P.P.S. Now you'll think I'm being saucey!!!
'I reckon you're in like bleedin' Flynn, my son.' Togger paused, flapping his pale eyelids, 'Oh yes, very ris-kay!'
'Christ, Togger! Quit that dumb expression, will you? I know exactly what to do, I'll call her, say can she get hold of Gladys, Togger wants to know.'
'Don't you bleedin' dare! Some of me mates saw me that day we went dancin', I only just got me reputation back. Seriously, Peekay, wot'cha gunna do? I mean, 'Arriet's away, ain't she? She's been gone how long, four weeks?' Togger stroked his chin, 'But I suppose you gotta stay faithful like. Mind, she has got a lovely pair 'a tits.'
Peekay reached over and took the letter from Togger's hands. 'I don't know, we'll see, I've got to go. Aunt Tom's taking me to the Festival Hall. Yehudi Menuhin is playing the Brahms Violin Concerto amongst other musical niceties a peasant like you wouldn't appreciate.'
Peekay arrived back at the flat in Knightsbridge just in time to change for the concert. Aunt Tom handed him a letter from Harriet, the second he'd received since she'd left for the South of France. He didn't have time to read it until he climbed into bed.
Harriet wrote well, but in snatches of thought. She'd been asked to stay another month and felt it was too good an opportunity to miss. What did Peekay think? She'd come under the influence of a sculptor named Claude Shonneborg, who'd studied under Giacometti. Shonneborg's name seemed to crop up much too often in the letter and Peekay hoped that Harriet's preoccupation with her work would as usual have reduced her libido to a barely flickering flame. Although by the end of the letter he'd convinced himself this was not the case and promised himself rather smugly that he'd call Doris in the morning.
'Hello, Hammersmith Dolls'
'ospital, who is it?' a young woman's voice answered.
'Howzit, Doris? It's Peekay. You know, Babychams with a dash? I got your letter.'
'Hallo, Peekay.'
Peekay cleared his throat, 'Hurrph, it just happens to be Wednesday, what say we have a drink after your work?'
'Why, that's smashin', Peekay, I'd like that very much. There's a little club just round the corner what's very nice, very quiet an' all.'
Peekay took down the address. It was too late to turn back now, he told himself. He decided to run around the perimeter of Hyde Park. It would take his mind off Harriet and the Giacometti apprentice, Claude Shitbag. His pulse actually quickened as he thought of the possibility of being unfaithful to Harriet. Peekay decided he'd run further, to include Kensington Gardens and to run past the round pond again. He didn't quite know why, he'd always imagined the round pond in
Peter Pan
was set amongst trees, big old oak trees and birch and elm, so that you came upon it suddenly, unexpectedly, glimpsing slivers of silver through low hanging branches. He'd been terribly disappointed to find it was simply a round pond with cement edges set into a stretch of grass, not a bit romantic, in fact as ponds go it was rather bleak and had absolutely no character and wasn't even on the Serpentine.
He wondered briefly whether Doris's tits would disappoint him the second time around. After all, he'd been a virgin when they'd seemed so wonderful. Perhaps, like the round pond, his imagination had overworked them.
Peekay arrived at the Dolls' Hospital at precisely three o'clock. The window of the shop was filled with broken dolls. Separate dolls' limbs, torsos, heads, arms and legs, a doll's graveyard. There were dolls with no eyes, hollow sockets in broken and cracked heads. Dolls with scarred and broken cheeks, dolls with only one blue eye, half open.
Headless dolls and armless trunks, bits of elastic sticking out of holed armpits. They filled the window to a height of about two feet, legs and arms and faces, bodies piled together like victims of a massacre, pushed into a heap by a tyrant bulldozer.
Directly above the pile of broken bodies hung several swings made with green silk tassels suspended above the eyelevel behind a scalloped, dark green painted pelmet, its edges trimmed with gold. Across the length of the pelmet, painted in old-fashioned gold script, were the words
Dolls' Hospital,
and directly underneath in smaller, neat type,
H. Rubens, prop.
On each of the swings sat a beautifully restored doll.
