"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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