Chapter 2

SKINNER’S STORY

Harold Skinner paused before knocking on the Headmaster’s door.

“Come in,”

He entered the study and accepted Mr. Quelch’s invitation to sit down. As he did so, he crossed his legs and reposed himself in an exaggeratedly casual manner. Mr. Quelch pursed his lips in anger at this lack of respect, but restricted himself to a glare. Harold Skinner was not an attractive young man. He was approaching six foot in height, razor thin with a narrow pallid face, a large nose with small eyes that darted around giving him a sly, devious air. In his case, looks were not deceptive. Untrustworthy to a fault, careless with the truth, he was an unreliable friend but an implacable and vengeful enemy. He possessed a biting wit which he used to ill effect upon those he perceived as weaker than himself. He fancied himself as something of a dandy and dressed as well as his resources allowed. With his height and slim build, he carried himself with a certain elegant raffish air.

Mr. Quelch started, “Now Skinner, shortly you will leave Greyfriars to make your way in the world. You have had the privilege…..”

“Oh, can it!” interjected Skinner.

Mr. Quelch’s eyes bulged and his face reddened with anger.

“How dare you, Skinner? Such effrontery….”

Again, Skinner interrupted, “Look sir, you don’t like me and never have. For what it’s worth, the feeling is mutual, so let’s skip the meaningless platitudes,”

Mr. Quelch was rarely at a loss for words, but Skinner’s cheek seemed to have deprived him of the power of speech. He recognized the truth in Skinner’s words. There was little he liked about Skinner. He disliked his underhand ways, his cowardice and misuse of his undoubted intelligence to further, often by unscrupulous methods, his own selfish ends. These were the antithesis of the ethos that Mr. Quelch imagined Greyfriars would incult into its pupils. 

Skinner looked at Mr. Quelch with wry amusement. Until now, he wouldn’t have had the nerve to cheek him in such an open manner. Now he was leaving in a few days’ time, he felt immune from his anger. It pleased him to see his headmaster wrestle with his conflicting emotions. Mr. Quelch resisted the temptation to smack Skinner’s head or to indulge in an outburst of anger. Instead, he said quietly.

“This attitude won’t help you get along in life outside these walls. Wherever you go, whatever you do, there will always be someone whether an institution or an individual you can’t afford to cross. You may find that out too late,”

“I think I’ll do OK,” he said complacently.

“What are your plans on leaving school?”

“My pater has fixed me up with a bank in central London,”

“Which one?”

“The Metropolitan and Empire,”

Mr. Quelch paused, “Somehow I don’t see you as a banker Skinner,”

Skinner shrugged, “Neither do I. But it’s a start and once in London there should be plenty of opportunity for a man with my talents,”

Mr. Quelch thought grimly, though didn’t say, that Skinner’s talents would lead him down some dark alleys. 

“That will be all. You may go”. 

With those words, he contemptuously dismissed Skinner and started reading some papers. This peremptory dismissal took Skinner aback and he scowled in annoyance but, unable to think of a response, turned and left wordlessly. 

Four weeks later Skinner paused before striding through the front doors of the Metropolitan and Empire Bank in the heart of the city of London. The building itself was impressive, in terms of size if little else, an example of self-confident late Victorian Architecture. A classic Greek exterior with Ionic pillars complete with pediment and frieze of a mythic battle gave way, incongruously, to an interior owing more to the Gothic revival movement than the ancient world. The schizophrenic nature of the building, with its mediaeval interior, caused much criticism, if not downright derision when completed. It spawned no offspring and remained the sole example of its type. However, it pleased the board of the bank who commissioned it, ruined the reputation of the architect who designed it, and continued to be regarded with affection as an eccentricity by those who worked in it.

Skinner knew nothing of this but was impressed by its opulence, as he had been when he attended his interview three months previously. His father had warned him, 

“Harold, I expect you to do your best. I’ve had to pull a few strings to even get you this far, given your poor exam results. I know they don’t reflect your abilities, so you had better pull your socks up for this interview. If you fail to get this job you can’t expect much further help from me.” 

Skinner understood the implied threat. He had been just sufficiently impressive at the interview to be employed by the bank. He approached a man sitting at a high desk to the left of the entrance and explained who he was and why he was there. The man without looking up from his papers said.

“Out the way you came in, turn right, through the staff entrance. You shouldn’t have come in here in the first place,” 

With that, he ignored Skinner who accepted the admonishment with an unseen sneer, turned, left the building and walked to the correct entrance. He was directed to the office of Mr. Henderson.

“Yes, Mr. Skinner. We’ve been expecting you. Please take a seat,”

He then went to the door and called.

“Mr. Samuels, will you please come in?”

A snub-nosed young man, about a year older than Skinner, came in and sat beside him. After introductions were made, Mr. Henderson explained that he himself would be Skinner’s immediate superior with general responsibility for his induction into the Bank.

“You will work in various departments to give you an insight how they run. Samuels here will help you during your initial period. He has been with us for 12 months now, and will be your first port of call for any advice you need, although my door is also open. You are aware, you have to attend night classes…” 

Henderson noted the brief look of disgust on Skinner’s face but continued, “for two evenings a week. These have been arranged. Your enrolment papers are here, please take them with you.”

He continued, at length, to explain the history of the bank. Its founding as a bank in a market town in Hampshire, moving to Southampton renaming itself the Hampshire and District Bank then expanding into London where it became the Metropolitan and Provincial Bank before dropping the Provincial as it became an international concern and settling of the grandiose title it now bore. Mr. Henderson puffed up with reflected pride as he extolled the virtues of the bank, its glowing prospects and opportunities for a young recruit such as Skinner. Skinner listened, unimpressed, but calculating that it may well suit his purposes to ingratiate himself with Mr. Henderson. When the monologue ceased, he responded with false enthusiasm.

“Thank you, sir. I fully intend to grasp this great opportunity with both hands,”

Henderson was no fool and not convinced by Skinner thought ‘We may have to watch this one’ but replied 

“That’s good to hear. One thing, however, your suit,” 

Skinner was surprised as he thought he looked rather dapper. 

“It’s not in keeping with the bank dress code as you should have known. You’re not here to introduce a music hall variety act,”

Inwardly Skinner seethed, but chose to find the last sally humorous.