The centre doll, a dark haired beauty, was the most magnificent of them all. She wore a pink organza dress with a broad ribbon of slightly darker pink velvet about her waist. Her eyes were a brilliant violet colour, and seemed to follow Peekay, as though aware of his rude curiosity. Unlike the moulded, heavy lashed, vacant expressions of the other, golden-haired dolls, the centre doll's face seemed to have been carved by a craftsman to give it a unique character. Even her limbs seemed different. Her legs and arms were chubby and realistically baby-like with her hands exquisitely carved. Her feet were contained in pink velvet slippers embroidered with gold thread, a tiny gold rose knot held the cross strap on each slipper. The doll held a plain white ivory card, about six inches by five, propped on her lap. On the card, in a large copperplate hand, was written:
Old dolls made beautiful again.
Peekay went into the shop.
The interior was about thirty feet wide with an old-fashioned wooden mahogany counter that ran the width of the shop. Directly behind the counter were six carpenter's work benches, ail old-fashioned Singer industrial sewing machine and an equally old wood working lathe.
The large room was bathed in brilliant bluish light from light boxes above each work bench. The effect was of a place with too much light, it was as though the owner of the shop could abide no shadows about him.
The shop appeared empty and the work benches deserted when a small man struggling into a navy overcoat which seemed to reach almost to the floor walked from the doorway of a small partitioned office at the furthermost point in the room. He looked up and hurried towards Peekay, doing up the top buttons of his overcoat.
'Please sir, we are closing now the shop.' He spread his hands in a gesture which seemed to suggest that, should Peekay make an objection, he. regretted there was nothing he could do. He wore a homburg hat and round, old-fashioned gold-rimmed glasses, a white shirt with celluloid collar and a black silk tie.
The total appearance was of a small, neat, clean-shaven man who was being dragged down by the weight of his overcoat. The cuffs of his neatly pressed blue serge trousers showed no more than three inches below the hem of the coat.
'Good afternoon, sir, I've come to pick up Missâ¦er, Doris.' Peekay suddenly realised that he'd either forgotten or had never known Doris's surname.
The little man visibly relaxed and he dug into his overcoat pocket and triumphantly produced a pair of leather gloves, much as a conjuror might produce a live rabbit. He held the gloves up for Peekay to see and, turning, flapped them in the direction of a door at the back of the room. 'Doris? So you want Doris.' He seemed to be thinking. 'Ah yes, that is nice! Miss Mobbs! Is here a young man!' He called in a voice that carried surprisingly, even though he didn't appear to have raised it.
'Coming, Mr Rubens!' Peekay heard Doris answer back. Mr Rubens turned back to Peekay, as though only he could possibly have heard her reply. 'She is coming,' he said reassuringly, 'you must wait now, please.' He dug his right hand into his coat pocket again. This time he produced a large bunch of keys, holding them up for Peekay to see. Peekay wasn't quite sure whether he ought to applaud. 'Thank you, sir.'
Mr Rubens nodded. 'Excuse me, young man,' and he moved over to the far end of the counter and punched the cash register open and removed a small wad of one-pound notes. He licked his thumb absently and counted the notes, aloud in German, to thirty-six.
'Thirty-six,' Peekay said suddenly. He'd been counting with the old man and surprised himself when he too declared the final tally out loud.
Mr Rubens' eyebrows shot up, 'So! You are German?' He pronounced the word
Chermin.
Peekay was embarrassed. 'I'm sorry, sir, I didn't mean to intrude. When I was young I had a friend who taught me to count in German. It was during the war. I was just seeing if I,' he smiled, 'remembered.'
Mr Rubens looked up at Peekay sternly. Bending over the cash register his glasses had slipped halfway down the bridge of his nose and he now looked over the top of them.
'This Germin, he was a Jew?'
'No, sir, he wasn't.'
