Shilling a Pound Pears Page 4

  Yossell looked at her, his eyes bright with hope.

  “My passport is fine. I told you. The visa I got last week because of my friend—and my money I keep in the post office. With the money I take today, and what I draw from the post office, I got enough for the plane ticket.”

  “Post office is shut,” John said practically. “And tomorrow’s Sunday.”

  “The one at Leicester Square is never closed,” Jane said. “You could get the money there.”

  Yossell’s face was alight. “I send my sister a telegram—I arrive on Monday night, my granddaughter—a surprise.'Granpa!' she say—and she cry, and my sister cry, and I cry—chee!” For one dreadful moment Jane thought he was going to cry then and there, so overcome was he by his vision.

  But suddenly he threw his hands up, and laughed loudly.

  “I’m mad—mad. Your Momma, she want to kill me when I come back. But like you say, you’re big people— you can run my business for me wonderful! Hilary, Richard, Miss Jane—I thank you.” He got up, and marched round the table to shake hands with, and bow to, all the boys, and to kiss the girls’ hands with an old-fashioned courtesy that made Hilary want to giggle. Jojo, thoroughly asleep by this time, woke up and smiled blearily at the old man. “Apples an' pears,” he muttered. “Apples an' pears an' bananas…”

  When she looked back on that evening in time to come, it had a dreamlike quality for Hilary. Jojo and Barbara were packed off to bed, Barbara protesting loudly; the three boys set about the washing-up, not without considerable pressure from Richard, reinforced by threats of abandoning the whole scheme if they didn’t get on with it, while the older three and Yossell settled round the table to talk about the stall and the way it was run.

  It was the quiet Jane who seemed in control, somehow. She and Yossell talked about wholesale prices and retail prices, how the price of what was sold had to match the overheads, a word that Hilary had never heard before, but which apparently meant the running costs of the business. Everything had to be taken into account, the price of petrol, the price of the paper-bags the fruit was put in, the cost of the fruit that was wasted because it didn’t get sold or was damaged. Jane made copious notes in her neat, tight handwriting, filling pages of her little notebook, and using expressions like “profit margins” and “retail mark-up” that went completely over Hilary’s head.

  But eventually Jane was satisfied. “I think I’ve got it all straight, now, Kossel,” she said contentedly. “The only other thing is, do you have a bank account? I mean, where do we deposit the profits for you—supposing we make any!”

  Yossell folded his arms firmly. “No profits for me. I take a holiday—you work so you get the profits. No—” He put his hands up to silence Hilary’s protests. “This is how it is to be. I am telling you. You make the money—it’s yours. Your car, Richard—needs money, yes?”

  Richard nodded ruefully. “All the same, though, Yossell, that isn’t the point, is it? it’s your business, so while I don’t mind earning a reasonable wage by working for you, I wouldn’t be right to take more than a fair wage.” Richard was by now feeling a little ashamed of the fact that it had been the monetary consideration that had swayed him into agreeing to the scheme. He was beginning to see that running a stall would be an excellent way of keeping "the kids" out of trouble, because it would keep them from boredom. In fact, he was so embarrassed about it he would cheerfully have looked after Yossell’s stall for nothing. For a while, with Yossell insisting that the Coopers and Jacksons pocket all the takings, and Richard equally insistent that they would do nothing of the sort, it began to look as though the whole project would founder.

  Once again it was Jane who cut across their bickering with calm good sense.

  “With people as inexperienced as we are, it’s very possible we won’t make a profit. We might even make a loss. Let’s not argue now. We’ll take what we need to cover expenses out of the stall’s takings, and the rest we’ll put away safely. Then, when you come back, Yossell, we’ll decide what we should get out of it and what you should keep. Isn’t that reasonable, Richard?”

  So it was arranged. By now it was nearly ten o'clock, and the boys, the washing-up finished, trailed off to bed, leaving Yossell and the others to finish the night’s arrangements. There was still plenty to be settled. Jane volunteered to stay and baby-sit (a remark which the boys luckily didn’t overhear), while Richard and Hilary took Yossell first to the post office at Leicester Square to draw out the money he needed, then to the airline office at Victoria, which was, like the post office, always open, to get his ticket, and last, and most important of all, to the lock-up shed where the stall was kept.

