The Winds of Change:
A Targum Press Moments in Time Novel
By Lena Spitzer

"Shove ’em in here, shall I, Mr. Ross?” asked the burly man with a polka-dot kerchief around his neck, standing in the doorway of Ross Tailoring. He was carrying a large roll of material over his shoulder.

“Yes fine, Harry,” Morris replied with a smile. “Just stand ’em up in the corner there, the boys will clear ’em tomorrow morning, when they come.” Morris stood aside, so that his portly frame would not impede Harry’s deliveries.

“Righty-oh, guvnor. I’ll just get the rest of this stuff off me motor. Its raining cats and dogs out there. Here, when we’ve finished this little lot, how about a nice glayzel tay for Harry, eh?”

Morris laughed. It was known locally that Harry Ainsley ran on tea like his van ran on petrol, and, for a Londoner, born and bred within the sound of Bow Bells, his knowledge of Yiddish was impressive. If you wanted to hire him for a delivery job, the only conditions set were “gelt on the spot, and brew up the pot.” Harry was a good sort. In the early mornings he would work at the wholesale fruit markets near Spitalfields, but when his hours there were over, he’d do the odd job, delivering for the local tradesmen in his battered van which always smelled vaguely of oranges and lemons. This evening he had gone to pick up some lining materials for Ross Tailoring, and now Morris was helping him lug the heavy rolls into the small shop premises.

From the back of the shop came the sounds of a treadle machine working at full tilt, and the disjointed rhythms of ragtime music were blaring forth gaily from a wireless set somewhere on the premises.

“Well, that’s it then,” said Harry, as he dumped the last roll into the corner. “Working late are they?” His head jerked in the direction of the workroom.

“Yeah, Harry, a rush job. Sam said he’d stay and finish.” Morris answered, as he began stacking away boxes of thread and buttons behind the polished wooden counter.

Harry stepped forward into the shop and leaned his elbow on the counter.

“’Ere, Moishe,” he addressed Morris cheekily, as his eyes scanned the material piled on the shelves. “You got any of that fancy new material in, y’know the Prince of Wales check?”

“To tell you the truth, Harry, I’m clean out of it. Such a rage it is now. I could get some for you, if you want. It’s for you, Harry?” Morris raised an inquisitive eyebrow.

“Well, I’m tempted,” replied Harry in a voice too serious to be believed. He began to strut comically before the large, wood-framed, oval swing mirror that seemed to take up the entire shop. Morris began to laugh again, as Harry preened himself, and gave the ridiculous red-and-white polka-dot kerchief round his throat a little pinch to improve its shape.

“Nah, its for me sister’s boy ’ain’t it,” Harry admitted. “Said I’d pick up a nice bit of shmatte for ’im. Told ’er I’ve got me contacts.” He winked conspiratorially at Morris.

“So, it’s a suit length you’ll be wanting for the young man, then?” Morris remarked briskly.

“Well, it was more a roll I was thinkin’ of...” Harry countered, looking a little sheepish.

Morris sighed. He had no idea what Harry Ainsley was intending to do with a whole roll of cloth of the most fashionable weave, but he could hazard a guess. His deliveries took him to all parts of London, and he was known to run a little business on the side, so to speak, from the back of his van.

“I’ll see if I can get you a good price, Harry,” Morris promised the incorrigible Cockney. “But you know I don’t deal with hot stuff, and you shouldn’t neither!” he scolded him gently.

Harry looked affronted, as if he’d be the last person to deal in contraband and stolen goods.

“’Ere, I never said nuffin about hot stuff,” he growled, sounding aggrieved. “If I wanted to handle in them goods I’d know where to go! Nah, this one’s kosher. I know an honest deal when I sees one. Now, Moishe, where’s me cuppa? Tzis shpate, mach geshvint - get on with it, man!”

Harry settled himself in the little glassed-in office at the back of the shop, while Morris mounted the stairs to the flat to fetch the teapot.

The sound of a door slamming and some heated words being exchanged reached Harry’s ears from above, but the sporadic bursts of noise from the treadle machine in the workroom combined with the efforts of the wireless set, spewing out a constant stream of music and news, made eavesdropping too difficult.

Morris appeared at the head of the stairs with a tray bearing two ready-poured cups of tea. With care, he negotiated the familiar hazards of the uneven stairs and torn linoleum, and carefully placed the longed-for cup of tea of the strongest brew in front of Harry.

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