'A Germin who is not a Jew is teaching you in the war?' Peekay didn't know why, but he felt compelled to explain to Mr Rubens that Doc hadn't been a Nazi, was the furthermost thing you could get from being a Nazi. 'He was a musician, a professor of pianoforte. It was in Africa.'
'Humph! Who played also maybe Wagner?' Mr Rubens snorted, obviously unconvinced.
'No sir, Beethoven and Mozart, he wasn't at all fond of Wagner, he found him too Teutonic. I don't think my friend was much of a German.'
'Humph!' Mr Rubens undid the top button on his overcoat and, sliding his hand into the left-hand side, withdrew a leather pocket book. He unzipped the wallet and flattening out the wad of notes slipped them full length into the pocket book, completing the task and re-zipping the wallet just as Doris appeared.
'Hello, Peekay, you two met then?'
'Well no, not officially,' Peekay said.
'Mr Rubens, this is my friend, Peekay. Peekay,.this is my boss, Mr Rubens!'
'Ha! He is learning to count from Germans!' Mr Rubens said abruptly.
Doris looked from Peekay to the little man and back to Peekay, her expression bemused. Peekay shrugged almost imperceptibly. 'You better be goin' then, Mr Rubens, or you'll get to Ladbrokes too late to place a bet on the four o'clock at Epsom.'
The effect of this announcement brought a look of panic onto the little man's face. He grabbed at the region of his chest where he'd recently stowed his wallet. 'The Hans Kellerman!' he exclaimed.
'Here, give us the keys, I'll lock her away. Where's your brolly, then?' Doris sighed. 'Stay here, I'll bring that too.' She unlocked the two wooden doors which formed the back of the shop window. Leaning into the window she carefully removed the centre doll from the swing and cradled it in her arms. 'Give me the safe key, then.' She extended her hand. Mr Rubens once again fished in his wallet and produced a surprisingly large brass key. Doris took the key and went back to the small office in the corner.
'It's a beautiful doll,' Peekay remarked to Mr Rubens. At the sound of his voice Mr Rubens turned, surprised Peekay was still there. 'This is a Hans Kellerman. When he is making even one doll, it is not a doll, it is a miracle!'
Peekay's heart began to pound. Togger had said something about Carmen's doll having a brass plate on the sole of one foot with the 'geezer's name who made it, Hans somebody or other.'
'Did Kellerman sign his name on the dolls he made? On a brass plate on the sole of the foot?'
Mr Rubens was surprised by Peekay's question. 'You have seen a Hans Kellerman before?'
'No, just heard of one.' Instinct told Peekay to explain no further.
Doris returned and handed Mr Rubens back the key to the safe. "Ere, hold your wrist out, you've forgotten your watch again.'
Mr Rubens pushed back the sleeve of his coat, taking with it the starched cuff of his shirt. Doris strapped a watch on to his wrist; about three inches above it Peekay observed a dark tattoo number on his arm.
Mr Rubens looked up at precisely that moment and saw the expression on Peekay's face. 'Already I have been counted in German, young man,' he said softly.
Doris glanced at his wristwatch before releasing his arm. 'Blimey, it's twenty-past, I'm workin' in me own time!' Turning, she approached the front doors and opening a large fuse box at the side of a door she rapidly killed half a dozen switches with the ball of her thumb, plunging the shop into darkness. She unlatched the two doors as Mr Rubens preceded them down the steps. The old man locked up the shop.
'Good night, Miss Mobbs, thank you.' He turned to Peekay and gave him a slight nod, 'Good night, young man, I think it is better that you count in English.' He walked away.
'C'mon then, Peekay!' Doris linked her arm into his and clung to him as they crossed the street. He imagined he could feel the pressure of her marvellous left tit right through his duffel coat.
Hymie took his finals at law in June of 1954. He'd made the decision to remain in Britain to prepare Peekay for his title fight in America towards the end of the following year.
Ring
magazine named Peekay fifth in the world rankings, but with a string of good wins to his credit it was getting close to the time when they could talk to Jake 'Spoonbill' Jackson's manager, a New York Irishman named O'Rourke, and notify the New York Boxing Commission and the World Boxing Council they intended to challenge for a title fight.