  It took the best part of an hour and a half to deal with the money and the plane reservation, and it was half-past eleven by the time Yossell, Hilary and Richard tumbled out of Richard’s car at the end of a narrow cul-de-sac that ran off the market.

  Night-bound and deserted, the market looked to Hilary like an abandoned stage set. The little shops that lined the road were shuttered and silent, and the yellow street lights shone on streaky tarmac and still-cluttered gutters, where the remains of the rubbish that fell from the stalls still lingered. A cat was picking its disdainful way through a little heap of paper and wood shavings, looking or scraps of fish, and a late breath of wind stirred the fur on its back in a way that made Hilary shiver, warm though the night was.

  Yossell was muttering under his breath as he struggled with the padlock that fastened the door of his shed, but at last the wooden slats creaked open, and the stall could be seen. Hilary was surprised when she saw it. He had somehow imagined it would look as it always did, but the tarpaulin roof was rolled up and stood propped against one wall, the sheet of artificial grass was folded neatly, and the stall itself was completely dismantled. The day’s unsold fruit was carefully packed in boxes alongside.

  “To put it up is not difficult,” Yossell said. “I show you.”

  “Not now, Yossell. Richard yawned hugely. “I’m dead on my feet. I’ll work how to do it on Monday—not to worry. I’m too tired now to take it all in, anyway.”

  Yossell looked dubious. “You be careful, then? This stall, it look not very much, but it cost me a lot of money. If it break, I must buy new, and this—this is expensive.”

  “Not to worry,” Richard said again. “We’ll manage. Just give me the key, Yossell. P'raps we’ll come tomorrow and try, so we won’t waste time on Monday.”

  “That’s a point. What time do we start on Monday, Yossell?” Hilary said.

  “Me, I come here at five o'clock.” Yossell said cheerfully. “First I make the stall ready to move to the pitch, then I go to buy for the day.”

  “Five o'clock?” The horror in Richard’s voice made him sound as squeaky as Jojo. “Did you say five o'clock?”

  “Sure! All must be ready in the market at half-past eight. Many my customers, they buy on the way to work. I got office people come to me; I got shop people. If I am not there, so, the others get my customers. To be late is bad business, hey?”

  Hilary urged Richard and Yossell towards the door. “Five o'clock it will be then, Yossell,” she said soothingly. “If Richard gets to bed early, he won’t mind getting up, will you, Richie? Of course you won’t. And it’s late now, and tomorrow there’ll be lots to do—so come on.”

  They drove Yossell home, and with repeated assurances from Hilary of their ability to cope, and repeated doubts and sudden bits of hitherto forgotten advise from Yossell, they managed to say “good night” at last.

  “Send us a telegram to let us know when you’ll be back, Yossell, won’t you?—and have a marvellous time—and send our best wishes to Gitty. “Bye, Yossell,” Hilary called from the window of the car as Richard sent it rattling towards home and bed. “And don’t worry—everything’ll be fine.”Bye!”

  The car turned the corner, leaving Yossell’s small figure silhouetted against the street lights. Hilary settled back in her seat with a deep sigh of contentmen
t. She hadn’t bargained for starting the day quite so early, and Richard hated getting up in the morning, but that didn’t matter. The next month was going to be extremely busy and a great deal of fun, Hilary promised herself. A great deal of fun.

  Chapter Four

  HILARY leaned back on her haunches and swore softly under her breath. Stephen and Philip struggled on for a moment or two, half-heartedly, before they too gave up, and stood looking glumly at the stall. Jojo, perched uncomfortably on a pile of apple boxes, a big half-eaten pear in one hand, opened his mouth to say something, looked at Hilary, and with unusual tact, closed his mouth again without saying a word.

  “It’s stupid!” Hilary said bitterly. “Yossell might have said how difficult it was going to get this thing up.”

  “He probably tried to,” Stephen said, “and you and Richard were too sleepy to listen to him last night.”