“Yes, of course. Sorry, sir. I should have realised, and tomorrow I shall be dressed more appropriately,”

“See that you do. Well, Mr. Skinner, I wish you good luck. For the next several weeks you will work with Mr. Samuels here,”

He then stood up and extended his hand, indicating that the meeting was over.

When Skinner closed the door behind him, he muttered “Who the hell does he think he is?” Samuels upon hearing this and observing his enraged features said hastily.

“Oh, he’s not so bad when you get used to him. He does go on a bit,” ending with a short giggle. 

As soon as he opened his mouth Skinner felt contempt for him, since he spoke with an unmistakable cockney accent disguised inadequately and incongruously with overtones of middle class “King’s English”. Skinner by instinct a snob, although from no highbrow family himself, instantly regarded Samuels as a creature of a lower order. There was little to justify his assumption of superiority. Samuels came from the East End of London, left school at 14 to work in a foundry, but by dint of hard work at night school educated himself to a sufficient level to obtain his job in the bank. He was there despite his background and totally by his own merits. Skinner, by contrast, relied on family support and public-school background. Also, unlike Skinner physically, he was small, slightly rotund, snub nosed with an open friendly face. Skinner looked at him closely and, perceptively, recognized him as someone who could be a useful ally. In Greyfriars he had been the acknowledged leader of a trio of like-minded boys, despised by their contemporaries, but content in their own company and in pursuing “shady” activities. Freddy Stott, one of the triumvirate, was the less malleable, but Sidney Snoop was a faithful follower and rarely, if ever, failed to follow Skinner’s lead. It was Skinner’s way to spot any weakness in others and, if possible, exploit it. He restrained his natural impulse to respond with a put down and replied.

“Oh, I suppose so. It looks like you and I will be colleagues for some time,” and giving a friendly smile, added, “I’m sure we’ll get along,”

“Yes, I’m sure of that,” said the fly to the spider.

They took the rest of the day showing Skinner round the bank, its various departments, and the general office where he was to start. He was to be nowhere near, for the moment, the public areas other than when delivering messages. Much of his work consisted in recording mail as it came in, ensuring that it went to the right person and recording the responses as they were mailed out. These duties were combined with acting as a messenger and general dogsbody.

“That happens to all new recruits. Don’t worry you’ll get more responsibilities in due course,” reassured Samuels. 

Skinner, unreassured, despised the work and for the most part his co-workers. He chafed under the restrictions but realised the necessity of outwardly conforming. It was a safe job and whilst not well paid, his modest Bermondsey accommodation was being paid for by his father and as he could walk to the bank, his earnings were all his own. Samuels, first name Jeff, had become, as he hoped, a faithful acolyte helping him through the long and confusing first few weeks and then, subsequently, frequently, covering up for his mistakes and occasional short absences. Skinner found routine a soporific drug. He cultivated, as best he could, Mr. Henderson, although found him a harder nut to crack. Henderson sometimes criticized him for poor work, upbraided him for smoking outside the rest room, and despite Skinner’s efforts still regarded him with suspicion. However, his conduct was not markedly worse than that of others, and Mr. Henderson, a fair man, was positive in his reports to his superiors about Skinner.

Skinner cultivated Samuels and a few other employees of similar age and outlook and they often, after work, went for a drink and occasionally to horse or dog races allowing him to indulge in his passion for gambling. They even induced him to attend the odd football match at Upton Park, despite his dislike of sport, either watching or playing it. Life jogged on in this fashion, as he enjoyed the many diversions on offer in the big city.

About nine months after he had started, he was walking along Piccadilly on a Saturday afternoon when a familiar voice hailed him.

“Hi there Skinner,”

He turned around and saw Herbert Vernon Smith approaching him.

“Smithy. Good to see you. How are things with you?”

“Oh, not so bad” Indeed he was snappily dressed and looking well. Every inch the young man about town. “And what are you doing with yourself?”

“I’m working for the Metropolitan,” 

It was unnecessary to give the bank’s full title.

Smithy chuckled, “You a banker? I’ll bet they carefully check the cash at the end of the day,”

Skinner scowled, “Is that supposed to be funny?”

Smithy looked closely at him. The joke seemed to have struck too close to Skinner’s inner character and thinking for him to take it as the light banter intended. 

“It was. But never mind. Do you fancy going for a drink?”

Skinner did.

They retired to a nearby bar where they reminisced about times at Greyfriars and caught up with news of their old form mates. Skinner knew Stott had joined the Army, and Snoop was working in some ill-defined capacity for an uncle of his. It said much that he made no effort to keep in contact with his two best friends in Greyfriars. They had outlived their usefulness to Skinner and so his interest in them. Smithy, by contrast, kept in regular touch with his best friend, Tom Redwing, who was joining the merchant navy and was now at a maritime college on the South coast. Skinner glossed over his own role in the bank, but expressed a great interest in Smithy’s activities.

“I’m doing OK. Father insisted I should read for a degree in business studies, so I’ve enrolled in the LSE. I wasn’t keen, although I can now see the sense in it. But he gave me a carrot, a nice big fat one. He has a property portfolio amongst his many interests, all rentals, and I manage them. The bonus being that I keep the profits and eventually he will hand over the entire business to me. It provides a comfortable living, I may say,”

Skinner boiled with resentment. Smithy, he thought, was living the high life because of his rich father whilst he, the Bounder’s equal, had a lowly office job. Vernon Smith could read Skinner like a book, and his inner turmoil amused him.

“Well good luck, I’m really pleased for you,” Skinner lied.

But Skinner was wrong in his assessment. Mr. Vernon Smith had not given his son a lucrative sinecure. It was well paid indeed, but he had intended that Herbert find out, in a steep learning curve, the practical realities of commercial life. The properties, whilst not exactly slum dwellings, were at the lower end of the market. Tenants required careful monitoring; properties often needed repairs. Midnight flits were not unknown. Recalcitrant tenants sometimes needed reminded of their obligations, and for this purpose there were collectors on loan from “friends” in the East End whom it was hard to refuse. Smithy needed to be au fait with rental legislation, and its loopholes. The superficial “upgrades”, downright evasions and other methods that bordered, it not crossed, legality were subterfuges to cope with what the Vernon Smiths regarded as oppressive legislation. Vernon Smith turned out to be good at his job and worked hard to combine it with his studies. These, with his quick intelligence, he found to be well within his capabilities. So, all in all, he was enjoying life to the full. The two young men chatted amicably for a while and just as they were going to part, Smithy asked, as an afterthought.