During the following year when Peekay would complete his degree, Hymie planned to travel to South Africa fairly frequently to prepare their entry into a law practice in Johannesburg. They hoped to work in practice for a year until they were admitted to the bar. When this happened they would either buy the practice outright or purchase the major share in a partnership arrangement.
Peekay had advanced up the boxing ladder and had taken the British Empire title from Iron Bar Barunda though the black man still retained his British title. Togger had also fought Iron Bar Barunda two months later and had been narrowly beaten. A return bout, this time with the British title at stake, was scheduled for September.
Trinity term at Oxford ends in June and the new university year begins with the Michaelmas term in-October. In the four months between June and October Peekay had five fights, winning against all the top European welters as well as the highly rated Italian contender; Bruno Bisetti, whom he'd fought on the same bill as Togger's title fight at Harringay.
Both boxers won, Togger taking the coveted British Welterweight title from Iron Bar Barunda in a closely fought ten-rounder. It was a popular decision. Togger had developed into a very skilful boxer and was considered to be London's own. Peekay could barely contain his delight at his friend's win and later Hymie was to blame the fact that Peekay only won his fight against the Italian on points on this distraction. Carmen had come over from Paris, where she had been working as a model, for the fight, and Hymie had taken them all to the Savoy for supper and champagne afterwards. It was here that Carmen met Harriet. Despite Peekay's fears, the two girls immediately took to each other and spent most of the evening chatting happily, Harriet deciding towards the end of the evening, when they'd all had a bit too much champagne, that she'd like to make a sculpture of Carmen. Peekay's points win over the Italian in London had come after a string of knock-outs and the Italians took great heart by this. When Peekay fought Bisetti again, this time for the vacant European title, he faced a very partisan Turin crowd. It proved to be a damned good thing he knocked the Italian out in the ninth, for no matter how far ahead he may have been on points, the excitable Italians would never have stood for yet another points decision going to Peekay.
The win over Bisetti made Peekay the top welterweight outside of North America. Peekay became the darling of European boxing and the only boxer around who looked like bringing a world championship belt back from across the Atlantic.
The Odd Bodleians were present at every one of Peekay's fights including the one in Italy. If the Turin crowd had been somewhat partisan, this did not include the Odd Bodleians who received a standing ovation. Hymie had arranged for a record to be cut of
Concerto for the Great Southland
sung by the Odd Bodleians, which had done well in the UK and now became a great hit in Italy as well as Germany, but proved to be only a modest success in France. In Germany it became known as a composition by the famous twenties concert pianist, Professor Karl Von Vollensteen, a romantic figure in the twenties who'd disappeared from the concert stages of Europe after a mysterious illness, never to be heard from again. The story of Doc and Peekay, much of it exaggerated, appeared in
Stern
magazine with a picture of Peekay on the cover. Doe's shadow had reached a long way from the crystal cave of Africa where he lay.
By the end of 1954, Peekay's name was beginning to appear regularly in
Ring
magazine where he was increasingly mentioned as a serious contender for the welterweight crown. Only the Cuban, Soap Dish Jurez and the Mexican welter, Manuel Ortez, remained as the bridge to Madison Square Garden in New York, and the chance to get a crack at the world champ, Jake 'Spoonbill' Jackson.
Setting up and promoting these two bridging fights, and the elimination fight with an American welterweight, took up a lot of Hymie's time in the first months of 1955. He wanted at least two of the three fights in Britain. Peekay, doing his final year at law, hadn't the time to travel either to North America or Cuba. Nor could they yet afford to go. The fight against Soap Dish Jurez took place at Harringay Arena in North London and was a sell-out. Soap Dish proved to be well named; he was a slippery customer to handle, like Peekay a consummate boxer. It was only Peekay's power in both hands which finally wore him down, knocking him down three times in the eleventh round, whereupon the referee stopped the fight, awarding it to Peekay on a TKO.
