By John Newton
Scouting for film locations in a run-down area just East of the City of London, I spied a small restaurant called “Dinner at Sally’s”. The menu on the door offered Coq-au-Vin, spelt in capitals C-O-C-K O V-A-N.
I stepped in. Several customers chumping through a large pile of well-gravied chicken looked up.
A woman – probably late thirties – sat by the till, elbows on the counter, blowing clouds of smoke at the ceiling.
‘Do you have a table for one?’ I asked.
‘Come in, Darling,’ she called in a loud, almost Cockney squeal, frizzy blonde hair swaying as though corn in a breeze. She waved a badly manicured hand. Words gushed from lips painted bright red.
‘Sit down Sweetie and choose your din-dins.’
I laughed. ‘I’ll try the special please. But why do you spell it like that?’
‘It’s French, you know,’ she bellowed. ‘None of the people around here can read that Frog language, so I English-ised it. I wanted to call it Cock-In-A -Van, but Willie said that may be rude.’
I chose a table and sat. Hopping from her stool she swayed over on high heels, to lean on my shoulder and whisper, ‘Don’t see many posh young gentleman this part of London? What you looking for? Cheap diamonds? Cheap clothes? Cheap girls? We got plenty of all three.’
‘Just a good lunch will do, thanks.’
She wiggled away, struggling to balance on the heels, struggling to clamber back on the stool in a bright flowered dress so tight, I feared it may split at the seams.
I ate an excellent lunch with treacle tart and custard for pudding and a cup of first-class coffee.
‘Great food,’ I said as I paid.
‘Of course, my Lovely. That’s why my customers keep coming back. Some of them are a bit odd, but they like my food and I love them all.’
She blew me a kiss. ‘Come back soon, my Precious.’
Over the next few days I found three likely locations and to celebrate returned for dinner at Sally’s. ‘I’ll have the same again if it’s available.’
‘Don’t worry,’ she said with a lewd grin. ‘Cock’s always available here.’
I laughed and ate my dinner. As I paid, she again asked, ‘What you doing here Duckie?’
‘Some other time,’ I said.
A few days later, while again tackling a huge plate of chicken, an elderly man, tired lined face, stained brown suit; slid into the seat opposite and murmured in a cultured accent, ‘The white swallows are flying south over Serbia.’
Not sure how to respond, I said, ‘Are they?’
He stamped a foot and glared. ‘That’s not today’s password, you fool. You’re supposed to say, “And the Bulgarian hunters are waiting to shoot them for supper.”’
I managed not to laugh.
‘Why do I have to say that?’
‘I just told you. It’s your half of the bloody password.’
He reached into his pocket and handed me a tightly rolled hand-made cigarette.
‘Pass this on to Q. Soon as you can. Give it to no one else. Only Q. For his eyes only.’
He tapped the side of his nose, slid off the seat and slouched out through the door.
‘Who on earth is he Sally?’
‘He comes in often. He says he used to be a Russian spy. Or perhaps a German. He can’t remember. He’s harmless and has been watching and trailing you for a couple of weeks.’
‘Why?’
‘Cos you won’t tell us why you’re here my little Bundle of Sugar. That makes you a man of mystery. So he probably thinks you’re a spy too. He’s done the same with other people.’
I began to know Sally’s, mostly, eccentric customers. The retired wrestler, a huge man, aged around sixty, no longer working, but still training. ‘Trying to get back into the circuit,’ he said. ‘Bastards banned me for over-acting.’
And Jenny. A sweet, untidy young thing who touched my leg under the table and suggested a short time.
‘Thank you, but no. I don’t have time.’
‘Not even a short time?’
‘Not even a short time, I’m afraid.’
‘She’s not really on the game,’ Sally told me. ‘Poor Jenny wants to give it a go to spite her Mother, our local religious fanatic. Mummy won’t let her do anything. Not get a job, a boyfriend, no dancing, no music at home, no sport. She’s only allowed to stand on the pavement with religious posters on a stick and she sees the street girls at it and wants to have a go. But you’re the only one she’s dared ask, because you look like a nice man and you’re sure to refuse.’
My work in East London finished, I followed other jobs to find locations for other producers. When filming started on East End Boy I went back to see how they were getting on and drifted round the corner to Sally’s for dinner to find her café a charred wreck; completely burned down. Utterly destroyed.
Staring in shock I felt a tap on my shoulder and turned to find the old spy staring up at me.
‘Did you pass it on to Q?’ he asked.
‘Of course. I always do what the Service requires.’
‘Good man. If you’re looking for Sally, she’s gone. One night the building blew up and burned down. We never saw her again. The police searched in case she went with the building and said she must have been vaporised in the explosion. We held a wake, but it wasn’t much fun.’
‘Sad,’ I said.
‘Very,’ he said. ‘A lovely woman. Fond of you. Always spoke highly. When you see Q, give him my regards.’
Three years later in Paris, I saw a smart very pretty young woman coming along the crowded Champs Elysee elegantly balanced on stiletto heels. She looked familiar. As she passed, I tried a quiet, experimental, ‘Sally?’
She stopped and smiled. In a refined accent she said, ‘I recognised you and hoped you would not know me. Typical spy. I hope you are well.’
‘I’m fine thanks but look at you. Not the East End Sally at all. We all thought you were dead.’
‘Good. That’s what I want.’
‘What happened?’
This time she didn’t smile. She grinned. A sort of superior twist of the lips and a cunning glint in the eyes.
‘I started on the stage, Darling. Terrible life. All work, wandering hands and no money. So when I realised, that a tiny electric spark and a whiff of escaping gas could work wonders on my bank balance, I entered the catering profession, became Sally, and have been doing very well ever since. In London as Sally. Of course I’m not Sally in here Paris. Nor have I been in Milan, in Berlin, Geneva or Stockholm. Local names work so much better. I won’t invite you to lunch at my new place, in case you spill the gaff, so to speak. And we will never meet again, by accident or design, if you don’t mind.’
With a pouted kiss, and a wiggle of her finely manicured fingers she turned away to go on down the Champs. This time a quite beautiful woman. Well worth watching until she disappeared in the swirling throng.
I’ve thought of her a great deal after this encounter and discussed an idea with my producer friend.
I found the locations.
He wrote the script. The film Dinner at Sally’s comes out in June.
*****
This is one of the short stories from the book John Newton’s Short Stories Volume One, which is available on Amazon – Click to buy
Author Bio:
I’ve been writing books and short stories since the age of 9 with reasonable success. Two of my 14 books sold all round the world. One of my main successes is been WHITE SUNRISE a modern historical novel from 1902 to 1932, with the action taking place in Kenya and Germany, plus Hungary, Austria and Berlin during the Weimar Republic with my characters woven into the history of those countries, during and after World War One. Every item of history is impeccably researched and precise.
Contact Author:
Email: nbi.john@gmail.com
