Billy and he weren’t going out this Sunday night and with a thick packet of crisp notes in his pocket, Jake Dobson had decided he would relax and enjoy a change of scene. He hadn’t been up west for a drink for a while – he’d been there for work, of course, but that was different. No, today he fancied a good walk. As a night-worker his day started late of course. He had slept like a baby through the morning bombing and it was after three when he got dressed and walked out of his dosshouse. He bought himself a fry-up in a café in Hatton Garden, then made his way through Holborn and up Oxford Street until he came to Hyde Park. He stood for a while at Speakers’ Corner, listening to some maniac ranting on about how we could win the war if we all became vegetarians. Someone in Smithfield market had told him the other day that Hitler was a vegetarian. He thought about contributing this snippet of information to the debate, but let it go. From his perspective anyway, he didn’t want the war to end. He was making too much money out of it. Then again, he thought, as he sauntered down Bayswater Road, he wasn’t making as much as he should be. His stomach began to churn again as he thought about the way he was being cheated. A drink would take his mind off this, but the pubs weren’t open yet.
He turned to the park and headed towards the Serpentine. Despite the buzz of planes high above and the threat they posed, there were plenty of people out taking a Sunday walk. When he reached the lake he decided to rest his feet for a moment and sat at the end of a bench. The ducks and other waterfowl waddling and fluttering all around him didn’t seem to be suffering too much from the war yet. A big, brown duck in front of him would do very nicely for Sunday tea, he thought idly. There was no possibility of him pulling that off though, not with all these crowds around. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten duck. Of course, with the money burning a hole in his pocket he could afford to go to the finest restaurant and order one. He looked down at his shabby trousers. Not in these duds though. He must get himself some new clothes and then he’d be able to enjoy himself a little more.
A pretty, blonde girl wandered past with some sort of mongrel dog on a lead. Jake whistled at her but received two fingers in response as the girl hurried away giggling.
“Fuck you,” Jake shouted. The man at the other end of the bench tut-tutted. The two men stared at each other for a moment before they recognised each other.
“My God, it’s you, ain’t it? Mister lardy-da Evans.”
“Oh!” Evans became a little flustered and the sheets of the newspaper he had been trying to read began to fall apart. He bent down to retrieve two of them, which had dropped underneath the bench.
When he straightened up, Jake had edged along the bench and was only an inch or two away. “Quite a coincidence meeting up like this, Mr Evans, ain’t it?”
“Yes, quite, er, Mr…”
“You can call me Jake. No need to stand on ceremony seein’ as we are so closely linked in business, eh, Mr Evans? What’s your first name then?”
“Francis.”
“Hmm. What a nice name.”
Jake looked up at the sky. “Don’t know what’s really happening up there, do you? Can’t see or hear any more bombs dropping now, but I reckon something’ll be happening again soon.”
“Yes, no doubt you are right. In any event, I must get going. Have a good day.” He attempted to rise, but Jake clasped his coat with a powerful hand and pulled him back to the seat.