Yip-i-addy-i-ay-i-ay!
Yip-i-addy-i-ay!
Those were the first English words I knew by heart, "i-addy-i-ay!”. It sent terrific echoes out into the street, into the night outside where little children were waiting, shriveled up against the window, flattening their little beaks till their parents were finished sucking their beer, fun and joy of living, so drunk that the bulls would come in to kick them out so that they’d go puke somewhere else. We’d meet at La Vaillance, the pub of the swells of the lane, the busy street, the one with seven huge bars, with prows sculpted in ivory and twisted copper rails. A magnificent job. And a portrait of the Conqueror high as the ceiling, in a colossal gilt frame, adorned with sirens. That was where we were when the thing happened, when the fight started. It was Sergeant Matthew of the Yard who came in, at the sandwich counter in the swells’ stall, he blew in whistling "Good day, Ladies’’! He wasn’t in uniform, in civvies like you and me, he was humming with the others, he was a bit loaded, and so he was in good humor. Suddenly! what’s eating him?. he stops dead, he stands there frozen… in front of Boro… in a top hat! ah! that gags him! the nerve!.. busy there with his music, banging out his tunes, in a tart kind of rhythm, grinding out a cradle song, with the misty charm of tunes of that kind, they gather up your troubles, jig them away!. ding! dindin!. dong! dong!.. and whoops! presto! quick runs of trills and arpeggios! with his big dirty pudgy fingers… it was really magic the way he had them spellbound with the fluttering imps springing out of the big piano. Grinding out any old refrain. all nipping away at the pain of laughter. The hesitancy of orange marmalade that's sweet and acidy at the same time.. English tunes have the same kind of pitch… I remember well.. Sergeant Matthew stood there dumfounded at his man’s new hat. It knocked the wind out of him… it froze his smile. He couldn’t believe his eyes!
He came closer… he wanted to get a better look… to appreciate it. He came up to the piano. and bang point-blank! rage! He started swearing at the performer..
"Where did he get the idea of wearing a topper in that dirty bar? Never saw the likes of it! He was really crazy! Where did he think he was? At the Derby? In the House of Lords? It was an insult, and swaggering for such a rotten foreigner. An immigrant of the worst kind! A cheap musician, failure, tramp! He had a hell of a nerve coming and mimicking a gentleman!.. An unbelievable crime! He’d take him away on the spot if he didn’t remove that thing at once…” And more jabber and fiery threats, he was wild with rage!..
Boro stuck to his topper… It was a gift from someone.. The moment Sergeant Matthew started picking a quarrel he stopped weighing his words. To begin with, it was none of his business.. Boro had a perfect right to put a sofa on his head, a kite, a baby scale, the more so a top hat. It was no one’s business but Boro’s.. But the other one didn’t see it that way, he was getting his dander up. A brisk spat.. Things were getting worse. the racket!. the fever! it was steaming around the liquor. The crowd was swelling, closing in, bellowing, exciting and booing Matthew so that the whole works shook and floundered and wobbled!. Hemmed in close, Matthew got scared, I'm telling what happened, he took his whistle from his small pocket.. That set everything off!.. There was a rush!. He mustn’t whistle. No re-enforce-ments!.. Down with the police! Knocked down and flattened, Matthew covered with drunks, yelling, delighted, jumping on him, a mountain of them high as the chandelier.. Capering with ease and victory! A round of beer mugs over his head.. Here’s to Matthew!. .For he’s a jolly good fellow!..
He wasn’t saying any more down below, he’d had his share.. I was waiting near the door for them to quit beating him!.. I'd have liked to be somewhere else. What if the cops came and raided the place?… I was a goner with my fishy papers!. my discharge, my phony stamps! Boy, oh boy!.. I was in a delicate situation with the Consulate people!..
"Beat it!” says Boro from below. right under the pile.. and motions toward the Hospital!.. the other side of the street!..
London Hospital, well known, Mile End Road… We always made dates there, there were reasons why, the hustle was agreeable, a constant coming and going.. impossible to supervise. Especially around the entrance gate where the mob never lets up. coming and going day and night. All the buses pass Mile End. So I went and took up my post there opposite, right under the blue gas lamp.. Boro was corpulent, but very nimble in a brawl… He had a knack for getting out of things. Agile when he felt like it. frisky. Up and away!. he wasn’t long in joining me!. A big supple cat. He made his way between the scrappers, he went through the storm, the terrible tornado of blows. The riot was awful all through La Vaillance! a hurricane of lunatics! I realized it from the other side!.. Breaking things, hitting the walls, the window suddenly smashed! fell into splinters, spattered the street! What a whirlwind! A vile din! enough to wake the Lord Mayor!..
The women were yelping loudest! and the little children in the dark! waiting for the head of the family.. "Mummy!.. Mummy!..” They already saw themselves orphans!
Boro came hobbling up, he’d been banged ow! ow! right on his left kneecap! he was bleeding. we looked at his knee in the light. What it is to go through a massacre!. He’d lost his hat, the topper of wrath!.. It was worth the trouble! We said we’d never go back to La Vaillance, a damned dive! a shithouse! even with its mahogany, its famous bars! the railings! Boy, oh boy! a horror! just a flashy clip-joint! lousy, criminal! Where they beat up your friends! where cops behave like pigs!
Our serious opinion.
liet’s say you’re coming from Piccadilly. You get off at Wapping. I’ll have to show you the way. You wouldn’t find it. It’s on the left when you get out of the "Tube”.. between the Freezers.. It’s a kind of narrow street.. brick walls, a string of little houses on both sides, all in a line.. like weekdays… no end to it.. there it starts again… a raft of them… an eternity of houses.. not one bit of fantasy.. two-family, every one of them… a narrow door to the pavement… a brass knocker. and so on for streets and more streets.. eastbound, northbound. Plymouth Street.. Blossom Avenue.. Orchard Alley.. Neptune Commons.. scads of the same family.. All of it nicely aligned, proper.. Some people may say it’s dreary. Depends on the day, time of year. With a little shot of sunshine it becomes sweety-weety, it dolls up.. There’s starvation.. That’s one thing.. The window sills, the windows, are full of geraniums.. keeps you happy.. it’s the bricks that’re monotonous.. greasy… sticky with smoke all around.. stench of fog, of coal tar.. The smell of damp sulphur, of moist tobacco over there towards the docks, gets under your hair, clothes you. Of honey, too. It’s all things that just come to you, can’t explain to you, can’t explain talking about ’em. And the fairyland of children! That’s what sticks in your memory!..
When you get to know the spots, at the first smile of the sun, everything bursts out laughing and whirls around… A frolic! A saraband! It’s the elves’ ball from one end of Wap-ping to the other!. Tumbling from balcony to porch! on the run! on the sly!. Girls and boys!. loser wins!. try to beat that. A hundred mischievous and saucy games. The tots right in the middle. hand in hand..ring-a-ring-o’roses. darling brats of the fog. so happy about a day with no rain. more playful merry divine and nimble than dream cherubs!. And all around dirty make-believe hoodlums pestering the girls.. bullying the people going by.. the squealing monsters!
Policeman! Policeman! don’t touch me!
I have a wife and a family!
Other rascals up and charge! grab the girls by the pigtails!..