The Pattern Mafia - "We Try Our Best"
Chapter Twenty-Nine
The Story so Far … Ed the Ted has a plan to defeat Algebra and Charli is part of it. She just doesn’t know what part yet.
Spade delivers Desmond the cutter by lunchtime. Contrary to Sir Charles’s fears, Desmond is in his element in the East End.
“It’s like coming home, Sir Charles, like a family reunion, ghosts mainly, mind.”
A dapper little Yiddish man in a perfectly sculpted double-breasted pinstripe, his father had been a cutter, he says, and his great-grandfather had run a tailoring business in Hackney at a time when the Jewish immigrant population had dominated the rag-trade in the East End in the ’20s and ’30s of the previous century. Desmond, his jacket hung from the back of a chair in a quieter corner of the Snug, orders Sir Charles to raise his arms while he deploys his tape measure. An old notebook lying on the table is filling with measurements, recorded using a pencil lodged behind his right ear. True to his race, Desmond possesses a significant intelligence, a strong nose, vivid language, and an unstoppable flow of anecdotes.
“Oh yes, we Mintzes are no strangers to these parts. My family lived next door to a goyim family, Grandma, Ma, and Pa, three boys and a little girl. Crowded house, but they all were in those days. Lovely people, mind. Pa Cornwell and his eldest boy fought at Cable Street with all their neighbours, and Hatty was a Berner before she became a Cornwell, so there’s a history to be told. Mind you, that was all before my time, but we keep the family history, as you should. That way you know who you really are.”
Desmond pauses to suck on his teeth and shakes his head. “My, your Lordship, perhaps the diet is excessive? Eight inches you have lost, Sir Charles, eight inches.”
“I need your artistry, Desmond; I need presence and stature. Nobody believes in a banker who lacks stature,” Lord Charles booms. He stands, arms raised, the reefed sails of Normal’s salmon-striped pyjamas draping about him.
“Nobody believes in a bum,” Charli said.
Desmond tuts and shakes his head. “The little shiksa doesn’t have respect for her elders, does she, sir? Have another drink, dear, calms the nerves does it?” And Desmond mimes tippling from a glass and wobbles his head.
“How is business these days, Desmond, are the old clientele keeping you busy?”
“The usual, your Lordship, a good trade in the landed and the aspirational, and we still maintain a service for the fading. We do what we can to satisfy them all.”
“I am thinking in particular of the banking community…”
“You can lower your arms now, thank you, sir. The City relies on discretion, your Lordship.”
“As I rely upon yours.”
“More than just a three piece then, is it, Sir?”
“A little direction, Desmond, some considered advice, intended entirely to help those you may judge are in need. A charitable service in truth, an assistance to those whose fortune is in danger of being eclipsed.”
Desmond sucks on his teeth.
“In confidence.”
“Always! Always, dear Desmond. Would I ever threaten my long-standing friendship with the capital’s most skilled cutter? What a tragic day that would be.”
“How many ensembles would you be wanting, Sir?”
“Oh I think we must meet the varied needs of the four seasons; don’t you agree, Desmond?”
Desmond raises a quizzical eyebrow.
“With appropriate accessories, shirts of course…”
“Giza cotton is so expensive these days, your Lordship, after the Middle Eastern troubles spilled over into Egypt, you understand?”
“And yet, is there really an alternative, Desmond? And I fear I will be needing some rather distinguished and rare ties, to fix my presentation in the minds of my clients.”
Desmond looks down at Lord Charles’s pale, naked feet splayed on the dark and pitted oak floor of the Bear.
“Regrettably, Jeffry Peterson has retired. But Lobb’s have a promising young apprentice I am quite taken by. He has a delicate feel for the lasting.”
“I would be delighted to meet him, Desmond.”
Desmond smiles broadly and makes notes in his book as he calls out his score with relish.
“Four three-piece for day dress, with a dozen day shirts and ties. A raincoat, and an overcoat, of course, we wouldn’t want you to catch your death, would we, sir.”
“Most thoughtful, Desmond.”
The pause that followed was filled with thought.
“I hear that even the most traditional banks are now succumbing to the advances of technology, your Lordship, even the experienced are finding their positions eroded.”
“Disgraceful. No respect. Anyone in particular?”
“Do you remember Jolyn Huckster-Barrington, Sir Charles?”
“Jolly, down on his luck?”
“Soon to be very much so. As is the Earl Clybourne, which I find very sad. Where is a mature gentleman to find suitable employment in these heartless days?”
“Just so, very interesting. Pray continue, Desmond.”
“And that’s how it works, my dear,” the Scholar beams in triumph.
Desmond had packed his notebook away and finished his small glass of sherry before being returned to Jermyn Street. Sir Charles sits before Charli, a fresh cup of the blackest coffee in front of him.
“I get it. Intelligence gathering,” Charli said.
“And judgement, dear girl. Desmond has met them all, well a great many of them, and he can sort the wheat from the chaff.”
“But if they are supposed to be the wheat, why are they on their way out?”
“Oh I see you don’t understand, it’s the chaff we are after. The failing, the needy. Those who are not professionally discredited as of yet, a good reputation is essential for our needs – but they are on their way out the door and know it. They will grasp at any straw.”
Lord Charles beams at Charli, who raises her eyebrows and empties her glass. She looks at the bar but Normal ignores her. She turns back to the pyjamaed lord of the realm.
“You’re not a Lord.”
Lord Charles looks hurt. “You say that with such certainty, my dear.”
“Seriously. It’s obviously part of your con.”
“I understand one’s presentation does not suggest the role, but that is merely a matter of fabric and yarn, and yet I must disabuse you of your certainty, for I am indeed a lord of the manor.”
Charli protests, “OK, I’ll bite. How did you become a lord? Conquer a diner, slay a black cab?”
“The usual way, dear girl, the application of lucre.”
“Surely you cannot buy a Lordship. You need history, an inheritance, know the King, or something.”
His Lordship chuckles.
“The English hierarchy is a system of sumptuous complexity and eccentricity, my dear. Whilst it might prove impossible to purchase a knighthood, despite impeccable political connections and a substantial donation to the government of the day, it still requires the assent of the Monarch upon presentation to the Privy Council. A manorial title is merely a matter of acquisition. It comes with the land, you see.”
“You just buy a piece of land?”
“Land with a title.”
“And that makes you…”
“A Lord of the manor? Wonderfully bizarre, is it not? It helps give one significant kudos amongst the ignorant and easily led.”
Charli sits back, rolling her eyes, which Lord le Grey had to admit had a most stimulating effect.
“This is one deranged little country.”
“We try our best.”
Interesting background. Pray continue.....