“Are you still playing cards?”

“Yes, I have a small game at work.”

Along with Samuels and two others, he played a game of penny poker once a week.

“There’s a group of us have a regular game. One of our number dropped for tomorrow night’s game, which I’m hosting. Would you be interested in filling in?”

Skinner thought for a moment. Knowing Smithy, it would be a considerable step up from his regular game where ten bob constituted a major loss in a night. Fortunately, or otherwise, he was flush just at that moment. An aunt, one he barely knew, had died and left her nephews and nieces a legacy of 125 pounds each. He had just received his money.

“Yes, you can count me in,”

Smithy paused and seemed to regret having made the offer.

“It’s a pretty heavy game, I should warn you. You could drop 30 pounds easily enough. Of course, you could win big as well. You sure you want to get involved?”

“I said I’d play, didn’t I?”

“It’s a cash game,”

Skinner raised his voice in emphasis and repeated, “I said I’d play. I’ll have the money up front, don’t worry about that,”

“Good man. Just checking you understood. So be at my place at half seven and we’ll have a drink. The others arrive at eight. We have a strict rule that we deal the last hand at midnight. Here’s my card with the address.” He paused. “It’s quite a hike for you to get home, so why don’t you stay over? I’ve a spare bedroom,”

“Thanks, I will,”

Skinner turned up promptly at 7.30 to Smithy’s impressive flat. A large living room contained two comfy sofas around a large fireplace. The fire was lit and gave off a comforting glow over the mahogany furniture and red plush curtains. In a corner was a dining table set up for the game. He was shown to his bedroom, modest, but still superior to his accommodation in Bermondsey. They chatted briefly and then the other three players arrived and introductions made. All were older than the Greyfriars pair, which Skinner found slightly intimidating. There were two men in their late 20s, he estimated, named Mike and Stan, who looked to his eyes similar and indeed throughout the night found it difficult to distinguish between them. The fifth player, Paul Taylor, was older, in his early thirties, with a strong square jawline and a grip to match as Skinner found out when they shook hands. Skinner felt as if the man was scrutinising him with disconcerting penetration, and he was glad when Smithy called them to the card table. Smithy produced a pack of cards as everyone put their money in front of them.

“OK” he said, “For Harold’s benefit we’ll go through the rules. The game is five-card draw poker. You can open with anything, half a crown ante post from everyone, maximum bet the pot. This is a friendly game” he added smiling at Skinner who for his part was feeling even more nervous as he put 30 pounds on the table from the 100 pounds he had brought with him. Half a crown, in his card school, represented the maximum bet ever made and here it was the minimum. To Smithy’s immediate left sat Paul and then going round the table, Mike and Stan and then Skinner to Smithy’s right. With the words “Let’s start” Smithy dealt the first hand. Skinner lifted his cards, two nines, and Ace a ten and a five. Paul, as the first player said. 

“I’ll open for ten bob.” 

Mike and Stan each saw the bet, and it came round to Skinner.  He drew a heavy breath, hesitated, but then realising that if he was going to play at all, he needed to get used to the heavier stakes. “I’m in” as he threw in the brown note. Smithy also saw the opening bet then everyone exchanged three of their cards bar Paul who took one. Skinner picked up his three cards, hid them behind the two nines which he had kept, and then carefully exposed them to his own view one by one. His heart leapt and eyes widened slightly as the first card revealed was another nine, the next two cards being a ten and a four. Three nines was a strong hand. 

“Back to you” said Smithy, addressing Paul who responded “Two quid”. Stan and Mike, or was it Mike and Stan, Skinner was unsure both threw their hands in leaving him to decide whether to see the bet. He knew that Smithy was the next player, to see the bet or bump it higher. There was now, on the table, as much money as he would earn in a week. Smithy scrutinized Skinner’s face and reactions as he said superfluously “Over to you Harold”. After a pause, he saw the bet and threw in his two pounds. Smithy paused, looked over at Skinner’s cards, which he had laid face down on the table, and said “I’m out”. At that Paul showed his cards two queens and two sevens. Smiling with relief, Skinner displayed his winning hand and gathered in the pot which he calculated as being five pounds. Maybe this wouldn’t be so tough after all. 

Skinner, despite this encouraging first hand, played conservatively for the next hour. Even so, he accumulated money. He pulled no major hands, but won some small pots and avoided being snared in any of the heavier ones. He was keeping a careful count of his accumulated winnings, which had built up to over fifteen pounds. About the hour mark, he dealt himself two Kings and two fours. Smithy opened for ten shillings, which seemed to a standard opening bet, and all saw the bet. Skinner discarded his fifth card and to his excitement drew another King, a full house. With the betting remaining with him, Smithy bet 30 shillings and Paul made it four pounds. Stan and Mike both folded and it came to Skinner. Should he should raise with such a strong hand? But why was Paul so confident? Why was Smithy betting? All sorts of potential outcomes flashed through his mind. If he raised and Paul or Smithy re-raised, there was no knowing how heavy the game could get. After hesitating, he said “Seen” and threw four pounds in. Smithy had been watching, from the corner of his eye, Skinner’s agonising. He had been the opener and had drawn one card but shook his head and threw his cards on the table “I’m out”.

Paul then revealed his hand, a flush, again the second best hand to Skinner’s. 

“Nice cards” was his only comment.

After this, Skinner’s luck became outrageous. Having a comfortable cushion of money, he played when maybe he shouldn’t but time after time he improved, with a succession of flushes, runs, full houses and other winning hands. He lost the odd game, but his winnings comfortably outweighed his losses. He even, and these were his proudest moments, bluffed his way to winning a couple of hands. The others had seen him showing winning cards so often that they had lost confidence in challenging him. The clock struck twelve and Smithy taking the cards announced 

“Last hand. I deal and as usual everyone throws in ten bob ante. Is that OK?” He turned to Skinner, who nodded. 

