In this extract from My Enemy's Enemy, Daniel introduces Kathleen to his Communist faith
‘This struggle you keep going on about. What is it?’
Suddenly all the tiredness goes out of him. He sits up straight and looks at me, and he looks like a little boy who’s just got a new football for Christmas and can’t wait to play with it.
‘The struggle to make a better world,’ he says.
‘Well, Christ knows, it’s not too good the way it is,’ I say, looking out of the window at all the smashed houses. ‘How are you going to make it better then?’
He smiles, a big warm smile, and he stretches out his arms and holds his hands open like he’s welcoming me in. I think he’s going to say something special. Instead, he says,
‘How much were our teas?’
‘Sixpence. I’m getting them, you don’t have nothing, and I –‘
‘No. Listen, Kathleen. If you bought the tea from a shop, made it in your home, how much would that cost?’
‘A lot less. You could get twenty cups out of sixpence worth of tea.’
‘Exactly. So we have paid ten times too much for our tea.’
‘What do you mean? It’s the cheapest place in town, the ABC.’
‘How many cups of tea do they serve here in a day?’
‘I don’t know. I come in here once in a while, but I don’t sit in here all day with a clipboard and pencil.’
‘Say two hundred. The tea itself costs a hundred pennies. Call it eight shillings. But the customers pay fifty shillings. Where does the other forty-two shillings go every day?’
‘Well, the staff need paying for a start –‘
‘Look at her,’ he says, nodding his head towards the counter, at the woman who served us our tea. She’s got her back turned to us; she’s bent over the sink, swilling out a teapot. She’s old for a waitress, most of them are young, unmarried girls. She looks like she’s getting on, she’s got grey hair, though she can’t be older than Mum. Those teeth are never hers. I can see the veins swelled up on her legs. She’s humming ‘Run, Rabbit, Run,’ to herself.
‘What about her?’
‘How much do you think she earns?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Maybe two pounds a week. Yet with forty-two shillings a day profit from the tea, the cafe has twenty pounds and ten shillings left over a week. Eighteen pounds ten shillings after she has been paid. Where does it go?’
No one’s ever made me think about these things; but already, I find I’m enjoying thinking about them.
‘Rent. Lighting. Heat. We came in because it was warm, didn’t we?’
‘No more than eight pounds a week, maximum. So now we have ten pounds. Where does it go?’
‘To the man who owns the place, I suppose.’
His face lights up like I’m the cleverest girl in the class.
‘Exactly! And is this the only ABC in London?’
‘Course not. They’re on every street.’
‘How many?’
‘Look, I don’t know, I got better things to do than go round counting –‘
‘Say a hundred.’
‘At least.’
‘So this man, each week, has a hundred times ten pounds. One thousand pounds. Every week. What does he do to have this money?’
‘Owns a load of tea shops.’
Daniel leans forward and takes me by the wrists and puts his face close to mine. Suddenly my heart’s beating fast, so I can hardly breathe. I wonder if he’s going to kiss me. The woman behind the counter puts down the teapot she’s been polishing and raises her eyebrows. The next thing he whispers, like he’s afraid we’re being spied on.
‘Is that work? To own something? To have the title deeds? To have been given them by your father? Is that kneading bread or sweating over a hot frying pan or sweeping floors or washing plates and knives and forks and pots and pans till your hands are red and raw so that other people may eat and drink? All for two pounds a week to feed and clothe and house your children? See that woman –‘ I look across at her. She’s turned her back to us now and has lit up with a fag and is having a read of the paper. ‘- how old is she? Forty? She looks sixty, seventy. Do you think the wife of the owner of the ABC looks like her? Dresses like her? Do you think his daughter will ever wash up a cup? Why? All because he owns some title deeds, some bits of paper.’
He’s let go of my wrists now, and he’s clenching his fists like he’s holding onto something.
‘Take back these hundred tea shops from him, so they are owned by everyone; by all Londoners. Get rid of this needless profit, this thousand pounds a week for doing nothing to pay for racehorses and debutantes’ dresses and smart parties in the West End. Get it back. Then we have our cups of tea for threepence, half the cost; more working people can refresh themselves in here. And the lady over there, snatching five minutes with a cigarette and a newspaper to forget her troubles, her leaking roof, the cockroaches in her kitchen, the pain in her legs she cannot afford to go the doctor about, her husband who died young, worked to his death in the docks, so now she must go out to work to feed her children; her sick daughter, the little ones she must leave with a friend praying they will be all right, her clever son who could be a doctor or an engineer but must leave school at fourteen to look after his family - now she earns five pounds a week. She can live well; her family can live well. All can live well. No one is left out, no one suffers. All have what they need. Now you see, Kathleen? Is that not a world worth struggling for?’
He sits back, exhausted, but happy. His hair is flopping over his face; I want to brush it away. And I also want to go on talking to him and listening to him all day long, about the world, and what’s wrong with it, and how we’re going to put it right.
‘Bloody hell,’ I say. ‘All that from a cup of tea. You’re quite something, aren’t you, Daniel Stein?’
