Read Online A Kid for Two Farthings by Wolf Mankowitz - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Wolf Mankowitz
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clip repaired. When he was coming back through the shop with the handbag, which was a sack of coal over his shoulder, he saw Madame Rita and Lady R behind the gown rail, and what Sophie said was true. Back in the work-room his mother got out her handkerchief and licked it and rubbed off Lady R’s lipstick, which meant that it had been on his face all the time and he didn’t know, which proves you shouldn’t go errands for dollies.
‘Don’t lick me,’ Joe said.
‘Keep still, Joe,’ replied his mother.
‘If you lick me clean, you should lick Madame Rita, too, because his face is even worse.’
‘Oy,’ wheezed Mrs Kramm, ‘the cat is in the bag. What goings on. For a respectable woman it’s terrible.’
After Joe had been cleaned up he went down into the cellar, where there were a whole lot of old dummies, coloured crepe papers, and boxes. Although he got filthy, it did allow the women to talk about Lady R, which is all women want to do, anyway. For his part he got down to a serious game of Club Row.
He was being an Indian fortune-teller with a green remnant round his head, when he had a happy thought. He thought how the women wanted to talk about Lady R, and how Shmule wanted to win another fight although he had already won two, and how Mr Kandinsky still wanted a patent presser, and how his father hadn’t sent for them yet.
So, Joe thought, everybody is always saying I wish, I wish, and always wanting things. And straightaway he improved being a fortune-teller by having Africana with him. Africana wasn’t very much bigger, but his horn was coming along nicely, just big enough for, say, five or six wishes. Joe set out four boxes, on which he made drawings with a piece of flat chalk he kept in his pocket for emergencies. One of his mother in a hat, one of Mr Kandinsky, one of Shmule and one of everybody else, including Sonia and Mavis. Then he led Africana, the wish-maker, to each box. After what was necessary was explained to Africana, he was very glad to bend his head so that his horn touched the drawing on each box. And that was how the wishes were granted. All this took a good deal of work, so it was not until Sophie came down to the cellar to call him for dinner that the job was done. When he went upstairs he still had the green remnant round his head. Lady R, who was eating a saltbeef sandwich, waved a pickled cucumber at him and called him the Sheikh of Araby dolly. If Joe didn’t find something to do in the afternoon she would spoil everything, because she was that type. It was good luck that Mr Kandinsky called in while Joe was eating his second jam sandwich. As Mr Kandinsky had spent the whole morning at Shafchick’s vapour bath in Brick Lane, he looked very pink and scrubbed, but he wasn’t angry about Moishe, which was unusual. He said to Joe’s mother, ‘That Moishe, the cap-maker, went too far today. He got cooked.’ And he giggled and asked Joe if he would like to come round with him to the Tailors’ Union; he had to tell them about how Moishe was cooked.
Moishe, the cap-maker, had a huge belly and was an old friend of Mr Kandinsky. They argued all the time, and always met on a Friday at Shafchick’s, where they would argue their way through the hot room, then the hotter room, then the hottest room in the world, and even while they were being rubbed down by Luke, the Litvak masseur, who only used the Russian massage whether you wanted it or not. Luke carefully made up his own bundles of twigs, holding them high in the steam to pick up the heat. He gave you a rub-down like an earthquake, then shook hands and said ‘Good health, Reb.’ He was a big man with a huge belly, and when he and Moishe stood together you could drive a pair of cart-horses between them. They carried the argument through whilst they drank glasses of lemon tea to put the moisture back into their systems, although they had just gone to all that trouble to get it out.
Mr Kandinsky’s arguments with Moishe were
‘Don’t lick me,’ Joe said.
‘Keep still, Joe,’ replied his mother.
‘If you lick me clean, you should lick Madame Rita, too, because his face is even worse.’
‘Oy,’ wheezed Mrs Kramm, ‘the cat is in the bag. What goings on. For a respectable woman it’s terrible.’
After Joe had been cleaned up he went down into the cellar, where there were a whole lot of old dummies, coloured crepe papers, and boxes. Although he got filthy, it did allow the women to talk about Lady R, which is all women want to do, anyway. For his part he got down to a serious game of Club Row.
He was being an Indian fortune-teller with a green remnant round his head, when he had a happy thought. He thought how the women wanted to talk about Lady R, and how Shmule wanted to win another fight although he had already won two, and how Mr Kandinsky still wanted a patent presser, and how his father hadn’t sent for them yet.
So, Joe thought, everybody is always saying I wish, I wish, and always wanting things. And straightaway he improved being a fortune-teller by having Africana with him. Africana wasn’t very much bigger, but his horn was coming along nicely, just big enough for, say, five or six wishes. Joe set out four boxes, on which he made drawings with a piece of flat chalk he kept in his pocket for emergencies. One of his mother in a hat, one of Mr Kandinsky, one of Shmule and one of everybody else, including Sonia and Mavis. Then he led Africana, the wish-maker, to each box. After what was necessary was explained to Africana, he was very glad to bend his head so that his horn touched the drawing on each box. And that was how the wishes were granted. All this took a good deal of work, so it was not until Sophie came down to the cellar to call him for dinner that the job was done. When he went upstairs he still had the green remnant round his head. Lady R, who was eating a saltbeef sandwich, waved a pickled cucumber at him and called him the Sheikh of Araby dolly. If Joe didn’t find something to do in the afternoon she would spoil everything, because she was that type. It was good luck that Mr Kandinsky called in while Joe was eating his second jam sandwich. As Mr Kandinsky had spent the whole morning at Shafchick’s vapour bath in Brick Lane, he looked very pink and scrubbed, but he wasn’t angry about Moishe, which was unusual. He said to Joe’s mother, ‘That Moishe, the cap-maker, went too far today. He got cooked.’ And he giggled and asked Joe if he would like to come round with him to the Tailors’ Union; he had to tell them about how Moishe was cooked.
Moishe, the cap-maker, had a huge belly and was an old friend of Mr Kandinsky. They argued all the time, and always met on a Friday at Shafchick’s, where they would argue their way through the hot room, then the hotter room, then the hottest room in the world, and even while they were being rubbed down by Luke, the Litvak masseur, who only used the Russian massage whether you wanted it or not. Luke carefully made up his own bundles of twigs, holding them high in the steam to pick up the heat. He gave you a rub-down like an earthquake, then shook hands and said ‘Good health, Reb.’ He was a big man with a huge belly, and when he and Moishe stood together you could drive a pair of cart-horses between them. They carried the argument through whilst they drank glasses of lemon tea to put the moisture back into their systems, although they had just gone to all that trouble to get it out.
Mr Kandinsky’s arguments with Moishe were
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