The pot therefore stood at 2 pounds ten shillings to start with. It was on Paul to open and he did so to the maximum. Skinner looked at his cards. A King and seven of hearts, a three and eight of diamonds and a ten of clubs. As unpromising a hand as you could have. Stan and Mike or was it Mike and Stan both saw the bet. Skinner thought, I’m so far ahead why not, there’s a nice pot building up so he also threw in his money. Then Smithy said.

“Let’s make it interesting, I’ll make it five.”

Paul raised his eyebrows and after a short pause saw. Stan or was it Mike folded, the other stayed in.

“Another 50 bob to you, Harold,” Smithy said irritatingly.

By any reckoning, Skinner should have withdrawn, but he calculated there was 25 pounds in the pot, easily the biggest of the night. Maybe his irritation at Smithy’s comment, contributed to him seeing the bet. Smithy also saw. In the draw Skinner kept the King and Seven of hearts, Paul took three, Mike/Stan one, Smithy one. Skinner unfolded his hand slowly. A three of hearts then a ten and Ace both of hearts. A flush! Smithy, as the last person to bet had the first call in the next round but said “Check”. Paul bet fifteen pounds. There was a sharp uptake of breath as even by the standards of this game it was a heavy bet. Mike/Stan bowed out. Possibly carried away by his success to date and exhilarated by filling of a flush against the odds, said.

“I’ll make it thirty.” 

“That’s some bet,” commented Paul.

“Up to you Smithy” said Skinner jauntily being irritating in turn.

“Don’t you think I realise that,” was the snarled response.

Skinner, now he had a few seconds to consider, had a tremor or two of doubt. Had he overplayed his hand? What if Smithy or Paul raised again, could he see without breaking himself? A flush was scarcely unbeatable. Why had Paul betted so heavily? Why hadn’t he just thrown his rotten hand in at the start and avoid being in this position? To his partial relief, Smithy refused to see the bet. He looked up at Paul, who was hard faced and thinking. Finally, he said.

“As it’s the last hand, I’m showing my cards but haven’t decided whether or not to see,”

Skinner was relieved that at least he wouldn’t have to face a raise. And an even greater sense of release when the hand was revealed – three aces.

Paul shook his head in puzzlement and disbelief, “Three aces, only a full hand can beat me. Surely he can’t have drawn three cards to a full hand?” This was addressed to Smithy, who shrugged his shoulders.

“Who knows.” 

“I probably do – he’s been pulling big hands all night. But three aces can he really?…. It’s probably the wrong decision but I’ll have to see your 15 pounds, Harold,”. And when Skinner turned over his cards, “I should have known. I did know. Anyhow congratulations Harold,” and he gave Skinner a wry smile. 

They rose from the table, stiffly, and shook hands 

“I trust we’ll meet again for another game, Harold,” said Paul.

“You can count on it,”

After everyone had left, the two Greyfriars boys sat on the sofas and lit cigarettes and drank the whiskey Smithy had poured into cut glass tumblers. Skinner still elated by his success calculated his winnings at well over 100 pounds.

“Congrats Harold, you made quite an impression tonight,”

“I will admit that I was nervous beforehand, but the game’s just the same whether playing for pennies or pounds, isn’t it?”

Smithy raised his eyebrows at this but made no comment.

“Anyhow when is the next game?”

Smithy sat back, sipped his whiskey and took a long drag on his cigarette before he responded.

“Tell me Skinner did you spot a mug at the table tonight?”

Skinner considered this. Mike and Stan had handled themselves pretty competently, he thought, neither being great risk takers but solid middle of the road players. Smithy? Certainly not. He considered Paul, who had suffered the most severe losses. Paul had the misfortune to have, not bad cards but, worse, consistently second-best hands. But there was something in the way he handled himself which precluded him from being anybody’s fool.

He shook his head “No”

Smithy paused thinking what to say.

“There’s an old saying that if you look round the card table and can’t spot the mug, then it’s you,” he said slowly. Skinner, started to smile at the aphorism until the realisation of what it meant hit him. He flushed with anger and produced a wad of banknotes.

“And what are these? Daily Mail tokens, cabbages or what?”

Smithy took time before replying, “Bunter would have won tonight with the hands you drew. The art of gambling in any form is to maximise your winnings and minimise your losses. You should have won even more. You are just too readable. I could tell when you were playing from strength and when you were bluffing. For instance, in the round where you bet three pounds into Stan and blew him out. Was that a bluff?”

“I’m not saying,” although Skinner remembered the hand, and it was.

“I know you well so I have the advantage at the moment but the others will get to recognise your way of playing and then you’ll be in trouble,”

“Well, let’s see then. The next game’s next week, isn’t it at Paul’s house?”

Again, Smithy paused before replying.

“I’m going to do you the best favour I can. You’re not playing in this school again,”

Skinner trembled with indignation, “Afraid I might take you out the way I did Paul,” he sneered

“The day I’m afraid of anything you could do, Harold Skinner, is the day I’ll be carried out in a box,”

“If that’s how you feel, then I’ll leave,” and he got up.

“Sit down for heaven’s sake and have another whisky. I’m doing this for your own good, although you may not realise it,”

Skinner sat down and accepted another drink.

“Be realistic. How much money did you make today?”

“Well over a hundred,”

“Take it and return to your own card school, be a big fish in a small school, not a minnow amongst sharks,”

“And why did Paul invite me back to play?”

“Paul’s our best player. Apart from me of course,” Smithy added with a smile. “He knows he’ll get his money back off you and more in the long term. Be sensible and take the money. It must be as much as you can earn in several months.” 

Smithy couldn’t keep a note of condescension out of his voice but then turned serious.

“You’re better off out of it. In any event you were filling in. There’s no regular place for you anyhow. Our usual fifth, we only play with five at most, is a Persian chap called Darab Khorasani,”

“Who?”

“We call him Dabs. I met him at the LSE and boy does he have a gambling addiction. We nickname him call the ‘Sponsor’ though not to his face obviously,”

“Why’s that?”

“He’s a terrible player, but couldn’t be a pleasanter loser. And he does lose. But he can well afford it. His Dad is a big wig in oil in Persia and worth a fortune. Also, he can’t say no – he gets involved in virtually every hand no matter what cards he holds. He has some great days but heavy losses most other days,”

“What does his dad think of that?”

“Oddly enough, he’s delighted. When Dabs was studying on the continent and going to casinos, his losses were enormous. Here we’ve taken him under our wing. He seems happy enough to play cards and since we take him to the races he can still gamble, but under control. He’s doing well in his studies, for a change. In fact, I’ve met his father, and he was extremely grateful for what I was doing.” 