Manual Ortez, whom Peekay fought two months later, proved an entirely different kettle of fish. He was Habib all over again, but younger, faster and fitter. He'd gone the distance with Jake 'Spoonbill' Jackson three months earlier in an unexpected title bid and while he'd lost in the eyes of all three judges, the final points score separating the boxers had only added up to a three-round superiority for the champion.
His tear-away, non-stop fighting style was difficult to counter. A slum kid who'd fought his way out of the tin shanties of Mexico City, Ortez was as tough and determined a fighter as ever climbed into a ring. He fought as though his life depended on the outcome, which in a way, it did. Peekay had connected with half-a-dozen beautiful straight rights which should have slowed him down, but he just kept coming, forcing Peekay onto the back foot, careful to stay out of the corners where Ortez was devastatingly effective. He was a boxer who used everything he had, including his elbows and head whenever he could get away with it, which was often enough to be disconcerting, so Peekay had to be careful not to lose his cool.
But by the eleventh round Ortez had used up too many punches and taken too many hard blows to the body and he started to slow down. Midway through the final round Peekay caught him on the ropes and finished him off with a Solly Goldman thirteen. The Mexican boxer was out for the count before he hit the canvas.
Peekay was only one fight shy of a shot at the world title and
Ring
magazine recognised him as the number one contender.-The following day his face appeared on the front cover of most of the Sunday papers in Britain and every Sunday paper in South Africa. He had become a national hero in both countries, the undisputed challenger for the world welterweight title.
On the
stoep
of Mr Nguni's home in Sophiatown, Gideon Mandoma held a copy of the Johannesburg
Sunday Times
up for Tandia to see. They'd both been invited to lunch and Gideon sat with Tandia on the veranda while Mr Nguni, his manager and also prominent African boxing promoter, held a business meeting with two Indians who had arrived unannounced from out of town. Juicey Fruit Mambo had the Packard parked outside the house no more than a few feet away and, as usual, was busy polishing it. He wasn't yet sure how he felt about Tandia's attraction to the Zulu boxer and if Gideon tried anything on he wanted to be around if he was needed.
'My brother will be the next world champion!' Gideon declared happily. The picture, which must have been taken at some earlier fight, showed Peekay with his arm up in a salute with the lion's tooth showing clearly around his neck. 'See, he has my luck, my brother wears my luck, he will be the next world champion, for sure, you will see!' He shook his head in admiration. 'Hayi, Hayi, Hayi, surely he is the leader of the people? He is the one, the Tadpole Angel.'
Tandia was shocked as Gideon Mandoma handed her the paper. Holding it up in front of her so he couldn't see her expression she stared angrily at the front page photograph of Peekay with his hands held high. She struggled to regain her composure so when she spoke her voice was soft, almost plaintive. 'He is a white man, Gideon. He will betray you. How can he be our leader?'
Gideon looked surprised. 'He is my brother, Tandia. His heart is not white, his heart is same like me,' he said softly. Tandia's hand was shaking as she handed him back the paper, but Gideon didn't seem to notice. 'And you?' she asked. 'Are you not the Tadpole Angel? Patel said you were the best, even better than him, I swear it's true.'
Gideon laughed. 'This is not for me to say, Tandia. The people, they have decided. I have fought my brother and I have lost. Peekay, he is the Tadpole Angel, it is in the smoke and in the bones.'
Tandia brought her hands up and clasped her head. Despite her timidness she was a city girl and Gideon's superstition shocked her. 'My God, Gideon! You don't still believe the Sangoma?' She knew instantly she'd said the wrong thing.
Gideon Mandoma spun around. He'd known this beautiful young girl only a few months. Tomorrow she returned to Natal with Mama Tequila, where she would study law. He didn't want to fall in love with her. It wasn't convenient. It wasn't in his plans. There was too much to do. The ANC was too important, and so was his education and his boxing career. He didn't need a wife. He didn't even need a girlfriend. There were plenty of clean women he could sleep with. It was better to just send her away, forget about her. She was questioning his beliefs; the. tribal blood in her had dried up, she was a city girl not afraid of the power of the spirits. Better to just send her away, to say nothing.