  Hilary scowled. Stephen was quite right, and that made it worse, somehow. The other four, armed with a street map of London, had set out an hour before in Richard’s car to find the way to the market where they would have to go next morning to buy their stock. Hilary, Stephen, Philip and Jojo had been left to set up the stall.

  “Just for practice,” Richard had said airily. “I don’t suppose there’s much to it— Stephen’ll soon see how to do it. Leave it set up if you can—that’ll save time tomorrow morning. We’ll be an hour or so, I suppose. See you at tea-time!”

  And there they were, the stall still sitting mutely in front of them, still in its collapsed state. No matter how they looked at the various cleats and hooks that were attached to the scattered parts, they couldn’t see how the thing went together. They had nearly managed it once, but the whole contraption had collapsed as soon as they let go of the main beam across the top, hitting Hilary smartly on the side of her head, which hadn’t improved her temper.

  “Hilary,” Jojo said softly. “There’s someone looking at you.” He could see over her head through the open door of the shed down towards the end of the cul-de-sac.

  “Mmm?” Hilary frowned and pulled again at the tarpaulin roof of the stall.

  “He’s coming in,” Jojo warned. “Big chap.”

  Hilary turned, her red hair on end, her face smudged with oil from one of the wheels of the stall. A tall young man in a black leather jacket was strolling towards the shed, his hands thrust into his trouser pockets He came and leaned negligently against the side of the door, and looked Hilary up and down, insolently.

  “'Avin’ trouble, sweet'eart?” he said. “Pretty thing like you shouldn’t 'ave to do a job like that, should you? Come and 'ave a cuppa with me. More fun than muckin’ about with that thing.”

  “Go away,” Hilary snapped. “No one’s asking you for your opinion.” Hilary hadn’t lived in Camden Town for the greater part of her life without having come across some of the noisy motor-cycling young men who hung about the coffee bars or the street corners. She had walked, head high, through plenty of wolf-whistling groups since she had reached fifteen, and started looking old enough to interest such young men. The boy ignored her words, standing grinning at her flushed face.

  Stephen stepped forward, his fists clenched, the light flashing on his big spectacles.

  “Are you going?” he said warningly. “You heard my sister.”

  Philip too, lounged forward.

  “I heard her quite well,” he murmured. “Go away, I think she said. Didn’t you hear her properly.”

  The boy in the leather jacket stepped forward too. “Why don’t you shut up, baby-face?” He said nastily, pushing his own face to Stephen’s. “Or do you want a bit of a bashin’ ?” With a quick movement he pulled Stephen’s glasses off and tossed them over his shoulder.

  Philip let out a wild yell and launched himself at the stranger’s legs in a neat rugger tackle. In a moment, the shed was full of noise and flailing arms and legs, as Hilary, torn between wanting to help the older boys, and the need to hang on to Jojo, who showed every intention of joining in and getting himself flattened in he process, shouted “Stop it!” at the top of her voice.

  The big boy, who had clearly never heard of fighting fair, or if he had, had conveniently forgotten it, was decidedly getting the better of the argument.

  Stephen, half-blinded without his glasses, had got a shrewd kick in the ribs which had him bent double and gasping, while Philip, on light feet, was more occupied in dodging the blows the bigger boy aimed at him that in trying to land any on his own account. Jojo, whooping wildly, was doing his best to get away from Hilary’s iron grip on the seat of his trousers, when another body launched itself into the fray.

  All Hilary could see was the flash of a brown sports jacket, as a tall, fair-headed boy shot though the door and landed firmly on the black jacketed young man who was hitting out at Philip.

  The fight was over in seconds. The fair boy gave the black jacketed one a mighty swipe that stopped him in his tracks, and sent him flying backwards out through the door. He picked himself up, and with a burst of language that made Hilary clap her hands over the squirming Jojo’s ears, turned and slouched off down the road, wiping his nose with the back of his hand.

  Stephen groped in the dust for his fortunately undamaged glasses and pushed them back on to his nose, while Philip dusted himself off.

  “Thanks,” Hilary said breathlessly to the fair-haired boy, as she let go of Jojo, and went to Stephen to make sure he was suffering from no worse than a severe winding. “I don’t know who you are, but I’m glad to meet you.”

