‘That would be very nice, thank you.’

Chico’s aunty called for tea and this was presently brought. I was quite amazed by the teapot. All sheathed in leather it was, with spikes on the handle and studs all round the top.

‘For very special clients,’ she explained.

Chico swaggered off to the Laundromat to watch the socks go round and I spent a pleasant hour in his aunty’s company. She told me a lot about women and put me right on a great many things. Women are not sex objects, she told me. They are people too and must be respected. No does not mean yes, even if you’ve had ten pints of beer. You should never fart in front of women. Always wait until they’ve had their turn.[4] And countless other things, which I must say have helped me a lot over the years in what dealings I’ve had with the opposite sex. I do not believe that I’ve ever been a selfish lover, nor have I ever been disloyal. I have not elevated women, but neither have I degraded them. I have treated them as people and I have Chico’s aunt to thank for that.

She charged me half a crown for the consultation and I considered it cheap at the price. She kissed me on the cheek and I left the House of Correction never to return.

I lounged about outside for a while, wondering just how I would spend the balance of the day. I had just made up my mind that I would go and join Chico and watch the socks go round and round when the door of his aunty’s opened and the Doveston came out.

‘Hello,’ I said, ‘what have you been up to?’

‘Business.’ The Doveston winked. ‘Business with a woman?’

‘Yep,’ said the Doveston, straightening his tie.

I sighed and looked him up and down. ‘What are all those feathers on your trousers there?’ I asked.

7

The Doveston did not say ‘President who?’ He knew all about America. It was his ambition to own a tobacco plantation in Virginia. An ambition he would one day realize.

‘It was probably the secret police who killed him,’ was the Doveston’s opinion.

‘The secret who?’ I asked.

‘The secret police. Don’t you remember that time I took you to visit my uncle Jon Peru Joans? He said the secret police were after him.’

‘But he was a stone bonker.’

‘Maybe. But I was never able to find out what happened to him. They supposedly took him off to St Bernard’s and banged him up with the earwig victims. But I couldn’t get in to visit him and you re not going to tell me that it was just a coincidence that his conservatory burned to the ground.’

‘So you think there’s some kind of world-wide organization of secret policemen who do this kind of stuff?’

‘Bound to be. It’s what’s called a conspiracy theory. There’s a great deal more going on in this world than we get to read about in the papers. There are secrets everywhere.’

‘Did you really have sex with a chicken?’ I asked. But the Doveston didn’t reply.

We shuffled down Brentford High Street, pausing now and then to admire the beautifhl displays of fruit and veg and viands that filled the shop windows and spilled onto the pavement in baskets and barrels and buckets. We were greatly taken with the meat at Mr Beefheart’s.

‘That butcher really knows his stuff,’ said the Doveston, pointing to this cut, that cut and the other. ‘Wildebeest, I see’s on special offer.’

‘And the wild boar.

‘And the wolverine.’

‘And the white tiger too.’

‘I might buy some of those wallaby burgers, I’m having a party on Friday.’

‘A party?’ I said, much impressed. ‘But I thought only rich toffs had parties.’

‘Things have changed,’ said the Doveston, eyeing up the walrus steaks. ‘We’re in the Sixties now. No more ration books and powdered egg. The Prime Minister says that we’ve never had it so good.’

‘I’ve never had it at all.’

‘Well, you must come to my party. You never know your luck. Oh, and bring your friend Lopez, I want to have a little word with him.

‘Lopez isn’t with us any more. He pulled a knife and someone shot him dead.’

The Doveston shook his head and viewed the rack of water buffalo. ‘You know, if this keeps up,’ he said, ‘the Chicanos are going to blast themselves to extinction and then Brentford won’t have a Mexican quarter any more.

‘I find that rather hard to believe. Breniford’s always had a Mexican quarter.’

‘Mark well my words, my friend. It’s happened before. Do you remember the Street of the August Moon?’

‘No,’ I said. ‘I don’t.’

‘That’s because it’s now called Moby Dick Terrace. It used to be Chinatown. But they all wiped themselves out during the great Brentford tong wars of ‘fifty-three.’

‘I think my dad once mentioned those.’

‘And when did you last see a pygmy around here?’

‘I don’t think I ever have.’

‘Well, there used to be a whole tribe of them living in Mafeking Avenue until they fell out with the Zulus of Sprite Street. And you know the Memorial Park?’

‘Of course I do.’

‘That was once an Indian reservation. The Navajo lived there for hundreds of years until they fell out with the council, back in Victorian times.’

‘Why was that?’

‘The council wanted to put up a slide and some swings. The Navajo said that the land was sacred to their ancestors.’

‘So what happened?’

‘The council sent some chaps to parley with the chief. Heated words were exchanged and scalps were taken.’

‘Blimey,’ I said.

‘The council called in the cavalry. The Third Brentford Mounted Foot. They made short work of the Redskins.’

‘I’ve never seen that in a history book.’

‘And you won’t. A shameful hour in Brentford’s noble history. Kept secret, you see. The only reason I know about it is because my great-grandfather was there.’

‘Did he kill many Indians?’

‘Er, no,’ said the Doveston. ‘He wasn’t fighting on that side.’

I opened my mouth to ask further questions, but the Doveston drew my attention to a display of wolf-cub sausages. ‘I’ll get some of those for my party,’ he said.

We shuffled away from the butcher’s and passed the Laundromat just in time to see Chico being forcibly ejected.

‘You sons of bitches,’ cried the ganglord from the gutter. ‘Since when is sniffing socks against the law?’

‘Bring him,’ said the Doveston. ‘He sounds like fun.’

We left Chico to it and shuffled off to the Plume Café. Here the Doveston talked me into borrowing half a crown from him to buy two frothy coffees so that we could sit in the window with them and look cool.

‘So what’s this party all about?’ I asked as I spooned in sugar.

‘It’s a coming-of-age thing really. To celebrate puberty.’

‘I’ve done that twice already. And you’ve er...‘ I made chicken motions with my elbows.

‘You’ll get a smack’, the Doveston said, ‘if you ever mention that again.’

‘So are there going to be balloons at this party and jelly and games?’

‘You haven’t quite got to grips with puberty yet, have you? And do you really still fancy jelly?’

I thought about this. ‘No, I don’t. I really fancy beer.’

‘Then you’re getting there.’

‘Are you going to have girls at this party?’

‘Girls and beer and a record player.’

‘A record player?’ I whistled. ‘But I thought only rich toffs—’

The Doveston raised his eyebrows to me.

‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘The Sixties, I know.’

‘And it’s going to be a fancy dress party, so you’ll have to come in a costume. Make it something trendy and don’t come as a policeman.’