the case for the prosecution

Every morning Papa Adams opened early to catch workmen before they started the early shift in the yard. He pushed her belly out like a pram and patrolled behind the counter, within hand’s reach of the till, and kept an eye on the waitresses to make sure they weren’t stiffing him. Betty wore canvas shoes and Ria sandals. They were on their feet all day, working for tips, as they balanced trays with both hands.

Workers dragged solemn mouths away from the cigarettes in their mouths to mop up grease with bread and fling back a mouthful of coffee. The government men were as easy to spot a deep-sea diver among the ragged uniforms. Soft hats, ties, baby-smooth clean shaven, long coats and spatter of rain on the lapels and shined shoes as they stood with the easy insouciance of youth at the counter taking up too much clean air. Papa Adam had to crick his neck to look up at them. So quiet. Respectful, waiting amid the fug of fag smoke, patiently for a chance to talk to him among the kitchen bubble, chatter and clatter of knives and forks and spoons.

 ‘Can I get you boys something?’ Papa Adams wiped at the counter in front of the government men with the cloth he used to clean the knives and forks that had been rinsed.  He had a ready smile on his face, and tried to tone down the ring of his foreign accent.

Silence.

The taller of the two government agents took off his Trilby, fingered the rim, his grey-blue eyes searching his. ‘Coffee would be fine.’

‘On the house,’ Papa Adams’ hands opened in an expansive gesture.

‘Black,’ said the stockier of the two agent, eyes like green marbles, and when he took off his hat, black hair slicked to a shine.

‘Coffee,’ shouted Papa Adams to Ria.

She hipswayed her way past tables and chairs. Lithe and light she adjusted her body, made herself smaller to work her way through impossible gaps and the workaday snares of outstretched legs and working boots.

‘Jesus, geez a minute.’  The tone of her voice lightened by her smile.

Papa Adam pushed the sugar shaker in a diagonal across the counter. She got them some cups. The agents stooped and stiff stood dumbly to the side as she poured the coffee.

‘Leave the pot,’ said Papa Adams. ‘I’ll get it myself if the gentlemen need a top off.’

‘That’ll be a first.’ She turned her back on them, holding a tray flat against her leg and scanned the tables near the door.

‘Don’t mind her,’ said Papa Adams. ‘I need to give her a little poke now and again to keep her from getting too mouthy.’  

‘Fine cup of coffee,’ said the dark-eyed agent.

The stockier man left his coffee on the counter untouched. ‘We’re looking for an Albert Einstein. We understand that he works here.’

‘Used to.’ Papa Adams rung an order in the till. He peered at the change before handing it carefully to Betty who stood waiting, pink lipstick painted over the scrawl of lips.

Papa Adams jerked his head in the direction of the kitchen behind him. A small man, sweat running off the dark skin of his forehead, mopped his brow with the hanky of a mottled apron that had turned yellow as old newspaper. He fished in the sizzling fats of the hot plate with a spatula, uncovering eggs and burgers, putting his catches to the one side on clean white plates. Flicking and uncovering, the cigarette in his mouth at a jaunty angle as he waited for Betty to butt through the swing door and leave him with another tray full of dirty dishes.  

The stockier of the two agents sipped his coffee, made a face and shook sugar into the cup.  He looked for something on the counter.

‘Had to let him go.’ Papa Adams gave a rudimentary rub to a spoon sitting in a plastic basin, and held it out for him to take, their eyes meeting briefly. ‘You know, all kinds of strange notions. I told him straight, there’s tens of thousands just like you that would be happy to work for food and lodgings.’ He leaned into the counter, his shoulders hunched as he whispered to the slick-haired agent. ‘The truth is sir, he didn’t choose to come here. He got into some kind of trouble at home with his job as a patent clerk. Had ideas above himself. Headstrong. Always thought he knew best. I helped him out simply because he got my wife’s sister Lieserl - with child. Disgraced himself. Disgraced her. I told him man to man if he couldn’t afford to bring a child into the world he should cut his penis off.’ He made a phttt noise with his lips to emphasize his point. ‘The world doesn’t need any more bastards.’

The agents exchanged a sideways glance.

‘When did he leave?’ asked the slick-haired one.

‘Any forwarding address?’ The other asked, sipping his coffee, his tone neutral.

Papa Adams sprung back from the counter, his hands held up in surrender. ‘I told him with his stupid diagrams and microscopic writing it would get him into trouble. It’s nothing to do with me. I don’t know nothing.’

‘Yeh, that’s what they all say,’ said the stocky agent standing up to his full height.

Papa Adams looked over his head thought the plate glass window with his name carefully lettered on the sign above it to the street outside. ‘I promise you I don’t know nothing,’ his tone wheedling and begging. ‘Sir, I promise if I knew anything at all I’d tell you.’       

http://unbound.co.uk/books/lily-poole