The Camden Tales

59 - The Hat

-=₪ December 1932 ₪=-

The Mansion / Margate / 2.34am

As Tommy lay in bed, his arm draped across his forehead, he fixed his gaze upon the ceiling. She was crying again, a nightly ritual he still hadn't grown accustomed to.

Pinching the bridge of his nose, he rubbed his forehead with the back of his hand, mustering the courage to cast off the sheets and sit on the edge of the bed. Despite the extinguished fire, the room still retained its warmth, which Tommy was grateful for given he wore nothing but his underwear. His eyes wandered to his bare feet resting on the worn rug, absorbing the mournful sobs before he glanced over his shoulder, realising there was no dressing gown available. He briefly considered donning Alfie's clothes again but thought better of it. Instead, he rose from the bed and left the room as he was.

"Alfie?" Malka's small voice came through the door as Tommy knocked on the master bedroom.

"It's Tommy," he replied, partially opening the door without looking inside.

"Oh." He heard her sniff. "Come in."

Pushing the door wider, he apologised for his lack of attire, but Malka paid it no mind, as she remained in bed, wiping her eyes and blowing her nose. Tommy strolled over to the dresser, stealing glances at the usually formidable Mrs Solomons, realising the stark difference between hearing her sob and actually witnessing her sorrow.

"I apologise if I disturbed your sleep," she said, ensuring her nightdress covered her adequately.

The dressing table was strewn with an array of golden jewellery - rings, bracelets, chains, charms, and more. Tommy recognised a few pieces as belonging to Alfie. The Jewish gangster had a penchant for changing his rings often, so Tommy was surprised that he could identify any of them.

"I was reading," he shared, picking up a signet ring embossed with a Star of David. "I also have trouble sleeping."

Returning the ring to the jewellery box, he glanced over his shoulder to see Malka pulling back the sheets, inviting him to join her in the bed. It was not a gesture filled with suggestions or seduction, but rather a practical means to converse without Tommy feeling exposed or cold. Climbing into bed, he pulled the blankets over his lap and surveyed the room with its ornate wooden furniture, scattered clothes, trinkets, and photographs before turning his attention to Malka beside him.

She lay on her side, seemingly ready and waiting for him to speak about what troubled him.

"While you were recovering last week, I had a conversation with Ishmael. He mentioned that Alfie had confided in him about how he was considering leaving you, a thought that had been on his mind for a number of years but had now reached a point where he felt he couldn't delay it any longer. That Alfie believed it would be easier if you were angry with him, hated him even."

"I am angry with him, but I could never hate him. What I hate is myself for being angry with him," she said, her voice soft, as a few more tears escaped her.

"Your love for him... has it always been genuine?" Tommy asked, curiosity laced with suspicion. For years, he had been certain that their marriage was merely a business arrangement. In his mind, Malka's cause was similar to his and Alfie's, and so she must have married to further her own ambitions. A woman in this world would need a man to front any and all deals because no man would take a woman seriously in such a place. He knew he never had.

"Why do you ask?"

"Because men like us... we can never be--" Tommy's thoughts drifted to how foreign the emotion of love was to him. He cared, occasionally, and at times felt what could be considered love, he supposed. Before the loss of Polly, he could tell himself that all his plans were rooted in love for his family, but now it was challenging to reconcile his acts of self-interest with those of love. The self-deception, the illusion, the fog he had cast over his vision was starting to dissipate, revealing glimpses of truth that unsettled him. He looked down and noticed his hand trembling.