The Credit Draper

Episode 12

Mrs Carnovsky poked out her head, surveyed the corridor of the close from side to side. “What tricks are you playing?” He grabbed her hand, tried to pull her across the passageway.

“What are you doing? Leave me. Leave me alone, child.”

“Not a trick,” he said, jumping up and down in frustration. “Come. Please come. Nathan is… is… drowned.”

“Nathan drowned? Don’t be silly. Calm down, child.”

“It’s true,” he protested. “It’s true.” “The Kahns? Where are Mr and Mrs Kahn?”

“They went to concert on the Titanic.” “Enough of your nonsense. Off with you, child.”

Mrs Carnovsky was about to close the door when Celia appeared. “He’s breathing,” she said. “I think he’s only fainted.”

“Feh!” Mrs Carnovsky scowled at Avram. “Fainted, stupid boy. Not drowned.”

She went back into her flat and returned to the Kahns with a bottle of smelling salts. Avram watched fascinated as the old woman wafted the blue opaque bottle under Nathan’s nose, confirming his belief she was a witch, with various magic potions at her disposal.

As Nathan twitched into consciousness his right hand began to jerk spontaneously, hitting out a beat on the floor in rhythm to his mumbled words: “Hundreds drowned. Hundreds drowned. Hundreds drowned.”

Mrs Carnovsky slapped her forehead. “What’s wrong with the children in this house?”

“He’s just very sensitive,” Celia said. “Well, get him to his bed, the two of you. I’ll wait here until your parents come home.”

Avram helped Celia pull Nathan to his feet, then together they half-dragged him into his bedroom to lie down. Nathan stayed there for a full week, speaking only occasionally to bemoan the tragedy that had befallen the victims of the Titanic.

Avram hung back in the shadow of the close watching the other boys play with a ball on the street. They called out to each other in names he’d never heard before.

Not the names of the forefathers, the kings and the prophets he was used to. But Tam, Shuggie, Wullie and Billy, Wee Jimmy.

Some played barefoot, their shoes left unscathed to one side. Others had no shoes at all. One boy’s legs were bent from rickets.

Not far from where Avram stood, three girls squatted on the pavement watching after a group of toddlers. Every so often, they’d look up at the game, shout out some sarcastic comment with a laugh and a sneer. The boy with rickets they called ‘Bandy’.

One of the girls got up, walked away from her friends, pulled down her knickers, and urinated in the gutter. When she’d finished, she turned round to Avram, flashed him a grin.

Realising he’d been staring, Avram felt his cheeks go hot, turned his attention back to the game.

Suddenly, all the activity stopped and Bandy walked away. Another heavier, taller boy screwed up his mouth, shook his head, then spat forcefully to the ground.

Tattered

He couldn’t understand why a similar fear and reverence should be attached to a man who made books

In his tattered yellow goalkeeping jersey, he stood out like a lighthouse above the ragged assortment who made up the rest of the street gang.

“You’re always sneakin’ awa’ early for your tea, ya big Jessie,” he called after the departing Bandy.

“Get lost, Solly.”

“Get lost yersel, Mammy’s boy.” “Ah’m no a Mammy’s boy,” Bandy said, his voice turning whiny.

“That’s ’cos ye’ve no got a Mammy. She’s gone off with the sailors.”

“That’s a total lie.”

“All right then. She’s gone off with the soldiers.”

The three girls looking after the bairns laughed. Solly seemed satisfied with this outcome, let Bandy slink off, folded his arms high on his chest, looked around. “Hey, you!”

Avram pointed a finger at his own chest. “Me?”

“Aye, you. D’ya wanna kick the leether aboot?”

Avram knew who Solly was. Solomon Green. Only son of Morris Green the bookmaker, or ‘Lucky Mo the Bookie’ as Papa Kahn called his neighbour and fellowcongregant from the synagogue.

Papa Kahn always pronounced Mr Green’s profession softly with a quick glance to either side. Avram’s mother had used the same gesture when she’d told him tales about the raids of the Cossack soldiers. He couldn’t understand why a similar fear and reverence should be attached to a man who made books. And why someone who did so should be considered lucky.

Solly picked up the badly beat-up leather football, walked over. The rest of his gang shuffled after him.

“The leether. D’ya wanna kick the leether aboot?” Solly said pointing to the battered object resting in the crook of his arm.

Avram shrugged. Solly moved in closer, looked him up and down.

“Ah know you.” Solly sniffed, then wiped a sleeve across his mouth. “You’re the orphan the Kahns took in. Celia told me.”

Even in the darkness of the close, Avram could make out Solly’s eyes. They weren’t hard or cruel as he had expected. But they flickered impatiently.

“D’ya wanna play footba’ then?” “Please speak slowly.”

“He’s wan o’ those immigrants wha cannae speak English,” one of the boys shouted.

“Shut yer gob,” Solly snapped. “Do-you-want-to-play-football?”

“I not play before.”

Solly grabbed Avram’s arm, swept him out of the confines of the close.

“That disnae matter. We just need you to fill up the numbers. Just kick the leether in the direction I tell ye.” Solly mimed a kick as he brought him over to the rest of his gang. “Just-kick-the-ball. Ye don’t need to be Patsy Gallacher.”

A couple of boys laughed but a look from Solly made them stop. Avram stood off at the periphery of the game, watching the other dozen or so boys scramble after the ball. He didn’t know what to do, yet he was happy to be with boys his own age, to be a part of something that wasn’t just Celia and Nathan.

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