Read An Education for Free Online Page B

and saying ‘What do you think? Should I make a bid?’ I found it easy to talk to Danny; I could chatter away to him, whereas with Simon I only sulked.
    Helen was a different matter. She drifted around silently, exquisitely, a soulful Burne-Jones damsel half-hidden in her cloud of red-gold hair. At first, I was so much in awe of her beauty I could barely speak to her. But gradually I came to realise that her silence was often a cover for not knowing what to say and that actually – I hardly liked to use the word about my goddess – she was thick. I was terrified that one day Danny would find out. And there were sometimes hints from Simon that Danny's interest in Helen might be waning, that there could be other girlfriends. Knowing this, keeping this secret, made me feel that it was crucial for me to go on seeing Helen, to protect her, because one day, when I was just a little older and more sophisticated, we could be best friends.
    Simon always refused to talk about business to me (‘Oh, you don't want to know about that, Minn’) but Danny had no such inhibitions. He loved telling me funny stories about the seething world of dodgy property dealers – the scams, the auction rings, the way the auctioneers sometimes tried to keep out the ‘Stamford Hill cowboys’ by holding auctions on Yom Kippur or other holy days, and then the sight of all these Hasidic Jews in mufflers and dark glasses trying to bid without being seen. Or the great scam whereby they sold Judah Binstock a quarter acre of Ealing Common, without him realising that the quarter acre was only two yards wide. Through Danny, I learned how Perec Rachman had seemingly solved the problem of ‘stats’ – statutory or sitting tenants – who were the bane of Sixties property developers. The law gave them the right to stay in their flats at a fixed rent for life if they wanted – and they had a habit of living an awfully long time. But Rachman had certain robust methods, such as carrying out building works all round them, or taking the roof off, or ‘putting in the schwartzes’ (West Indians) or filling the rest of the house with prostitutes, that made stats eager to move.
    So I gathered from Danny that the property business in which Simon was involved was not entirely honest. But my first hint of other forms of dishonesty came about fifteen months into the relationship when I went to a bookshop on Richmond Green. Simon had taken me there several times to buy me books on Jewish history and the works of Isaac Bashevis Singer – I accepted them gratefully, though I never read them. But on this occasion, I went alone and the bookdealer, who was normally so friendly, said ‘Where's your friend?’
    ‘What friend?’
    ‘Simon Prewalski.’
    ‘I don't know anyone of that name,’ I said truthfully.
    ‘Well, whatever he calls himself. Tell him I'm fed up with his bouncing cheques – I've reported him to the police.’
    That evening I said to Simon, ‘Do you know anyone called Prewalski?’
    ‘Yes – my mother, my grandparents. Why?’
    I told him what the book dealer had said.
    Simon said, ‘Well, don't go in there again. Or if you do, don't tell him you've seen me. Say we've broken up.’
    ‘But what did he mean about the bouncing cheques?’
    ‘How should I know? Don't worry about it.’
    So that was a hint, or more than a hint. But then in Cambridge there was unmistakable proof. He and Danny had gone into Cambridge in a big way and were buying up a street called Bateman Street, so we often stayed there. One weekend I was moaning – I was always moaning – ‘I'm bored with Bateman Street’ and Danny said, ‘So am I – let's drive to the country’, so we drove out towards Newmarket. At a place called Six Mile Bottom, I saw a thatched cottage with a For Sale sign outside. ‘Look, how pretty,’ I said. ‘Why can't you two buy nice places like that instead of horrible old slums?’ ‘Perhaps we can,’ said Simon, sliding the Bristol to a stop