Essex Poison. Ian Sansom
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settled into the unlikely profession of musical arranger and lyricist, a profession that guaranteed only an irregular income but which he supplemented by happily working as an agent for the old pawnbroker on Denmark Street who specialised in musical instruments. This brought him into contact with exactly the kind of people he most liked and admired: artists, jazz musicians, reprobates and thieves. Ron’s ‘career’ was indeed almost as precarious and unpredictable as my own, the only difference being that he could afford for a career to be precarious and unpredictable, since he was one day destined to inherit a fine house in Chelsea, a place in the country, an estate in Scotland and at least one-third of a brewery. He was utterly unreliable, incapable of taking anything even half seriously, and a very good friend, but most importantly, he was the sole proprietor of the Music Writers’ Mutual Publishing Company, and had kindly provided me with a key to his office on the fourth floor of 14 Denmark Street, which meant I had a place in Soho where I could occasionally sleep when necessity demanded.
Necessity now most definitely demanded.
It was fast approaching dawn. Denmark Street was deserted. I let myself into the building and went through the lobby towards the stairs. Ron’s lease prohibited using the office for anything but commercial purposes but if you paid your rent and didn’t cause too much trouble you could get away with almost anything. There were plenty of people in the building who were getting away with almost anything. You’d often find musicians sleeping in the lobby, and pimps, and the sort of people who come out at night and then mysteriously disappear during the day, or when their bills are due. The first floor was always the busiest: on the first floor there were a couple of rooms used by prostitutes, so there’d be people in and out – as it were – at all times. Ron used to go mad because the prostitutes would hang their underwear in the shared bathroom and make a terrible mess. (I was there in fact the night that Ron decided enough was enough and started throwing their underwear down into the street, tossing silk panties and brassieres onto passing pedestrians: you scored points if you managed to land a pair of knickers on an unsuspecting bowler. I was also there the night that Ron decided his office was too small, and since the office next door was empty we just broke right through, making a big hole in the wall: for a while we called ourselves the Hole in the Wall Gang, until we realised it wasn’t funny. The building was falling apart, even without our jolly japes. We were young, carefree and hellbent on destruction.)
The lobby was empty. Not even the girls were working. I was glad no one was around. I wasn’t in the mood for conversation. Many years later, during the course of our travels, Morley, Miriam and I had to contend with the sad case of a sweet-shop owner who had apparently fallen down her stairs and broken her neck. I had been lucky in my single-flight fall from Delaney’s office – at worst I had maybe sprained an ankle – but I was bruised all over from my little chat with MacDonald and felt like I’d been mauled by whatever creature it is who is the most proficient at mauling: some lean, mean-featured pitiless Scots sort of creature, no doubt. I dragged myself up the stairs, let myself into Ron’s office and wearily settled myself into an armchair, clearing away piles of unanswered post and musical scores. Sleep came instantly.
I WAS WOKEN what seemed like only moments later by the sound of a piano playing and the unmistakable smoky-sweet stench of Russian tea. I wasn’t sure if I was dreaming or if Ron had arrived early at the office. Knowing Ron, this seemed highly unlikely; and sure enough, when I half opened my eyes I saw that it was in fact Morley, Morley with his moustache and his grin, Morley seated at Ron’s piano, singing and strumming a song in a minor key.
Once I built a railroad, I made it run
Made it race against time
Once I built a railroad, now it’s done.
Brother, can you spare a dime?
Once I built a tower up to the sun
Brick and rivet and lime
Once I built a tower, now it’s done
Brother, can you spare a dime?
‘Ah, Sefton, good morning!’ He raised his cup of tea towards me in greeting.
I was about to reply when there came a horrible sharp dinning in my right ear: I wondered for a second if I had perhaps burst an eardrum after my fall down the stairs. I hadn’t: it was just Miriam, with a trumpet to her lips, attempting some sort of reveille.
‘How did you find me?’ I managed to ask them, through my confusion.
‘Really, Sefton. It doesn’t exactly take a Miss Marple to track your movements,’ said Miriam. She laid down the trumpet and was about to pick up a trombone.
‘I’ve got a bit of a headache, actually,’ I said.
‘I’m not surprised. You look dreadful. What on earth’s happened to you? Have you been in another fight?’ I saw that her eyes had alighted upon the xylophone in the corner.
‘Please,’ I said. ‘I really do have a—’
‘Well, if you will insist on drinking and carousing, Sefton, what on earth do you expect?’
‘A most singular method of enjoying oneself, if you don’t mind my saying so,’ added Morley. ‘Not at all good for one. The old ivory dome.’ He tapped a finger to his head. ‘One has to take care of it, you know. I was at Madison Square Garden when Max Baer beat Primo Carnera – goodness me, that was a fight. Couldn’t you take up chess instead? Do you know Max Euwe?’
‘I can’t say I do,’ I said.
‘World champion? Defeated Alekhine?’
‘I must have missed that,’ I said.
‘Good dose of Eno’s Fruit Salts will see you right,’ said Morley.
‘Mmm,’ I agreed.
‘Or this,’ said Miriam, and she thrust her left wrist under my nose. ‘Have a sniff. It’s Schiaparelli’s Shocking. My new scent. Given to me by an admirer. Do you like it?’
I took a quick sniff. It smelled like all other perfume.
‘Well?’ said Miriam.
‘Very nice,’ I said, finally beginning to gain full consciousness.
Miriam and Morley certainly had a way of waking a man up in the morning.
Morley was opposite, at the piano, looking as spruce and as chipper as ever: bow tie, light tweeds, dazzling brogues. Miriam was doing her best to lounge on Ron Pease’s office chair – and her best was more than good enough. She somehow looked at this unearthly hour as she always looked: as though she had just finished a photo-shoot, perhaps for Vogue magazine, or some publicity stills for MGM. Her eye make-up was fashionably smudged, her white dress and matching jacket exquisite. She was also sporting some sort of barbaric necklace that looked as though it might recently have been wrenched from the neck of an aboriginal tribesperson, and then set with diamonds, the sort of necklace that one sometimes sees in the window of Asprey – the sort of necklace that might cost at least one hundred pounds or more.
I put the thought immediately from my mind.
‘Who let you in?’ I asked.
‘Well, it’s a surprisingly busy little building, isn’t it?’ said Morley. ‘A charming young lady from the first floor escorted us up. I think she said her name was Desiree?’
‘I think you’ll find her name is probably not Desiree,’ said Miriam, looking knowingly at me.