never a liquidation because there was nothing to liquidate. Arthur Braithwaite one of the great characters o’ fiction. Adore a con. What life’s about. Don’t give me that swivel-eyed look. I’m bonus. Answer to your prayers. You hearing me?’
Pendel heard nothing at all. He stood head down and feet together, numb all over, ears included. Rousing himself, he lifted Osnard’s arm until it was level with the shoulder. Folded it so that the hand rested flat against the chest. Pressed the end of the tape to the centre point of Osnard’s back. Led it round the elbow to the wrist-bone.