The Credit Draper Episode 73

Archie took a good look at Avram. “Where did ye learn to kick the leether like that?” he asked. Avram shrugged. “On the streets. School team.”

“Well, ye can play with us any time. We’re awfully short these days.”

“I’m not in Oban much.”

“Disnae matter. Just when ye can.”

“When do you play?” “Saturday mornings. If I’m not here, I’ll be at the fish markets by the pier. I’m an apprentice cooper for my father.”

He thanked Archie for the offer and rushed to the station. The Glasgow train had already pulled in.

“Boychik. I’m glad to see you.” Uncle Mendel was checking several parcels at his feet, reconciling them with some list in his head. “Take these, these and these. I’ll take the rest.”

Little attention

The Oban Arms was a small, whitewashed pub with a low lintel of oak beam that Avram had to crouch under to enter.

The interior was dim and smoky, with most of the rickety tables occupied by fishermen who paid little attention to the entrance of an Orthodox Jew and his armful of parcels, save for an arched eyebrow or a disinterested glance.

Some of the men played dominoes, some warmed their drinks in the palms of their hands, others just sat staring at the walls with the far-away look of men used to vast empty horizons. There was not much chat.

The barman eased towards them with a generous wipe of a cloth across the counter. “Moses?”

Uncle Mendel pulled out a small bundled handkerchief from his pocket, unwrapped it to reveal a shot glass which he placed carefully on the bar top.

“Whisky. And for you, boychik?” Avram looked around at what the others were drinking. “Beer?”

The barman glanced at Uncle Mendel. “For my young business partner, a half-pint.”

Avram followed his uncle in laying down his parcels, resting a foot on the brass rail, placing an elbow across the bar, still damp from the barman’s rag.

The drinks were poured. Uncle Mendel tossed back his, ordered another.

Avram sipped at his beer. It came warm and sloppish with hardly a head on it. But it was the first he had tasted and he felt more of a man for it, even though the hoppy taste was not particularly to his liking.

“The belt, boychik. The belt. Pass it over. Slowly. So no one can see.”

Avram turned to face the bar, hitched up his sweater, unbuckled the money-belt under the cover of his jacket. Uncle Mendel snatched it from him, quickly wrapped it around his own waist under his jacket and cardigan.

He then fiddled one of the pouches open, wriggled out some coins with his thick fingers.

“Wait here.”

Uncle Mendel went over to a corner of the bar. A lone drinker sitting with his pint and newspaper looked up, registered the approach with a nod and a blink. The man’s eyes sat tiny on either side of a large tuberous nose, bruised veins flowed ready to burst across his red-raw ravaged cheeks.

Business

Avram saw him put a hand into the top pocket of his jacket, pull out a wad of papers, sifting through them with a licked finger until he presented one to Uncle Mendel.

Uncle Mendel took the slip, scrutinised it for a moment, then shook the other man’s hand with both of his. Watching on, Avram was sure Uncle Mendel had passed over the coins with his grasp.

“Good,” Uncle Mendel said, slightly breathless on his return. “Now, tell me about business.”

“Who is that man?”

“Just a goy.”

“You gave him money.”

“I said just a goy. Now, business.” Avram handed over the order book and Uncle Mendel proceeded to flick through the pages, running a finger up and down the columns, suggesting a bigger mark-up here, a longer time to pay there.

He dwelt longer on the totals, made some quick calculations which he wrote into another page with a pencil stub, then snapped the book shut.

“Not bad, boychik. Not bad for a first time.”

Avram relaxed, downed the rest of his beer. His cheeks burned hot as the warm liquid sloshed uneasily in his stomach. But he felt cheery in his heart, and a kindly disposition towards the dim cosiness of his surroundings.

He accepted another drink, listened as Uncle Mendel spoke of Papa Kahn’s slow recovery and Madame Kahn’s return to running the household. Mary came in daily, but no longer lived upstairs. Only Nathan’s situation remained unchanged.

“A conversation you cannot have with him,” Uncle Mendel said as he stuffed his pipe with tobacco from a leather pouch. “Yet I am sure what you say he understands.”

Avram waited for more but Uncle Mendel had retreated into his own world as he savoured the first draws on his pipe.

Arrested

“How is Celia?” Avram asked. It was strange to utter the name. He flushed to the sound of it.

“Ah, Celia.” Uncle Mendel sighed. “One of these suffragettes she is becoming. A rally here, a rally there. Handing out leaflets. Martha is frightened she will be arrested. But these days, everywhere Martha sees enemies. I don’t tell this to my sister. But of Celia I am secretly proud.”

Avram imagined Celia standing on street corners, distributing her propaganda, her earnest face shining with the same excitement he had seen as she turned towards the demonstrations in George Square.

“Wouldn’t you like to take part in all these demonstrations, uncle?”

“I’m helping. In my way.” “Helping to promote your socialism?” “The ordinary working people, they are angry. Not just because of the rent increases and the evictions. But the poverty and the lack of housing. For Jew and non-Jew alike.” Uncle Mendel shrugged then went back to noisily sucking his pipe. “I am not in Glasgow often. What can I do?”

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.

The fishermen paid little attention to the entrance of an Orthodox Jew and his armful of parcels, save for an arched eyebrow