Percy Crow

Chapter Four: Pingo

“I heard the name once, Harry, but I can"t remember exactly who said it.” George was sitting opposite Mrs Squires on one of the sofas that flanked the coffee table, Phillip, my grandfather, had brought back to London from his travels abroad. The only chair that was left vacant was the grey leather one that I remember Elliot using when I"d come to tell him of my mother"s imminent death. I felt embarrassed as I sat in it. Mrs Squires smiled at me as I was awkwardly fidgeting as George continued.

“Both Maudlin and Phillip were in the drawing room entertaining some theatrical people when I overheard it. Looking back I think it was just before Phillip took over at Queen Anne"s Gate, or rather Maudlin allowed him to think he was in control there. Normally the two hardly spoke, having only Annie"s and the love of women in common. They never actually got on at all, Harry. I always thought that Phillip was a lonely man, overshadowed completely by your great-grandfather. I mirrored your grandfather Phillip in several ways. If I"m right, then I had been here about a month, dreadfully missed being around you and all the things at Harrogate. You were like my brother even though there were many years between us. It was a huge shock changing from the familiarity of the estate to the regimentation of London. I hated it here in the beginning, lacking confidence in a big way as a young man. The isolation of being away from the Hall didn"t help me at all.”

He had a sad, resentful expression as he entered into one of those long pictorial speeches which he was so fond of, never one to use a single word where several would fit, especially when it involved himself. I wondered how many stories Loti had heard whilst she was still alive here with her son, around a roaring log fire in the depths of a London winter with a man who she knew so little of. Countless, I hoped, as many and more as the years that they had been separated from each other. Mrs Squires had shaken her head when I showed her Percy Crow"s picture in the Islington Gazette. She sat back the functional, but unimaginative sofa so loved by previous family inhabitants, relaxed by George"s narrative.

“No one pointed him out that night. I would have remembered if they had. I don"t even know if he was here, or exactly why his name was mentioned, but I can remember what was said very clearly indeed, Harry.”

“After so many years, George? Why so?”

“Because it scared the proverbial out of me.” He glanced at Mrs Squires before fixing his widen eyes on me, imperceptibly nodding his head as he spoke those words.

“Go on then, George. Deliver the punchline. The both of us are all ears.”

That Percy Crow is like his namesake the bird. Evil creatures! They"d tear your skin off if you were to fall asleep for too long.

“For more months than I care to remember, I had nightmares of birds eating me alive! That"s why those chilling words have stayed with me all my life.”

I had gone full circle from that Sunday morning back at Harrogate two years ago, when I was cleaning my guns and was told of my father"s death. Only that time it was me chasing crows. I had been out shooting them before they picked the eyes from lambs on one of the tenanted farms. Some coincidence!

“If it helps, Harry, I know it was not long after the Americans had shot down two Libyan fighter jets, and the Middle East in general was causing concern. The Israelis had bombed Beirut not long after the president of that country had resigned.”

“Thanks for that, George, I"m sure that will help. Another thing that might help would be a list of the guests at that gathering. Wouldn"t happen to have one lying around somewhere, would you?”

“If he doesn"t then I will, my Lord.” It was Mrs Squires who volunteered the information.

“I kept all the old housekeeper"s diaries from those days, my Lord. Mrs Hodges gave me them when she retired to Bournemouth. George was under a Mrs Thompson"s guidance for a few more years before he fully took over the role of secretary. It"s a good many years back, but there will be a record; somewhere, even if it was just a list of the food I served. Lord Maudlin was very particular in not inviting the same guests often, let alone serving the same meal. He said they would be "more than usually boring if seen regularly and tantamount to insufferable if they feasted on identical dinners", I"ll take a look in those files.”