“By winning money from his son?”

Smithy chuckled, “It’s a therapy of sorts. He’s on a withdrawal course from his manic gambling. His father was very concerned about him, so that’s why he’s pleased. And both he, and his son could be useful contacts in due course,”

Skinner remained silent. Vernon Smith, he thought, was always working on how to advance his interest, short and long term. 

As if reading his thoughts, Smithy added, “I do like Dabs and his Dad, it’s not only careful calculation. But you need to foster contacts and Paul, Mike and Stan have all given me useful pointers since I met them,”

After another drink, they turned in. Skinner with the thought–what you have Vernon Smith I’ll have. I’ll show you I am the equal of you.

Skinner returned to the mundane existence of a lowly bank official a dissatisfied man. He had seen the world of Vernon Smith, his friends, the way he lived and his life plans. It reflected his aspirations and only emphasised how he would never achieve them through his present career. His dissatisfaction extended to his friends in the bank as became clear in their next poker game being held in his own modest rooms a couple of weeks later. He made a two-bob bet and as the others folded, he expressed his frustration.

“For heaven’s sake, are you gamblers or just here for a chat? Last week I’d have been betting three or four pounds at this stage,”

“Why don’t you return then if you find us so boring?” was the retort from Gerry, one of the other players.

Skinner was reluctant to admit that he had been excluded and replied, partially truthfully.

“At the moment they have their quota of players and I only fill in from time to time. I’m looking for another game but with no luck,”

Gerry said to Samuels, “Jeff, didn’t you tell me once about a big game played in your local pub?”

Skinner perked up “What was that about?”

Jeff replied “I’ve no idea.”

“Come on,” insisted Skinner, “What do you know?”

Samuels shifted uncomfortably, “I’ve only heard about it. I don’t know those involved except by reputation and it’s not good so just forget it,”

“I’m a big boy, so don’t worry about me. Can’t you get me an introduction?”

“I tell you I don’t know them,”

“Surely you know someone who does?”

Skinner continued to insist and eventually Samuels, with reluctance, agreed to take him to his local to see what he could do. Skinner’s experience in Smithy’s card school had lit in him the delusion that he was a cardsharp. He assumed that his success was due, contrary to Vernon Smith’s view, to skill. Whilst recognising that he had tremendous luck, he was nonetheless confident that his judgment and ability were the major factors in winning. He had been desperate to find a card school of equivalent level without success. Having tried betting at the races and losing consistently, he decided that his path to gambling success was through his ability with cards. He had visions of becoming a card “sharp”, a professional. This could be his future. 

A couple of weeks later Skinner and Samuels, after work, caught the tube to a station in the East End and then after a short walk entered through the double swing doors of the “Red Lion”. A blast of warm air smelling of tobacco, stale beer and sweat greeted them. The bar was a substantial premises. A serving counter in the centre forming a horseshoe enclosing a large console of mahogany and mirrors, brightly lit, and festooned by bottles of spirit, pewter mugs and glasses. Two barmen prowled the service area behind the counter and Jeff called to one.

“Two pints of wallop Joe please,”

The barman said nothing, gave a curt nod of acknowledgment, and went to one of the long handled pumps and pulled the pints.

“Joe’s been here a long time, so if anyone knows he does,”

Joe returned with the drinks and said, “That’ll be eightpence,”

Jeff handed over a two-shilling piece and when Joe returned with the change said.

“I hear that there’s a game of cards going here sometimes. Is that right?”

Joe shrugged his shoulders, “I wouldn’t know,” and turned away and started to clean some immaculate glasses. 

“He knows alright,” commented Skinner, “We’ll try again,”

The two of them remained standing at the bar, which started to fill up. The customers were a mixed bunch. There were roughly dressed stevedores from the docks, burly men who took to their pints with gusto and, in contrast, men dressed in jacket and tie whom Skinner presumed were clerical workers. The intimate snugs against the walls of dark wood construction filled up followed by the tables dotted around the floor until the bar was half full. In a lull in business, Skinner waited for his moment and when Joe was close called.

“Joe, another two pints please,” and quietly to Jeff “Try again,”

When Joe returned and Skinner had handed over the eight pence Jeff said.

“Joe, we know that there’s a poker school here. My friend would like to be involved. Would you pass on the word? There’s always space for a new player,”

Jeff looked at Skinner with renewed interest, having noticed his smart clothing, and his educated accent both marking him out as unusual for this area.

“I told you I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He didn’t trust Skinner, a stranger, and an unusual one at that. Jeff picked up on his concern.

“No, Joe, you’ve got it wrong. He works with me, He’s alright. He just likes a gamble and a challenge,”

The barman hesitated, “I’m not saying I know anything, but I can make enquiries. If I’ve something to tell you, I’ll tell you when you’re next in. Wait until next week,” and with that he turned away.

They remained for a few more drinks and then returned to their respective homes.

The following Friday they returned, Joe was behind the bar and as they ordered their drinks Jeff asked “Any luck?”

“Perhaps. Just wait where you are,”

They drank their pints, then another and whilst in the middle of their third they were approached by a large man in a loud check suit, a maroon waistcoat, rings gleaming from the fingers of both hands and with a smart cashmere camel coloured coat draped over his shoulders; the arms dangling unoccupied at the side. A large beam dominated his slightly porcine red face, which went well with his abundant ginger hair. He approached Jeff and his smile became even more effusive as he approached Jeff as if to a long-lost friend, grasped him by the shoulders and said.

“Jeff, my boy, great to see you,”

“Thanks Mr Simpson” replied a puzzled Jeff.

“No, no. Manny. No standing on ceremony with me. How’s your father keeping?”

“OK. Fine, just fine,”

“Good, Good. Tell him I was asking for him. We go back a long way. So, you’re little Jeff? I haven’t seen you since you were so high. But I forget my manners. Introduce me to your friend,”

Jeff did so, and Manny clasped Skinner’s right hand with both his and held on tightly.

“Any friend of the Samuels family is a friend to me, Harold. Joe, get my friends whatever they want to drink.”

Joe with alacrity produced two pints and a gin for Manny.

