Then he had another idea.

He had relatives who might employ him. His father’s sister, Millie, was in the fashion business, with three shops in affluent north London suburbs: Harrow, Golders Green, and Hampstead. She might give him a Saturday job, though he did not know how good he would be at selling frocks to ladies. Millie was married to a leather wholesaler, Abie Avery, and his warehouse in east London might be a better bet. But both Auntie Millie and Uncle Abie would probably check with Lloyd, who would tell them that Dave was supposed to be studying, not working. However, Millie and Abie had a son, Lenny, aged twenty-three, who was a small-time businessman and hustler. On Saturdays Lenny operated a market stall in Aldgate, in the East End. He sold Chanel No. 5 and other expensive perfumes at ludicrously low prices. He whispered to his customers that they were stolen, but in fact they were simple fakes, cheap scent in expensive-looking bottles.

Lenny might give Dave a day’s work.

Dave had just enough money for the Tube fare. He turned into the nearest station and bought his ticket. If Lenny turned him down he did not know how he was going to get back. He guessed he could walk a few miles if necessary.

The train took him underneath London from the affluent west to the working-class east. The market was already crowded with shoppers eager to buy at prices lower than those in the regular stores. Some of the goods were stolen, Dave guessed: electric kettles, shavers, irons, and radio sets slipped out of the back door of the factory. Others were surplus production sold off cheaply by the makers: records no one wanted, books that had failed to become bestsellers, ugly photo frames, ashtrays in the shape of seashells. But most were defective. There were boxes of stale chocolates, striped scarves with a flaw in the weave, piebald leather boots that had been unevenly dyed, china plates decorated with half a flower.

Lenny resembled his and Dave’s grandfather, the late Bernie Leckwith, with thick dark hair and brown eyes. Lenny’s hair was oiled and combed into an Elvis Presley pompadour. His greeting was warm. “Hello, young Dave! Want some scent for the girlfriend? Try Fleur Sauvage.” He pronounced it “flewer savidge.” “Guaranteed to make her knickers fall down, yours for two shillings and sixpence.”

“I need a job, Lenny,” said Dave. “Can I work for you?”

“Need a job? Your mother’s a millionaire, ain’t she?” said Lenny evasively.

“Dad cut off my allowance.”

“Why did he do that?”

“Because my schoolwork is poor. So I’m broke. I just want to earn enough money to go out tonight.”

For the third time, Lenny replied with a question. “What am I, the Labour Exchange?”

“Give me a chance. I bet I could sell perfume.”

Lenny turned to a customer. “You, madam, have got very good taste. Yardley perfumes are the classiest on the market—yet that bottle in your hand is only three shillings, and I had to pay two-and-six to the bloke that stole it, I mean to say supplied it to me.”