Gideon was a Zulu who did not allow a woman to speak to him like this, question him in these matters. He felt obliged to put her in her place. 'Shut your mouth, woman. There are things you don't understand, you hear? Peekay and me, we have suckled at the same woman's breast. Go now, I am tired of your talk!' He reached down and grabbed the newspaper from the floor. Hiding behind it, he pretended to read.
'See, already we fight over this white man. Please, Gideon, forgive me!'
Juicey Fruit Mambo was suddenly at her side. 'Go away!' she shouted at him in sudden childish frustration. Juicey Fruit backed away, stepping down the front steps slowly. He'd heard Gideon's rebuke. It was fair. Mandoma was heir to a chiefdom and a man; Tandia ought not to upset him. Nevertheless, the little Zulu had better not put a hand on her or he would break his bones.
Tandia was terrified. She loved Mandoma passionately and had done so from the first moment she'd set eyes on him in the darkened Odin cinema when he'd demolished the inept Irishman. She didn't want to lose him, although she knew she must, for the time being anyway. She would study law and come back to be at his side. She had worked it all out in her head. Please God, don't let it end like this, she thought. She
must
leave to return to Bluey Jay with her relationship with Mandoma intact, ready for the next time they met. Next to her hate, he was the most important thing in her life. She had joined the ANC, though Mandoma had insisted this be done secretly. 'You are a student, it must not be known,' he had said. 'Verwoerd's Bantu Education Act will soon remove all blacks from white education.
Students who belong to the ANC will be the first to go.'
'I am sorry, Gideon. I didn't mean it, I take it back, all of it. You must forgive me, I am only a poor, stupid woman.' Gideon lowered the paper slowly and looked sternly at Tandia. These city girls have a lot to learn about respect and the space where a man sits, he thought to himself. 'It is not right that you talk like this, Tandia. I am glad you take back your thoughts.'
Tandia broke into a brilliant smile, though she was afraid of the quiet, beautiful Zulu boxer who would one day be a chief. Despite her terror, her voice was calm and soft when she spoke. 'No, not all of them. One part I don't take back.' She took a deep breath. 'You must fight Peekay and you will win. Then
you
will be the Tadpole Angel.'
Despite himself, Gideon laughed. 'My right hand cannot fight my left hand, we are brothers.' He paused, his eyes grew soft as he looked at the beautiful young woman who stood in front of him. 'This thing will happen if it will happen, it is not for me to say. First I must fight Jannie Geldenhuis.' He grinned. 'This one, he is not my brother. I will wait until he is better, then I will fight him again. This time we shall see who is white and who is black.'
Tandia went cold. The spectre of Geldenhuis loomed up in her subconscious, almost paralysing her. Her fear of the white police captain was so great that she thought him invincible. 'Please, Gideon, he is evil, you must not fight him, he has too much hate, even more than me.'
Gideon grinned. 'I do not have to read the smoke and throw the bones to know this, Tandia. I must fight him because I am a man and a Zulu, and my turn has come.'
Hymie was worried about Peekay and he took his concern to Dutch Holland. They were nail-bitingly close to challenging for the world title. 'Dutch, Peekay's won the last seven fights on a KO, except his first fight with Bisetti. Each time he's been behind on points coming into the ninth round. Christ man, Peekay is one of the most skilful boxers in the world and he's having to rely on a knock-out for a win?'
'There ain't nothin' much better than a knock-out, my son. How bleedin' else do you want the lad to win? He's had fifteen pro fights, he's won thirteen by knock-out. He's beaten the best fighters in the world bar the Yanks. This weight division ain't exactly filled with chumps neither; there's more good welterweights around at the moment than you can shake a stick at.' Dutch spread his cocktail sausage hands. 'Blimey, what's got into you? There ain't been a contender, in any bleedin' weight division, in twenty years who done what our lad's done! Not even Joe soddin' Louis.'