“I shouldn’t really,” he said as he clasped his generously sized drink “I’m a martyr to dyspepsia but it would be rude not to drink to friends old and new. Salut,” as he raised his glass.

Neither recognised the salutation and mumbled “Cheers” in return.

“Harold, the Samuels are one of the best respected families around here. I heard Jeff was doing well for himself and I’m delighted that he has such a distinguished friend. You too work in the bank?”

“Yes,”

“I can see you will go far. I have a nose for these things. A bright lad like you. What a future. If only I was your age again,” He finished with a heavy sigh and raised both hands as if his life’s regret was that he hadn’t pursued a career as a bank clerk.

Skinner unable to get a word in edgeways and remembering why he was there in the first place, opened his mouth to speak. He wasn’t quick enough.

“Well boys it was good to see you both but I’ve got to go. Things to do, people to see. It’s no joke being a business man - the demands, the demands,” Again he raised his arms as if in despair at the burden of making money.

“Are you interested in boxing? Of course, you are,” He answered his own question. “Here are two tickets for the fights next Saturday, Best seats. You’ll be near to me so they’d have to be since I’m the promoter,” Here he gave a belly laugh with which Skinner and Jeff felt obliged to join. 

“It would be terrible if I couldn’t organise a good view for myself. I’ll look forward to seeing you there Harold and we’ll talk again,”

With that he swept out of the bar, giving a cursory nod to a few customers who greeted him.

“What on earth was that? I thought you didn’t know who was involved?” asked Skinner.

“I didn’t. And I don’t know him personally. He and my dad are the same age and grew up together,”

“What a character,”

“He is that,”

The following week they found themselves in the Baths Hall in West Ham, one of the famous venues in the heartland of British boxing. They took their seats shortly before the first bout and Manny greeted them with a cheery wave from his seat two rows ahead of them, at the ringside. The hall was packed with an excited febrile crowd, including, Skinner noted, quite a few women. Attractive women, several of whom were considerably younger than their escorts, accompanied Manny and his friends. The volume of noise grew as the time for the first fight approached. Cheers, as the local Lambeth boy emerged, turning to boos as his opponent, a small tough looking Glaswegian followed him to the ring. The announcer, once both men were in the ring commenced “My Lords, Ladeez and Gintlemun this eez……”. The first part of the announcement seemed unnecessary, and the rest of his patter was lost in the vagaries of the PA system and the hubbub of the crowd. Skinner got the impression that it was a featherweight contest over eight rounds. When the bell went the two small, well-muscled, men threw themselves at each other with a ferocity which startled Skinner. Boxing had been a regular sport at Greyfriars, either as an exercise or to settle bad blood. Skinner did not indulge, not desiring exercise and finding other indirect ways to settle grievances. The level of noise rose and subsided with the fortunes of the local lad and reached a crescendo when he knocked his opponent down in the fifth round. The crowd rose to their feet shouting and swearing, the women in the forefront, at the man on the canvas. The Glaswegian did, despite the crowd’s admonitions, fight on bravely to the end but, to the crowd’s evident satisfaction the referee, also the judge of the fight, awarded it to the local man. 

At a break and Manny gestured to them to come and join him on some, temporarily free seats.

“Enjoying yourselves, boys?”

“Yes” they answered truthfully.

“Put something on Wally Grout in the fifth. The odds are good 5/2 – you’ll not regret it,” he said with a broad smile revealing both his perfectly white teeth, unusual in itself, and a single gold tooth also distinctive. “Only a pound mind you, we don’t want anyone thinking you have any insider knowledge, do we?” Another flash of teeth.

“We’ll remember,”

“And don’t go to that bookie up there,” gesturing at a seedy looking individual standing beside the bar surrounded by punters “He’s a friend of mine. Now you’d better get back to your seats,”

As Skinner turned Manny said as if an afterthought.

“Harold. I’m told you like a gamble?”

“Yes,”

“I and some friends have a game of cards from time to time. Just amongst friends, you understand. You may be interested?”

“Yes, very much so,”

“It would be a pleasure having a sportsman joining us. I’ll send a message through Jeff here when we have a game set up and if it suits, you just tell Jeff,”

“I’m sure whatever suits you will be fine by me,” 

“Good. Good. Now you go and put your bets on,”

Wally’s win, predicted by Manny, nearly starting a riot. There were several factors. Wally was a Mancunian, never likely to endear him to the crowd, and he beat a local favourite in a fight where he seemed inferior to his opponent. When the large broken nosed referee raised his hand declaring him the winner there was a cascade of abuse hurled at him and the winner alike. A hail of missiles rained down and those in the front rows, including Manny, had to duck to avoid being hit. Skinner was exhilarated. Both men had put ten shillings on Wally at 5/2 and left the hall well satisfied with their evening.

Several days later he received the call and returned to the Red Lion, on his own, and ordered a pint from the ever present Joe who was this time noticeably more friendly. He couldn’t help being apprehensive. What had he let himself in for? He thought how little he knew of Manny and less of his friends. Would he be set upon and robbed? Not that he believed that might happen, but might it turn out to be a crooked game with the same result? Jeff had shared his concern and had asked him several times whether he wanted to get involved with Manny and the others. When Skinner insisted he did he agreed to make a few enquiries. He subsequently told him that as far as anyone could tell the game was “straight” but said that the players were known as heavies from London gangland. Again, he suggested he give the game a wide berth. As Skinner drank his pint, he felt a desire to turn and walk out but just at that point Manny, in the company of another man came up to him.

“Harold, so good of you to make it. Let me introduce you to my good friend Jack” referring to his unsmiling partner, a man in his late twenties, Skinner judged, of medium built wearing a hat at a jaunty angle and of sour expression who merely nodded to him.

“A man of few words is Jack. Let’s go into the back room. Everyone else is here,”

They made their way to a small room at the rear of the premises where two men sat at a table which comprised its sole furnishing. They looked up curiously as Skinner entered.

“This is my good friend Harold. He’ll be joining us tonight. This is Reg and Arty,”

Reg and Arty were no more inclined to waste words on Skinner that had Jack and also just nodded. It was obvious that they distrusted him whilst displaying no overt hostility. Joe, the barman, came in, took their orders and retreated again, at which point Manny produced a pack of cards.

