The Credit Draper Episode 3

Madame Kahn sniffed hard, then turned away from her husband to address Avram directly. “Go on. Give Herr Kahn the gift.”

“My mother sends you this in memory of times past.” His mother’s words. He held out the bottle.

“What is that supposed to mean?” Madame Kahn said to her husband. “How am I supposed to know?” “You’re the one who knew her.” Avram searched his jacket pocket for the letter. “And this will explain the circumstances of my departure.” Again his mother’s words. Among the last she had spoken to him on the Riga quayside. Give this letter to the Kahns. To the father. Not the mother.

“Let me see that.” Madame Kahn made a grab for the envelope but her husband held up the flat of his hand.

“No,” he said firmly. Then with his fingers, he beckoned quickly at Avram to hand it over.

Just as Avram passed over the envelope, the door opened and a pale, red-haired girl entered with a tray. She stepped awkwardly and Avram could smell her sweat as she passed him, her tray a nervous tinkle of tea things. She placed a glass of black tea and a bowl of sugar cubes conveniently on the table and retreated quickly from the room.

Delicately

With his thumb and forefinger, Papa Kahn plucked a single cube from the sugar bowl, fixed it delicately in a wedge between his teeth, slurped a mouthful of tea through the dissolving sugar.

He then replaced the glass, took a knife from his plate, slit open the envelope and spread two sheets of writing paper before him.

“Now, what do we have here?” Avram saw the familiar cramped handwriting and bit his lip so hard slithers of flesh came away with his teeth. Papa Kahn kept reading and nodding with an occasional glance to his wife.

“What does this Rachel say?” she asked. “She says she is sorry.”

“Sorry for what?”

“For sending the boy.”

“She has a chutzpah.”

“She had no choice. He was to be conscripted on his 13th birthday.” “What shall we do with him?”

“We must keep him.”

“What are you saying? We haven’t enough room.”

“I must do what she asks.”

“But why? What do you owe her? This Rachel woman.”

“She is from der heim.”

“Der heim? Are we responsible for every stray waif drifting into Glasgow from your homeland?”

“He will stay with us. That is final. We can make up a cot for him in Nathan’s room.”

“Did she say anything about money?” “There is nothing written.” Madame Kahn turned to Avram. “Did you bring any money, boy?” she snapped.

He opened the front flap of his jacket to display the sewn-up pocket. Madame Kahn snatched the knife off the table and the tears just seemed to come as he watched her skilfully slit open the stitches of his only jacket. She pulled out a small pouch, spilled the coins and the small wad of notes into her palm.

“Almost worthless.”

Reproach

Avram sensed the reproach, but Papa Kahn looked sternly at his wife. “As I said. He will stay here. As family. As a brother to Celia and Nathan.” Papa Kahn turned to him, his voice kinder now. “I agree to your mother’s request. This shall be your home. Until we hear from your mother that you can return.”

He felt a hand at his back as Madame Kahn guided him quickly out of the room. “Mary,” Madame Kahn shouted. Avram heard footsteps. The servant girl who had brought the tray scurried into the hallway.

“Make a bath for the boy. He is filthy.” The girl glared at him. “But madame. It’s ma evening off. I’m on ma way out.” “Be a little late, then.”

Madame Kahn pulled him into a large curtained room lit only by the glow from a coal fire in the grate, pushed him down into a chair, and swished out of the door.

From somewhere behind him, the loud grind of a clock measured out the heartbeat of the room. He sat still, staring at the dancing flames until he heard the door open behind him.

Mary came into view, dragging a tin bath half-filled with water across the carpet to the centre of the hearth. When the tub was in place, she clamped her hands firmly to her hips, turned towards him. Her young face was flushed, her rolled-up sleeves revealed thin freckled arms, their skin raw and reddened from housework.

She swung one foot towards him, then the other, until she could grab the arms of his chair. He stiffened. She drew her face close up to his, her red hair and white face filled his vision. Green eyes peered into his own. He had never seen green eyes so close before. They seemed to reflect his image, not absorb like the brown eyes he was used to.

Scrutinised

The tears just seemed to come as he watched Madame Kahn skilfully slit open the stitches of his only jacket.

He could feel the heat of her cheeks, hear the excited rasp of her breath in her chest as she scrutinised his face, muttering all the while in sing-song under her breath. He tried to push himself further back into the chair.

“Ye had to turn up just as I was leavin’,” she half-whispered, her thin lips mean and narrow over yellow teeth. “Like a bad penny.” She snatched his cheek between the knuckles of two of her fingers, twisted the flesh hard. “That’ll teach ye.”

His eyes teared, but he refused to let out a sound. She ruffled his hair and left the room.

He waited. His cheek burned but he didn’t dare touch it. The clock beat louder. A coal shifted and crunched in the grate causing a minor avalanche of sparks and cinder.

Voices chattered past the curtained window, followed by a woman’s laugh, then silence. He shuddered to the sound of the door opening. Mary. This time with a large pitcher of boiling water which she poured into the tub.

More tomorrow.

The Credit Draper is the first in a trilogy by J David Simons. He has written five novels and is published by Saraband. His work can be purchased at saraband.net.