City of Spades - By Colin MacInnes Page 0,15

goods, or wishes they can prey on, please keep clear of him Billy Whispers and all his surrounding mens.’

He told me this as one who reveals a precious, precarious State secret. Then he looked severe.

‘Those boys they sink I stupit – “Boos-a-man” [Bushman] they call me, becos I come out from my home in him interiors, not city folks like those wikit waterfronk boys …’ He ruminated, flashing his eyes about. ‘They sink I stupit because of no educasons. But [crescendo] my blood better than their blood! My father sieftan [chieftain]!’

‘Yes?’

‘Yes. I sief’s son.’

Diffidence but enormous pride: as if making a huge joke that was no joke, as if calling on me to recognise a splendid truth even if incredible.

‘Then why do you leave your people and come here to England?’

‘I? Oh, to see these sights. To live. Also, to learn my instrumink.’

‘Your …’

‘My sassofone. I work stoke in him governmik boiler-room by nights, to get loot for lessons for my instrumink. Then, when my time come, I go home to fashinate my cousins with my tunes.’

‘And how are your studies progressing?’

‘Whass say?’

‘Are you mastering your instrument?’

‘Man, up till now is my instrumink who is most times mastering me. Ah! But lissen!’

And we heard:

‘You leave your mother and your brother too,

You leave the pretty wife you’re never faithful to,

You cross the sea to find those streets that’s paved with gold,

And all you find is Brixton cell that’s oh! so cold.’

‘Thass Lord Alissander! He always come playing here evening, hopin’ for sillins and publicitix.’

He plucked at my arm and led me out to the corner of the street. Mr Lord Alexander was leaning against the pub wall, strumming and singing in the middle of a softly humming circle.

‘Give us some bad song now, man!’

‘Some little evil tune, Lord Alexander!’

‘Oh, no! No, no, not me in this respectable country …’

‘This little Miss Commercial Road she say to me,

“I can’t spend much more time in your society.

I know you keep me warmer than my white boy can do,

But my mother fears her grandson may be black as you.”’

There was laughter; but on the far side of the street, standing against the brick fence that lined the bombed-out site, were two figures in mackintoshes who were now joined by a tall police inspector with the shape of an expectant mother. The Bushman took my arm:

‘Lissen, man,’ he whispered, ‘I soot off now, that look to me like him Law be making his customary visicts. Come! We soot off to him Cosmikpolitan dansings, and find whass cookings there …’

Looking back, we saw the three coppers sweeping on the group, which scattered; and then Lord Alexander being led off, the uniformed inspector carrying the guitar as if it was a truncheon.

8

A raid at the Cosmopolitan

This Cosmopolitan dance hall is the nearest proximity I’ve seen yet in London to the gaiety and happiness back home.

For the very moment I walked down the carpet stair, I could see, I could hear, I could smell the overflowing joys of all my people far below. And when I first got a spectacle of the crowded ballroom, oh, what a sight to make me glad! Everywhere us, with silly little white girls, hopping and skipping fit to die! Africans, West Indians, and coloured GIs all boxed up together with the cream of this London female rubbish!

A weed peddler came up to me. ‘Hullo, hullo, man, you’re new,’ this too much smiling man said.

I gave him my frown. ‘And what you want?’ I said.

‘Is what you want,’ he answered, and showed me his packet. ‘I’m the surest sure man in the business. You can call me Mr Peter Pay Paul.’

I took it, opened it, eyed it, sniffed it. ‘If this is weed,’ I said, ‘I’m Sugar Ray Robinson.’

His face looked full of pain. ‘Then you’s dissatisfied?’ and he tried to snatch the little packet back.

I held it far. ‘What is your foolish game, Mr Peter Pay Paul? What is this evil stuff you peddle to poor strangers?’

He glared at me hard; then smiling again, said, ‘Well, I see you’s a smart fellow, not rich in ignorance. So I tell you secretly. Is asthma cure I peddle to GIs.’

‘Tell me some more.’

‘This asthma cure, you see, is much like the weed to look at, but naturally is cheaper and of no effect. But GIs are so ignorant and anyway so high with liquor, that they buy it from me in large quantities.’

‘Well, I’m no GI, mister, nor ignorant, you’ll understand.’ And I pushed