I could picture great-grandfather Maudlin in a fit of pique saying just that. He was never the gregarious type, preferring company of his own choice rather than those thought of as a social necessity. The same reasoning lay behind his hobby of photography. It was a private matter away from the commercialism and the philandering of his busy life. His photographs covered a vast spectrum of subjects, from women he had met to places he had visited, both either in a professional capacity or one of privacy. It also numbered many thousands, or so I recalled. After an hour or so of searching through a few hundred of them for something with Percy"s image in, I gave up and suggested to George a trip across town to Ludgate Hill and Percy"s once upon a time studio, for the following day. That evening we spent reminiscing about Loti, previous members of staff who worked here, of dinner parties thrown by either Phillip or Maudlin, or anything that George or Mrs Squires wanted to speak of, as we reacquainted ourselves with those halcyon days of youth.

* * *

Number 12 Pilgrim Street, EC4 was no more. Where once was Percy"s photographic studios, presumably along with other commercial establishments, now there was the rear and side walls to a red bricked railway station. The whole street was sliced in two by it, with steps leading to the busy thoroughfare running from Ludgate Circus to Blackfriars Bridge in the south. Nothing that either of us could see looked anything other than modern. We tried the nearest pub. I have never been a lover of lunchtime drinking and so was thankful that there were only two in the immediate vicinity and none in an easterly direction towards St Paul"s; however, the scarcity was not so in and around Fleet Street where there were numerous.

I had downed five half pints of cold insipid lager by the time we arrived at The Flag, in Old Mitre Court, near The Temple, and I was feeling the strain. The place smelled strongly of disinfectant which maybe all pubs had done before smoking was banned, in this regard none we had so far visited differed. My choice of beverage had.

Ordering two coffees from the sullen middle-aged woman behind the bar who was more interested in a male customer opposite, we occupied two rickety barstools, watching her pour the coffees from a purpose-made pristine chrome machine.

“We"re looking for anyone who may have known a photographer who worked in these parts from maybe the 1960s through to the eighties. Went by the name of Percy Crow. Had a shop the other side of Ludgate Circus, toward St Paul"s. He may have drunk in this place back in those days. You"re obviously too young to remember him in person, but I thought you might of heard something. Anything would help.” I asked, guessing at the beginning date, thinking it reasonable given what I had.

The barmaid was in her late forties and not unattractive, brown hair with brown eyes and a figure that belied her years. As it was a Saturday I believed she only worked here at weekends for the extra cash so I had no delusions about the distinct probability of her lack of knowledge along with the; Never heard of him. Sorry, mate, we had heard everywhere else up until now. I was wrong.

“I knew him. My parents used to own this place from 1976, until my mother, God rest her soul, died four years later. That"s when Dad packed up and moved out of the trade. I was twelve when we left here. A very creepy type, was that Percy Crow. Tall man with thick grey hair and a bit deaf. I accidentally came across him once and remember how he smelled strange. Then, when I found out he was a photographer, I thought it must have been all the chemical stuff they used in developing. I was coming through the bar one day with Mum. We"d been shopping up west and she"d forgotten the key to the back door, so we came in through the bar. That"s when that man Crow spoke to me. Dad became very agitated, quickly taking me straight upstairs and giving Mum a look I can still remember to this day.

When we were going upstairs to the flat, he said that he was an evil man and I must never speak to him if I was alone. Never dwelt on it, nor elaborated, but that"s why I remember the name. Put the fear of God into me, that did! We moved to Clerkenwell, but I"ve always kept in and around this area in one capacity or another. Worked on the papers for a time, then did pub work. Strange now I come to think of it, that I never saw the man again around here. There"s a barber shop just round the corner where the old boy who runs it was here in the seventies. He might know more about that Percy Crow than I do. He goes by the name of Malcolm, but that"s not his real name. Dad used to call him Frank. Frank the beaver.”

“Funny name that, the beaver.” George had been all ears, reminding me of Jimmy Mercer in the way that he stirred his coffee.

“Dad said it was because he beavered away into the lives of everyone he came across until he knew all there was to know about them,” our informative barmaid added, as she departed back towards the chap she was speaking to on our arrival.

