The Tenant

THE TENANT

Montague Drucker, landlord of fifteen properties south of the Thames, was not a happy man this morning. Last night had been really rough in London; the Germans had hammered Dockland again, and even from where he was he could see the columns of smoke smudging the morning air above Bermondsey. All the same, today the rent was due; so he would have to venture into this flaming annexe of Hell to check how many of his tenements still stood, and collect his dues for the month.

As he drove south across the blitzed moonscape of London from his home in Chigwell, Mister Drucker reflected on his life. He had not done too badly for himself, he decided. For the past sixteen years he had been gathering a crop of reasonable profitable late-Victorian tenements—paying more than fair prices for them too, he thought with a sour smile—and thereby he had gradually created for himself a tidy little nest egg. He was nearly sixty now, and in a few years (God willing, he should survive the Blitz) he would retire and pass his properties on to his son Elias. Goddamn the Luftwaffe bombers, he thought, as he drove over the Thames. With last night’s raid I probably won’t have any legacy to give to Elias except ashes and shattered bricks. War was hell when you owned property, he reflected.

Montague did not consider himself an unreasonable man. So what if he insisted on the rent being paid promptly? These were his properties, and if his tenants couldn’t afford to keep up payments they could always find somewhere else to live. So what if they complained that he never things when they broke? What was the point of fixing a tenament that was old enough to fall down? For that matter, most of those buildings had been put up before he was even born in 1883. Besides, with the Blitz raging around them day and night for the last few weeks, what was the point of maintainence? He could fix something only to come back tomorrow and find the house flattened by a bomb, and his money wasted.

When he arrived in the busy chaos of Bermondsey he parked the car and locked it. All of his properties were grouped within easy walking distance of this spot, and it would be a relief to go on foot rather than constantly dodging craters and swerving around collapsed buildings. One by one, Montague Drucker went to each tenement and collected his rents. By the time he had collected his fourteenth payment for the morning—they all grumbled, but they all paid—Montague was feeling a lot more cheerful. By God’s grace and the incompetence of the bombers, not one of his buildings had been touched so far. Bomb craters and shattered buildings all around, and no more than scratches on any of his properties. Absolutely amazing, he thought; I have good reason to feel blessed today. There was only one more property to check, a couple of streets east of here.

As he came around the corner into the street of row-houses where his last rent was to be paid, Montague met a sight which made his heart sink to his boot-soles. John Varney, his final tenant, was leaning on a twisted, schrapnel-scarred iron lamppost with a nonchalant air. He was whistling the tune ‘Doing the Lambeth Walk’. He gave a broad, insolent grin when he saw Montague come around the corner.

“’Ello, Monty,” he called, “’ow’s life w’yer t’day, son? Come f’y’money, ’ave ye? Y’ll be ’ard pressed t’ get it from me, lad. ’m not payin’ any more rent, see?”

“We’ll see about that, Mister Varney,” Montague said with icy reserve, maintaining his temper with an effort. “You’re a month behind in your rent now, and you’ve been putting me off with your excuses for far too long. You really have to pay up today, or shift out.”

“Ah well then,” said Varney with that infuriating grin, “Ah’ve got special circumstances t’consider now, ’aven’t I? What with me’ouse not bein’ there after las’ night’n all.” He saw the expression on Montague’s face and laughed aloud. “Man,” he said, “y’shoulda seen ’ow yer jaw dropped then, Monty. Yer face is a real sight. Come’n ’ave a look’t yer property, Mister landlord man, ’nsee whether y’can do some repairs t’ it before nightfall, hey?”

With John Varney leading, Montague trotting along behind in a numb daze, they walked along the street to see what was left of the docker’s bedsit. When Montague saw the atrociously large pit where Varney’s house had been, he just about swallowed his tongue with shock. In stunned astonishment he walked forward past his bulky tenant, looking down into the enormous crater. It must have been a large bomb, possibly two hundred and fifty kilograms—a direct hit. There was literally nothing left of the house but matchwood—it had been blasted out of existence.

“My God,” Montague said with a sudden exhalation of a long-held breath. “Mister Varney, you’re a very lucky man. Very lucky indeed.”

“Lucky am I, Monty? Now ’ow d’ye figure that?”

“Well, it’s true that you’ve lost your house, but at least you weren’t home at the time. I can arrange for you to move into one of my other tenements”—

“Why, that’s right decent o’ye, Monty. The thing is, I was ’ome at th’time.”

“Really?” Montague swung around to look at Varney, who was leaning against the precarious remains of a neighbouring wall. He swung back to look at the horrifying chasm at his feet. “In that case, Mister Varney, you’re amazingly lucky. It’s a miracle you got out in time.”

“Aye, indeed,” Varney said behind him, “’twould be that, if I ’ad.”

For a moment the meaning of John Varney’s words did not sink into Montague’s brain. Then he spun around so quickly that he almost fell over—and saw his former tenant in the last stages of disappearing from view. In a moment the broken wall stood alone, supporting nobody—nobody visible, that is. At the very last moment, just before the big docker faded away into the overcrowded spirit world of the East End, Montague was sure that he saw on John Varney’s face the ghost of a smile.