Brick Lane market was packed. The stall holders were shouting out their wares in loud voices. Children ran among the stalls, looking for a chance to swipe the nearest thing to hand. Old women and young mothers stopped for a gossip or to scour the second-hand clothes stalls, of which there were plenty. Barrow boys stood by with apples and oranges piled high, their dirty hands grasping money and weighing up their produce quickly and efficiently, always underweighing when possible and keeping up a stream of talk as they did so, chatting up customers, young and old.

The shops were open. Gold was displayed behind metal grilles, diamonds sparkled, and furniture was displayed outside on the pavements. It was the era of the never-never and the Jews cashed in on this. They had always been the Uncles, the moneylenders, they were established and commanded respect because of this. They were rich, owning property in Brick Lane and roundabouts, but lived in Golders Green, respectable lives, with respectable families. Many of the men started out making a small fortune from the cobbles, a term for boxing without gloves. They fought all comers at Victoria Park and when they had a stake eventually made their way into the garment or gold industry, always lending money as a sideline. The easy atmosphere belied the real dealings that went on here. The lane was open till late at night. The smell of gefilte fish and blintzes vied for a place among the smells of rotten vegetables and the ever present smell of steam from the hoffman pressers. Tommy walked along with Jimmy until he came to Dubronsky’s small pop shop. ‘Pop’ was the term for pawn. It was not unusual for a woman to take her husband’s good suit in on a Monday and get it back out Saturday, ready to be worn on Sunday. Pawning was a way of life for most people. It was the only way to stretch meagre pennies, and to keep children’s bellies full. Inside the shop, Tommy closed the door and put up the ‘Closed’ sign.

The small Jewish man behind the counter smiled at him.

‘Tommy, my boy. What brings you here?’

Dubronsky’s exterior did not kid Tommy one iota. He knew the little man could blow his head off at a whim; his meek and engaging exterior covered a calculating brain and a violent streak. Until now, Tommy had always got on very well with him. He used this fact as he ambled over to the counter.

‘I hear you’ve been making friends with the pimps? Is this true?’

Dubronsky shrugged.

‘Since when have I had to ask you who I can be friends with? What are you, Tommy Lane, an Irish rabbi, that you come here on to my premises and question me about my likes and dislikes?’

Tommy grinned then.

‘Jimmy, have a look out the back, would you?’