He said, 'A doodlebug.'
I said, 'What?'
He said, 'A buzz-bomb. V-l. Flattened the house, killed 'em all, except me. I aint who you think I am, I aint Vince Dodds.'
I thought, I could have guessed that. Not just from the way you look but from the way you keep to your own separate space, from the way you were so ready to move out and kip down in this camper-van. But that was a sly move, wasn't it, Vince, a crafty move?
She can sleep in my room.
And what about you> Vincey?
I'll think of something.
I thought of saying to him, Tm not who you think I am either.' Because I don't know who Mandy Black is, not yet, I'm discovering.
But I'd already told Jack, sitting there in that meat van while we did a sort of dawn tour of London: Tm not who I said I was, my name's not Judy. It's Mandy, Mandy Black, from Blackburn.' And he said, 'So who's Judy?' And I said, 'No one.'
Old Bailey, St Paul's, London Bridge, the light breaking over the grey river.
Vince said, 'My real name's not Dodds, it's Pritchett.'
I felt him shrinking, slipping inside me. I sank down so my face was on his chest.
He said, 'It aint no secret. It's a known fact. Except he tries to pretend it never was a fact.'
'Who?'
He said, 'Old man. I mean, Jack, Why d'you think I took off in the first place? Why d'you think I joined up? Because I wasn't going to be no Vince Dodds. I wasn't going to be no butcher's boy.'
I said, 'But you came back,'
He said, 'I came back to show 'im.'
I said, 'It's easier for men. They can go and be soldiers, they can run away to sea.'
He said, "You ever done a stretch in Aden?'
I started to lick his tattoos. One of them said 'V.I.P.', with a fist and a thunderbolt. I said, 'It says "Dodds" on your kit-bag. So what are you going to be, Vince? What do you want to be?' And he said, 'Motors.'
I said, 'Motors?'
He said, 'You saw that old Jag in the yard, didn't you? '59, Mark 9. It's a start, aint it? Aint any old jam-jar, it's a Jag. I'll make it like new again.'
Then he told me about motors, he told me all about motors.
I thought, It's never how you picture it, never how you picture it at all. Me and Judy Battersby knocking around the West End, getting picked up by a couple of fellers in a rock band.
A butcher's van, an ex-soldier with oil under his fingernails. Meeting a man from the motor trade.
He said one day Jack would come crawling to him, I'd see.
I licked the hairs on his chest.
I said, 'How do you know I'm who you think I am, either? How do you know my name's really Mandy Black? I could be anyone too, couldn't I?'
I put my hand on his sticky cock.
He said, 'I aint teasing you, I aint having you on. I'm telling you so you know what's what. I'm telling you so you don't get no wrong ideas. That's fair, aint it?'
I said, 'Yes.'
'That's only honest.'
I said, 'Yes, Vince.'
He said, 'I was only three months, I didn't know nothing, did I?'
I felt his cock stiffening under my hand.
Tm telling you so you'll be prepared.'
'Prepared?'
'He'll try and do the same with you. They'll try and do the same with you.'
I said, 'What?'
"I bet it even suits them that you and me are doing this.'
'What are you talking about?'
'So I won't want to move on again, you neither. So we'll have to show 'em, together. We'll have to stay put and scarper at the same time.'
I said, 'How do you do that?'
He said, 'Motors.'
It felt safe in that camper, like a hiding-place.
I said, 'What are you talking about?'
He rolled me over and shoved into me and I lifted my knees and gripped him.
He said, 'They haven't told you, have they? Course they haven't. You don't know the half yet, do you?'
It's never how you picture it. Mrs Vincent Dodds, Mrs Dodds Autos. A husband in the motor trade, a daughter on the hustle.
The bright lights of London. There were bright lights all right. There were these rows of long, tall buildings, each of them lit up like a fairground, each of them full of meat and men and din, as if the men were shouting at the meat and the meat was shouting back. And outside it was still dark, extra dark because of the brightness inside, the air full of wet murk. There were lorries throbbing and reversing, the drizzle like sparks in their lights, and doors being swung open and puddles shining red and white, and more meat, on barrows, on shoulders, being lugged into the brightness, the men doing the lugging all streaked and smeared with blood, their faces red and glistening as the loads they were carrying. I thought, Jesus Christ, Mandy Black, where have you come to? And the noise like some mad language, as if it might as well have been the meat still yelling and protesting, still kicking, except that coming out of it I heard that voice, sounding unreal because I'd heard it before on the telly, on the radio, like a voice no one ever really used, but here they were all using it, natural as breathing, as if this was the very spot it came out of, the very spot. Cockney. Cockneys. Cock. Knees. Why do men from London get stiff in the legs?
He said, 'Smithfield Market, love. All meat and mouth, all beef and grief. I've got work to do but see up there,' and he pointed, leaning across the cab, leaning across me, putting an arm behind me. 'Kenny's caff. Good cuppa, good bacon sandwich. Stick around, I'll see you there,' and he winked.
The noise changed as I clambered down. It drew back then closed in on me like waves. Slop, slap, slurp, look what Mick brought in. Like wading out at Morecambe, trying to keep your fanny dry till the last moment. I walked towards the caff, pushing my way through meat and men and noise, and if I'm honest, what I was thinking then, in the middle of my great adventure, was: I'll wait for him, my driver Mick. I'll cadge a breakfast off him, I'll go along with whatever nudgings, noddings and pretendings he wants to fit me into. Then I'll say, quietly, with a flash or two of the eyelashes, 'Can you take me back? Can you take me as far north as you're going?'
I never thought that an hour from then I'd be carried off to my future, to the rest of my life, in a butcher's van. By a big, round-armed, round-edged, big-voiced man who was like some uncle I never knew I had, who was like some man on the spot who'd been waiting specially for me to arrive. 'You come to the right place, sweetheart. 'Eart of London, Smithfield, life and death, Smithfield. See that over there? That's the Old Bailey. I'll take you by the scenic route, since you aint never seen none of it before. 'Op in.'
St Paul's, London Bridge, the Tower, like things that weren't ever real. The grey, wet light it all seemed made for. He slowed down, crossing the bridge. He said, 'You live in it all your life, then one day you notice it.' Then he said, 'Want a job in a butcher's shop? Quid a day, plus board and lodging.'
I said, 'My name's not Judy.'
He looked at me long and hard. 'And mine aint mud.'
And my breakfast date never showed up anyhow, or if he did, I never saw him, he never tried to come between Jack Dodds and me.
The smell, that had you trapped, of frying bacon. Steam and smoke and gab and cackle. Heads turning, smirking.
All pork and talk. I thought, This is worse than outside. All with that look on their faces like you were a sight for sore eyes but at the same time you'd invaded their precious territory. All chomping and guzzling and big and blood-smeared and butchery. Except one. Except for this odd little feller in a grey raincoat, a collar and tie showing underneath, who looked as out of his way as I did, who sat stirring and stirring his tea and peered up at me as if his thoughts were far away but I might have just stepped out of them. I thought, Buy me a breakfast, little man, buy me a breakfast. You look as though I could handle you. You look sad and safe enough to buy me breakfast, as if you don't use food yourself.