‘This struggle you keep going on about. What is it?’
Suddenly all the tiredness goes out of him. He sits up straight and looks at me, and he looks like a little boy who’s just got a new football for Christmas and can’t wait to play with it.
‘The struggle to make a better world,’ he says.
‘Well, Christ knows, it’s not too good the way it is,’ I say, looking out of the window at all the smashed houses. ‘How are you going to make it better then?’
He smiles, a big warm smile, and he stretches out his arms and holds his hands open like he’s welcoming me in. I think he’s going to say something special. Instead, he says,
‘How much were our teas?’
‘Sixpence. I’m getting them, you don’t have nothing, and I –‘
‘No. Listen, Kathleen. If you bought the tea from a shop, made it in your home, how much would that cost?’
‘A lot less. You could get twenty cups out of sixpence worth of tea.’
‘Exactly. So we have paid ten times too much for our tea.’
‘What do you mean? It’s the cheapest place in town, the ABC.’
‘How many cups of tea do they serve here in a day?’
‘I don’t know. I come in here once in a while, but I don’t sit in here all day with a clipboard and pencil.’
‘Say two hundred. The tea itself costs a hundred pennies. Call it eight shillings. But the customers pay fifty shillings. Where does the other forty-two shillings go every day?’
‘Well, the staff need paying for a start –‘
‘Look at her,’ he says, nodding his head towards the counter, at the woman who served us our tea. She’s got her back turned to us; she’s bent over the sink, swilling out a teapot. She’s old for a waitress, most of them are young, unmarried girls. She looks like she’s getting on, she’s got grey hair, though she can’t be older than Mum. Those teeth are never hers. I can see the veins swelled up on her legs. She’s humming ‘Run, Rabbit, Run,’ to herself.
‘What about her?’
‘How much do you think she earns?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Maybe two pounds a week. Yet with forty-two shillings a day profit from the tea, the cafe has twenty pounds and ten shillings left over a week. Eighteen pounds ten shillings after she has been paid. Where does it go?’
No one’s ever made me think about these things; but already, I find I’m enjoying thinking about them.
‘Rent. Lighting. Heat. We came in because it was warm, didn’t we?’
‘No more than eight pounds a week, maximum. So now we have ten pounds. Where does it go?’
‘To the man who owns the place, I suppose.’
His face lights up like I’m the cleverest girl in the class.
‘Exactly! And is this the only ABC in London?’
‘Course not. They’re on every street.’
‘How many?’
‘Look, I don’t know, I got better things to do than go round counting –‘
‘Say a hundred.’
‘At least.’
‘So this man, each week, has a hundred times ten pounds. One thousand pounds. Every week. What does he do to have this money?’
‘Owns a load of tea shops.’
Daniel leans forward and takes me by the wrists and puts his face close to mine. Suddenly my heart’s beating fast, so I can hardly breathe. I wonder if he’s going to kiss me. The woman behind the counter puts down the teapot she’s been polishing and raises her eyebrows. The next thing he whispers, like he’s afraid we’re being spied on.
‘Is that work? To own something? To have the title deeds? To have been given them by your father? Is that kneading bread or sweating over a hot frying pan or sweeping floors or washing plates and knives and forks and pots and pans till your hands are red and raw so that other people may eat and drink? All for two pounds a week to feed and clothe and house your children? See that woman –‘ I look across at her. She’s turned her back to us now and has lit up with a fag and is having a read of the paper. ‘- how old is she? Forty? She looks sixty, seventy. Do you think the wife of the owner of the ABC looks like her? Dresses like her? Do you think his daughter will ever wash up a cup? Why? All because he owns some title deeds, some bits of paper.’
He’s let go of my wrists now, and he’s clenching his fists like he’s holding onto something.
‘Take back these hundred tea shops from him, so they are owned by everyone; by all Londoners. Get rid of this needless profit, this thousand pounds a week for doing nothing to pay for racehorses and debutantes’ dresses and smart parties in the West End. Get it back. Then we have our cups of tea for threepence, half the cost; more working people can refresh themselves in here. And the lady over there, snatching five minutes with a cigarette and a newspaper to forget her troubles, her leaking roof, the cockroaches in her kitchen, the pain in her legs she cannot afford to go the doctor about, her husband who died young, worked to his death in the docks, so now she must go out to work to feed her children; her sick daughter, the little ones she must leave with a friend praying they will be all right, her clever son who could be a doctor or an engineer but must leave school at fourteen to look after his family - now she earns five pounds a week. She can live well; her family can live well. All can live well. No one is left out, no one suffers. All have what they need. Now you see, Kathleen? Is that not a world worth struggling for?’
He sits back, exhausted, but happy. His hair is flopping over his face; I want to brush it away. And I also want to go on talking to him and listening to him all day long, about the world, and what’s wrong with it, and how we’re going to put it right.
‘Bloody hell,’ I say. ‘All that from a cup of tea. You’re quite something, aren’t you, Daniel Stein?’