2 The Imposter Read Online Free
Author: Mark Dawson
got plenty in common.” He shadow-boxed for moment, firing out a gentle combination. “The noble art and all that.”
“That’s true.”
“I’m thinking about keeping it up, doing a bit of sparring. You should come along, once your foot’s better.”
“It’s nearly better now,” he said. There had been nothing to do on the voyage home except put his feet up and read and the rest had done wonders for the wound. “I’d love to.”
“Here, hold on.” He took his travel pass and a pen from his pocket. He scribbled a number on the docket and handed it to him. “You should be able to reach me here. Give me a ring when you’re settled. We could have a spar and then go for a pint.”
“Capital idea.”
“That’s settled, then.”
Joseph pulled him in and pounded him on the back. “Good to meet you, Doc,” he said. “Enjoy being home. And call me––alright?”
Edward said that he would, and he meant it.
3
EDWARD TRANSFERRED ONTO THE UNDERGROUND. When he emerged from Tottenham Court Road station half an hour later it was into a warm dusk. The damage that had been done to the city since his departure was difficult to credit. Even now, with peace a year old, windows were still missing and there were holes in roofs. Some buildings had been pulverised, as if crushed by a giant’s fist. Others, the remedial work more advanced, had been removed neatly from the surrounding terrace as one would remove a slice of cake. It was as if they had never even been there, weeds already growing in their foundations. A fine film of dust thickened the city’s usual smog, coating everything with a patina of grime.
He passed into Soho. He had grown up on its exciting grill of good-time streets and he retained fond memories of it. It was like a tiny international resort with an ozone of garlic, curry, ceremonious sauces and a hundred far-flung cheeses. The war had not changed it. The carrier cans in the windows were still full of salad and cooking oil and you could still find dozens of Spanish cheeses, snails, octopus and Chinese cheesecake. There was Dijon mustard; Rajah-like Eastern dishes costing pounds or modest four-bob curries; sex books; strip-tease shows; exotic clubs and thirty-odd different kinds of bread. Edward walked towards his destination and passed a woman reverently dusting bottles of wine, adorned with a whole picture gallery of labels, handing them to her small son who squatted in the shop window arranging them for display. Outside, the father stood, both arms extended, directing the whole operation like a temperamental stage manager.
Eating was still a serious business and there remained sophisticated restaurants that laid on discreet shabbiness like a sort of make-up, knowing that serious gourmets do not bother much about decor. The Shangri-La was one such establishment. It was on Dean Street, one of the bisecting thoroughfares that ran north-to-south, connecting Oxford Street to Shaftesbury Avenue. It had twenty tables offering eighty covers and a small bar. Edward’s father had taken out a loan for a hundred pounds in 1936 and had spent it on a thorough refurbishment: wooden panels had been fitted to the walls and intricate stained-glass windows had been installed. The carpet, table clothes and curtains were all in dark colours and a fire burned in the grate. The intention had been to make something that felt exclusive, the kind of cosy clubbable charm that one might find in a Mayfair private members room. It had worked, to a point, but that was back then; now the carpets were tatty and the edges of the curtains had frayed. The room, like the city outside, looked faded and tired, like an elderly relative who had seen better days.
Edward made his way around to the kitchen entrance.
The small kitchen staff was busy. Jimmy Stern was working in front of the range, chopping vegetables, two large saucepans sending clouds of steam up to the ceiling. He was slick with sweat and his whites were slathered
“That’s true.”
“I’m thinking about keeping it up, doing a bit of sparring. You should come along, once your foot’s better.”
“It’s nearly better now,” he said. There had been nothing to do on the voyage home except put his feet up and read and the rest had done wonders for the wound. “I’d love to.”
“Here, hold on.” He took his travel pass and a pen from his pocket. He scribbled a number on the docket and handed it to him. “You should be able to reach me here. Give me a ring when you’re settled. We could have a spar and then go for a pint.”
“Capital idea.”
“That’s settled, then.”
Joseph pulled him in and pounded him on the back. “Good to meet you, Doc,” he said. “Enjoy being home. And call me––alright?”
Edward said that he would, and he meant it.
3
EDWARD TRANSFERRED ONTO THE UNDERGROUND. When he emerged from Tottenham Court Road station half an hour later it was into a warm dusk. The damage that had been done to the city since his departure was difficult to credit. Even now, with peace a year old, windows were still missing and there were holes in roofs. Some buildings had been pulverised, as if crushed by a giant’s fist. Others, the remedial work more advanced, had been removed neatly from the surrounding terrace as one would remove a slice of cake. It was as if they had never even been there, weeds already growing in their foundations. A fine film of dust thickened the city’s usual smog, coating everything with a patina of grime.
He passed into Soho. He had grown up on its exciting grill of good-time streets and he retained fond memories of it. It was like a tiny international resort with an ozone of garlic, curry, ceremonious sauces and a hundred far-flung cheeses. The war had not changed it. The carrier cans in the windows were still full of salad and cooking oil and you could still find dozens of Spanish cheeses, snails, octopus and Chinese cheesecake. There was Dijon mustard; Rajah-like Eastern dishes costing pounds or modest four-bob curries; sex books; strip-tease shows; exotic clubs and thirty-odd different kinds of bread. Edward walked towards his destination and passed a woman reverently dusting bottles of wine, adorned with a whole picture gallery of labels, handing them to her small son who squatted in the shop window arranging them for display. Outside, the father stood, both arms extended, directing the whole operation like a temperamental stage manager.
Eating was still a serious business and there remained sophisticated restaurants that laid on discreet shabbiness like a sort of make-up, knowing that serious gourmets do not bother much about decor. The Shangri-La was one such establishment. It was on Dean Street, one of the bisecting thoroughfares that ran north-to-south, connecting Oxford Street to Shaftesbury Avenue. It had twenty tables offering eighty covers and a small bar. Edward’s father had taken out a loan for a hundred pounds in 1936 and had spent it on a thorough refurbishment: wooden panels had been fitted to the walls and intricate stained-glass windows had been installed. The carpet, table clothes and curtains were all in dark colours and a fire burned in the grate. The intention had been to make something that felt exclusive, the kind of cosy clubbable charm that one might find in a Mayfair private members room. It had worked, to a point, but that was back then; now the carpets were tatty and the edges of the curtains had frayed. The room, like the city outside, looked faded and tired, like an elderly relative who had seen better days.
Edward made his way around to the kitchen entrance.
The small kitchen staff was busy. Jimmy Stern was working in front of the range, chopping vegetables, two large saucepans sending clouds of steam up to the ceiling. He was slick with sweat and his whites were slathered
Readers choose
Raymond Federman, George Chambers
Maureen Lee
Kenneth Mark Hoover
Marysol James
Alia Yunis
Kate Johnson
Cat Johnson
Pamela Ann
Richard Flunker
Hortense Calisher