‘I’ve nothing to wear.’
‘You sound just like my sisters every time we get ready for a dance up West.’
‘No – I mean. My suit’s a write-off.’
Cal held up the sad sack that had once been his fifty-shilling suit.
‘Should have called laundry the minute you got in.’
‘The minute I got in all I wanted was a bath. And then you got in.’
‘Awright. Don’t get shirty.’
‘My shirt’s ruined too!’
‘Couldn’t you go out in your uniform?’
‘No, Kitty, that’s the last thing I can do.’
Kitty picked up the phone and asked for Stepney 315.
‘Vera. It’s me. I need you to do something, (pause) No – I’m at Claridge’s. (pause) No, I don’t see that that matters a toss. I’m not calling for an argy-bargy. I need something and I need it now. (pause) Of course I know you’re up to your . . . (pause) Yes, I’ll be back, (pause) Vera – for Christ’s sake, will you just bloody listen! Calvin has to see the police about Dad. He’s nothing to wear. (pause) No – don’t ask, it’d take too long. Just do it. Get that plain blue suit of Kev’s out of his wardrobe and bring it over, (pause) Well he’s not going to need it now is he? (pause) A clean white shirt an’ all. (pause) Then send Tel! I don’t care as long as somebody does it!’
‘I’ll swing for that silly tart one of these days. I swear I will.’
She turned to him.
‘Tel’ll be over in about half an hour.’
Tel arrived, a cigarette stuck to his bottom lip, a new swagger in his walk. The assumed posture of instant adulthood. The man of the family. He handed the suit to Cal, leant against the tallboy and flicked ash vaguely in the direction of an ashtray.
‘Wotcher sis.’
‘Wot do you think you’re playing at?’
Cal left them to it. Ducked into the bathroom and slipped on the suit. It was a far, far better cut than his old one. It could have been made for him. It had been made for Kevin Stilton. The label over the inside pocket was that of a Savile Row bespoke tailor. Kev and Trev had, literally, spent like sailors. He sat on the edge of the bath, slipped on his shoes and surveyed himself in the looking glass. The suit was perfection. The shoes were clean and buffed – Kitty had had the foresight to stick them outside the door before they turned in for the night. They’d come back gleaming. Gleaming but regulation US Army brown, and about as fitting for this suit as his last. Blue and brown, it would have to do.
When he emerged Tel was no longer smoking, and his left cheek bore the red imprint of Kitty’s hand. The veneer of manhood wiped from his face, a spotty, gawky seventeen-year-old once more.
‘You sure you know where you’re going?’ Kitty asked.
‘Sure. Cab to that pub you and I met in, cross the road and down the alley.’
‘I could come with you.’
‘I’m better on my own.’
She kissed him softly.
‘Good luck.’
Did he need luck? The prospect, the necessity of luck had not occurred to him.
The cab dropped him by the Salisbury in St Martin’s Lane. There were, he thought, no two things more guaranteed to make you glad to be alive than the proximity of sudden death and the dazzling light of a sunny afternoon. He found his way down Goodwin’s Court, an alleyway little wider than a path, to Troy’s front door. He hesitated a moment, wondering what his first words to Troy might be, and then reached for the knocker – rat-tat-tat.