“We play five-card draw Harold. This is a friendly game…” and proceeded, almost to the word, to replicate Smithy’s introduction of several weeks before. Remarkably, the first hand dealt was also a near replica of that in Smithy’s game. Skinner won with three jacks, and this had the same effect of calming his nerves. As the evening progressed Skinner’s fortunes varied, but mostly he was well ahead. The atmosphere lightened as the five of them concentrated on the cards. There was some light joshing between the four men, which Skinner hadn’t the confidence nor the background to join. From time to time one or other was about to say something but stopped himself, or was interrupted. There was clearly much that they would have discussed if Skinner hadn’t been present. As the night drew to a close Skinner picked up a couple of good hands and ended up winning over 15 pounds. Manny, once they played the last hand stood up stretched and said.

“Harold, this has been a genuine pleasure. We have enjoyed your company, so don’t be a stranger. Do you mind letting yourself out? I’ve a few things to discuss with the boys here?”

Skinner didn’t and after a cursory farewell, left both relieved and elated at the way the evening had turned out.

Back in the room, Jack tackled Manny.

“Where did you get that joker?”

“Jack Jack my boy don’t worry about Harold he’s a pal of young Jeff Samuels. He’s a public schoolboy so he can’t be short of a bob or two and makes a useful stand in,”

“I don’t like it. How can we know if he’s to be trusted?”

“Believe me, we’ve nothing to worry about with young Harold. I’ve seen his type, he won’t give us trouble – he’d be too afraid and anyway he’s not too particular himself – I can read him; you needn’t concern yourself, Jack Boomer. And the way he plays, we should make a nice little profit in the long run,”

Here Manny laughed, “And he works in a bank,”

“Manny, what are you planning?”

“Nothing. Nothing at all. But there’s no harm in cultivating friends. Who knows when they might want to do you a favour?”

“Manny, you old fox,”

After his initiation Skinner became a regular member of the card school, always at the Red Lion. He knew they played at other venues to which they never invited him. He was Manny’s guest at the Red Lion which as it was in his “manor” he could invite anyone he wished. Gradually he became acquainted with the players and something about them. They, in turn, came to accept him, if not one of their own, at least as a harmless hanger on. Once Skinner got used to the local slang and after they spoke more freely in front of him, he realised that most either were criminals or associates of criminals. For instance, Jack had an expertise in safe cracking. Reg, a well built man and former professional boxer, he discovered, was involved in a local protection racket. Only Manny was discreet about his business interests except for a club he owned “up West” of which he was obviously very proud. Skinner far from being repelled by his new friends was enthralled and oddly envious. He wanted to use the same language, follow the same pursuits and have the same respect that they engendered in the people in the area. He was inordinately proud when he was invited to go to the dog races with them one night. This he took to show that he was accepted into their world. He made money from two ‘certs’, tips from Manny, both dogs romping in first to nobody’s surprise. 

The cards weren’t going well. He had started off with a nice win, but such nights became rare. He always realised that he couldn’t expect to win at every time he played, but he found his 200 pounds being whittled away alarmingly. After a couple of months, it was reduced to 100 with him losing 30 pounds on one depressing night. As he left the pub, into the cold night air, he leant against the wall, closed his eyes and wondered whether Smithy had been right. Was it time to quit? But the pernicious addiction of gambling had taken over. He knew he would return in the deluded certainty that his luck must change.

By his own standards he worked hard, went to the obligatory night classes and sufficiently impressed Mr Henderson to secure a permanent place on the bank’s staff. He now had greater responsibilities and often found himself behind the public counter dealing directly with the public. This promotion brought with it a pay increase and his father, pleased with Skinner’s progress, an unusual phenomenon, increased his allowance. He was relatively financially well off, but not so that he could sustain his continuing gambling losses. Apart from his addiction, he was hooked on vicarious glamour of his association with Manny and his friends. The Red Lion became a regular haunt, with or without Jeff, even when there was no card game. He was receiving a certain amount of respect by the locals and the bar staff alike and with his acerbic wit became accepted, despite his “posh” clothes and accent.

During the break in one game Reg said to him.

“I know an old friend of yours. Mr Vernon Smith,”

“Herbert or his dad?”

“Herbert. He’s about your age,”

“Where on earth did you come across him?”

“I’m his legal advisor,” was the reply to appreciative laughs around the table.

“No seriously,”

“I told you I’m his legal advisor. If he has a legal problem, I make it go away,” 

Skinner knew better than to push the matter, and letting it drop made a mental note to speak to Smithy.

Finally, the day came when his money ran out. He had lost over 200 pounds, and turned up for the next game with just a tenner. That would be enough, he persuaded himself, as the seed for a revival. He convinced himself that his bad luck couldn’t continue, and all he needed to do was to persevere until it changed. At the start of the night, he found himself up a few pounds but then sustained a series of losses. Down to his last pound, he was hit by a two pound bet. He grimaced as he was sure he had the winning hand and admitted.

“I don’t have the money with me,”

Manny gave him a hard look and then reverted to his normal smiling self.

“No problem, my boy. We’re all gentlemen here…” he said implausibly “Your IOU is good with us, but to make it easier here’s 20 pounds. Just give me your marker,”

“Thanks,” He took the money and signed a piece of paper acknowledging the debt.

As it happened, he won that hand but by the end of the evening he was down to 12 pounds of the original 20.

“Whenever suits you, my boy,” was Manny’s parting shot. 

A few weeks later he called round to Smithy’s flat, the first time he had returned since that night of the game. Smithy was in and in a good mood. Over a drink Skinner told him about playing poker with Manny and colleagues and asked about Reg.

“Ah Reg. Yes, you could describe him as a legal advisor, If I have a problem with tenants, if they haven’t been paying their rent or causing a nuisance and so on, I could go to court for arrears or to eject them but I prefer mediation and Reg is an excellent mediator so you could say he solves my legal problems,” Smithy chuckled. “Maybe not exactly orthodox legal procedure but many of my tenants don’t understand the finer points of the law and Reg is good at explaining them in terms they can,”

Skinner understood.

“How did you get involved with Manny?”

Skinner explained and Smithy commented, “My God you’re well out of your depth with that crew.”

 Skinner scowled.

“You don’t want to get on the wrong side of those boys. And what of your career? When you move up in the bank, you can’t afford the scandal of being associated with characters like that,”

“I can’t see banking as my long term future and I can look after myself. But never mind that. How do you know Manny?