  “Peter Minsky—at your service.” The fair boy was nursing his right fist. “That gink had a nose like iron.”

  “Minsky?” Stephen pushed Hilary away, and grinned at the big boy. “Thanks for your help. Mind you, I’d have been alright in another second or two, and then we’d have shown him.”

  “I’m sure you would have.” Peter grinned cheerfully. “But I like a fight. Sorry if I spoiled your fun.”

  “Not at all,” Stephen said graciously. “Only too glad to include you in my battles.”

  “And mine,” Philip murmured. “Me, I’m not the fighting type.”

  “You were doing pretty well, all the same,” Peter said politely. “What was it all about?”

  “Oh, he just came and tried to interfere,” Hilary said, a little embarrassed now. “We were trying to fix this up.”

  She indicated the stall behind her.

  “Yossell’s stall? Why?” Peter peered at the pile of pieces. “Something wrong with it?”

  “You know Yossell?” Hilary said. “He’s a friend of ours too.”

  “I know everyone in the market pretty well,” Peter said. “My grandmother has the delicatessen shop on the other side of the road—you know her?”

  Hilary grinned. “Who doesn’t?” she said. You must be her oldest daughter’s son— I’ve heard about you. You’re the one whose going to be a policeman.”

  Peter grinned back. “That’s me. Scotland Yard’s white hope—when they hear about me, that is. I’m starting after the summer holidays at the Police College.”

  Philip, with unusual practicality, said, “Well, maybe you could turn your detective powers on to this blasted thing.” He kicked the stall with disdain. “I want my tea and we can’t go until we’ve found out how to do it.”

  “Sure.” Peter went over to the stall, and started to fix it together. “But can I ask why you want to fix it up, on a Sunday Afternoon? Or is it none of my business?”

  As he put the stall together, with practised hands, Hilary, with interjections from the boys, explained about Yossell’s trip, and their own plans for the next month. The stall was complete by the time they’d finished, and Peter stood back and smiled at Hilary.

  “Sounds a good idea,” He said regretfully. “Wish I could help. But I’ve got a job for the next month. Still, if I can help in any way, let me know. My grandmother’ll take a message. Look, you’ll have to take this thing down again, or the door won’t shut properly. That
’s why Yossell got a collapsible stall. This shed’s a bit on the small side. I’ll show you how to do it the easy way, so you won’t waste time in the morning.”

  By the time the stall was packed up again, and the shed locked, Peter and the four were as friendly as if they’d known each other all their lives. Peter was clearly impressed by Hilary, much to Philip and Stephen’s amusement, though they both knew better than to say anything about it. Hilary was a very nice older sister, but she strongly disliked being teased about the boys she met who found her attractive, and both her brothers knew just what Hilary could do to make them feel uncomfortable if they forgot her dislike of teasing.

  When they locked up, Peter stood undecided for a moment, looking at Hilary. He seemed to want to say something, but with a glance at the three boys ranged behind her he seemed to think better of it.

  “If you need any help, let me know, won’t you?” he said, a little awkwardly. “And I’ll probably see you around. 'Bye.”

  “Goodbye—and thanks a lot.” Hilary smiled at him. “I hope you hand’s all right now.”

  “Oh, it’s fine—and it was a pleasure. If he turns up again, that character, shout like you did before. I heard up right up at the main road!”

  Hilary laughed, and with a brief wave, turned and shepherded the three boys towards home.

  “Nice feller,” Jojo said suddenly, skipping along side Hilary. “Does he know you, Hilary? He kept looking at you while he put the stall up.”

  Hilary said nothing, but Philip murmured to Stephen, “He doesn’t know her yet, but something tells me—” He caught Hilary’s eye. “Didn’t say a word, Hilary, not a word! What’s for tea? I’m starving.”

  The others had been home long enough to have tea nearly ready, which made them very popular with Jojo, who was always hungry. As they ate their way through piles of hot buttered toast and the remains of a chocolate cake Hilary had baked on Friday, the boys told the others about the fight, and the way Peter had come to their help. Richard pulled a long face as he listened.