The streets were quiet and the air almost breathable without the usual weekday buses and cabs that polluted it so badly, as I consigned George to a jeweller"s shop that we had passed with the task of buying a present for Mrs Squires. He wasn"t pleased, as it was with his own money I suggested the gift be bought. He had not given her anything in the way of a bonus since his permanent establishment, which I found odd. I had never had a reason to enquire into his generosity, assuming that he would have been doting on her since the inheritance from his father, but that wasn"t the case. If anything he was mean, having already discussed the need of diminishing her hours, along with her pay, now there was only him to look after. I argued against this, stressing her importance to the family and to his overall wellbeing. He countered with her age, and how the work was beginning to become too much for her. This I found impossible to dispute, leaving me to ponder on how best to overcome the problem.

With that complication on my mind I entered The Fleet Street Barber, just as one client was being shown the back of his head by a slightly built young man holding a rounded mirror on a narrow wooden handle. I was disappointed. I thought the barber to be too young for any useful information and was about to turn on my heals and leave, when an elderly man in his late sixties, who had been reading a magazine at the end of the row of wall-mounted orange empty chairs, jumped up, ushering me to enter. The place was well beyond its prime, making no attempt to appear anything but adequate and utilitarian. Brightly fluorescence lit, smelling of Old Spice and heated hair dryers with well-worn orange linoleum. A pile of mixed coloured swept hair lay beneath a broom to the side of the door, by a plastic bag-lined red metal bin.

“Hello there! I"m looking for Maurice. Could that be you?” I asked, as the bell-jangling door closed behind me.

“That"s me, young sir! Maurice by name, haircutter extraordinaire by expert nature. Where others see a number one with a taper to the back, I see a creation waiting to hatch. Take a seat and let the world pass by. What"s to be your pleasure this wonderful day? A shave perhaps!” I didn"t think I was that scruffy but as I was forced to look in no other direction than the mirror in front, I could see I was mistaken!

“Yes, that seems a good place for the tidy-up to start!” I replied.

His magazine was flamboyantly tossed to the seat simultaneously with the dramatic opening of a black gown for my arms, with so much extravagant theatrical aplomb that I wondered if he had been on the list at that gathering in Eton Square, but I doubted Maudlin would have known him. However, as I"d seldom been right in so many things lately there was an enormous opening for a shock.

“I was somewhat surprised to see you open on a Saturday afternoon. This part of town must be dreadfully quiet at the weekends, surely?” making light conversation, I offered.

“Not a wrong assumption at all, if you didn"t know the local clientele. I"m luckily surrounded by private investment banks who open at otherwise unwelcome hours to regular bankers. They"re mostly staffed by young, very rich, hard-working people who have little time for the subtleties of life like a haircut. They do, however, have a huge desire to party when time permits. If I"m not mistaken that is precisely what this young man beside us is going to do later tonight with his superb new hairstyle provided by my skilled colleague.” He opened the palm of his left hand towards the chair beside me and the chap being brushed down before departing. He simply ignored our conversation, paid and left!

“Besides, what other mischief would an old villain like me do on a Saturday afternoon? Perhaps you"re now thinking that I"m only interested in listening to money-making opportunities told under the hypnotising effect of my dazzling scissors. Not so, sir! Not so. I owe my adoring public my unfaltering allegiance. Now, what will it be apart from a shave? A trim, or a whole new personality, young sir?”

“Afraid I"m a bit too old for the full outwards appearance change. Best to stick to just a trim and a shave, I think. I"ll tell you why I looked you up. You were once mentioned by my great-grandfather, and as I was nearby I thought I"d call in and samples the wares, as it were.”

“Now, that makes me feel really old. Your great-grandfather, you say! And there I was having a good day! Who exactly was your relative?”

“Lord Maudlin Paterson, of Harrogate, Yorkshire.”

“Well, that is peculiar as I"ve never ventured further north than Barnet, and that was only for the fair. Joke there, sorry. Barnet fair, rhyming cockney slang for hair. But no, can"t say I know the gentleman. Still with us, is he? I only ask as you"re so young to be a lord,” with the familiar unctuousness of the hairdressing trade, he asked.

“Passed away a good few years ago now, the old chap! Just like a similar friend of yours; Percy Crow! I believe you knew him well, didn"t you?”

“You do come full of questions, sir. A Queen"s lord still asking about Pingo after all this time. Now that would make him smile.” Thus began the process of dissemination of a one-time friend in more ways than just the cutting of a single strand of hair.