Smithy explained he met him once but had known of his reputation. Reg was a member of Manny’s “Firm” a loose association of criminals and businessmen of dubious reputation operating around that part of East London, centred on the Red Lion, his headquarters. Reg had his own “mediation” business but deferred to Manny on any important matters and operated under his protection. Simpson was not his original name. He was born Emmanuel Klausner and as a youngster his father fled from his native country with his family because of a pogrom against Jews that sporadically broke out in the Russian Empire. In the early years of the century, with growing anti-German feeling, Mr Klausner thought it prudent to lose his Germanic sounding name. 

Skinner admitted that he had lost all his money in Manny’s card school and now owed him 40 pounds.

“I won’t say I told you so, but it’s not a good position to be in. Don’t be fooled by that hail fellow well met exterior. He’s a tough nut and had a reputation for violence in his younger years and still will use violence if he thinks it necessary. I wonder why he’s advancing you money,”

“Perhaps he thinks that there’s money behind me?”

“Manny will have made enquiries about you so he’ll know that you’re no millionaire,”

“Would you lend me the money? I’ve had a bad run, but my luck is bound to turn,”

“Lend you? You’ll never repay if you’re relying on winnings from gambling. Can you not raise 40 pounds?”

“If I could, would I be asking you?”

“Sorry Harold. That’s the road to nowhere. My concern is what Manny has in mind,”

“What do you mean?”

“He does nothing without a purpose. What it might be you’ll find out soon enough,” 

Following this conversation and finding no solution to repaying his debt, he avoided the Red Lion. But if he hoped that this would end the matter, he was mistaken. After a few weeks he received a message from Manny delivered by Jeff. It read.

“Harold

It is disappointing that you could not join us for the last couple of friendly social occasions. I trust all is well with you. I should like to invite you for a drink at the Red Lion should that suit you at 8 o’clock tomorrow night. Please send a reply through Jeff.

Your Friend

Manny”

Skinner showed the letter to Jeff.

“Harold what have you been up to?”

Ignoring the question, he asked.

“Do you think I ought to go? I was thinking of giving Manny a wide berth.”

“I not sure exactly what’s happening, but I can guess. If Manny says to be there, then you be there,”

Skinner had come to the same conclusion himself. The following night he presented himself in the Red Lion where Manny politely invited him into the back room. A concerned Skinner, not knowing what to expect, was relieved to see no one else present. He decided to get in the first word.

“Manny I’m sorry but at the moment I’m short of funds and can’t repay you straight away,” 

“Harold, do you think I invited you here to call in a debt of honour? You disappoint me,” Manny looked aggrieved “No, you’re a sportsman and a gentleman. I know my money’s good. No, it’s about something else and you may be able to help me,”

“Of course, anything” replied Skinner with relief mixed with apprehension.

“Let’s talk about something else. I hear you’re doing well for yourself in the bank?”

“Yes, I’m getting on OK,”

Manny smiled, “I knew a man of your talent would progress far. I could see it from the first. I believe you work as a cashier on a regular basis,”

“Yes,” again Skinner felt a cold chill.

“Perhaps you could be of some small assistance to me,” 

 “But my access to money is limited and closely scrutinised. I have to account for every penny. If I’m short at the close.... well, I just can’t be,”

Manny looked shocked “Harold Harold what do you take me for? A common thief. You do me a disservice!!” and he held his hand to his breast “I wouldn’t ask you to do anything dishonest–an honourable man such as yourself. I would just like some small service such as a friend would be glad to provide. I have business interests which, thank God, provide me with a small profit. But what happens? I work hard and a government that doesn’t come and wants to take it away from me. Is that fair to an honest businessman like myself? So sometimes rather than pay these taxes I put a little aside, for my old age you understand, money that the taxman need not know about. But it’s trouble,” He sighed and raised his hands in a gesture of despair.

“Trouble to have such money about the place. I might lose it, dishonest men may try to rob me, such things happen, and for some of my deals I don’t use cash, so it’s convenient to have a bank account,”

“I’m not sure I can fix that in my own bank,”

“No, you misunderstand……”

Manny explained he wanted Skinner to affect an introduction to another, smaller, bank based in South London.

“And don’t worry, it’s not for me but for a doctor who works for me sometimes. Well strictly speaking he’s not allowed to practice, a little misunderstanding that the medical council did not appreciate,”

“He works for you?”

“He provides a public service. It’s a sad reflection on the times in which we live Harold, but ladies are not always as virtuous as they should be. Sometimes they come to me for medical advice and that’s where Dr Tumelty comes in. You understand?”

Skinner did.

“As I say, it’s a necessary service for those poor girls. Some of them are in my employ so it’s only right that I should stand by them in their hour of need. But the bank need not know of the slight technicality that he is no longer in practice. You, with your background can give a satisfactory reference for him,”

“Yes, I suppose I could do that” replied Skinner, relieved that it wasn’t more.

“Dr Tumelty is a very grateful man and would wish to help me in return as I’m confident you are. Just to confirm you work often as a cashier?”

“Yes,”

“All I ask you is to let me know when that is and associates of mine will from time-to-time lodge cash with you for Dr Tumelty’s account. That’s all. I’m sure you can arrange things so it doesn’t seem too obvious to your superiors. And I have other grateful friends who may wish to open accounts for the same reason. Harold,” and here he put a meaty hand on Skinner’s shoulder “Will you do this small favour for me?”

Manny looked closely at Skinner, smiling, but Skinner didn’t miss the menace behind the polite request.

“Of course,” he continued, “Nothing is for nothing and we can overlook that little debt of honour and I promise you won’t lose out by earning my friendship,”

So, there it is thought Skinner, the Faustian bargain. If I refuse him, I could be in danger, not only because of the money but because of Manny’s deliberately indiscreet disclosures. The cunning fox. On the other hand, he was offering him a place in his entourage, in his firm. A peripheral one at the moment but, he surmised, it might be his route to the life he aspired to; money, women, and being someone to be reckoned with even feared by virtue of that association. But Smithy was right – it would ultimately mean the end of a banking career.

Few are presented, in such immediate terms, the choice between right and wrong, the high or the low path. Skinner breathed hard.

“You can count me in!”