Cards of Identity (15 page)

Mrs Paradise stands bowing inside. Behind her are great tables sticky with damp flour, dough, and poultry in undress. Her sleeves are rolled up, showing her prime forearms. The Club studies her with interest: there is a flutter of note-books and requests for loans of pencils.

‘Good morning, Florence,’ says the captain. ‘I have brought our guests to see your admirable establishment. Some of them are old friends of yours and it is they who have insisted on showing you off to the others.’

‘Admirable, indeed!’ cries the President: ‘an astonishing place! Tell us, my good woman, do you spend all day in work of this kind?’

‘Oh, yes, sir,’ replies Mrs Paradise, at once falling in love with this
bearded old man’s childlike, upper-class innocence. She has not met him before, but almost feels she has.

‘I recognize a bird, do I not?’ says the President triumphantly, pointing his shooting-stick.

‘That is a turkey, sir, in preparation for the table.’

‘It looks different without its feathers, doesn’t it? You have no difficulty in knowing it for what it is? You never think it a goose?’

‘Oh, never, sir. They are far from one bird.’

‘It must all be very difficult. To know
what
everything is when it no longer has any resemblance to itself; to know
where
you have put it when you want it; to know
what
to do with it when you have found it. Do you never lose your head?’

‘Never, sir. I am at home here, you see. Everything is familiar.’

‘You never have the feeling that you are being swept away by powers beyond your control?’

Mrs Paradise smiles and loves him more than ever. She answers: ‘Not if we are given ample warning that guests are expected, sir.’

‘Of course. I had not thought of that. Everything has to be conclusively identified before a certain fixed hour.’

‘That is correct, sir.’

‘And how many are you?’

‘We are myself, Mrs Chirk, and Jellicoe, sir. Three in all.’

‘And you can look after all these guests for three weeks without getting tired?’

‘Oh, yes, sir. We work in shifts, you see. During the day we cook and wash-up, and then, when night comes and the gentlemen are in bed, we have a chance to go through the living-rooms. We are rarely in bed before three a.m., and then we are up again at six. We are proud to think that we manage so economically.’

‘Yes, it is not half bad,’ said the captain.

‘I imagine that prayer is a great help, too,’ said the President. ‘If you have time to squeeze some in.’

‘Prayer has never failed me yet, sir.’

‘I am glad to hear it. So many people nowadays have simply dropped it. Who is that woman in the corner with red eyes? Would that be Mrs Jellicoe?’

‘Her name is Mrs Chirk, sir. People always seem to have trouble with her name.’

‘Good morning, Mrs Burke. So you work here, too?’

‘Yes, sir, I do – as best I can.’

‘Do you enjoy your work?’

‘I hardly pause to think, sir, but I doubt I would be doing it if there were not enjoyment.’

‘Do you get very good wages? That is always a help.’

‘The family is very generous, sir. I often find an extra coin in my envelope.’

‘How do you like this modern life?’

‘I am sure my parents’ days were better, sir. We worked harder then, but we were much happier. And the shops were so full of good things. Even though we couldn’t afford to buy them, it was a pleasure to think what happiness they brought to others.’

‘Nonetheless, you are content with the present? It doesn’t bewilder you with its intricacies and swiftness? All these trains, and so on.’

‘Only if I pause to ask, sir.’

‘I see. You find stability in momentum; identity in thoughtless self-propulsion.’

‘I couldn’t answer that, sir.’

‘You get happiness from thinking that your parents were happy and that your children will be happy too? So the present – yourself – is neither here nor there?’

‘Not a scrap, sir, if I just keep going and going.’

‘Well, thank you very much, Mrs Jellicoe and Mrs Paradise. We must move on. We are going to shoot, or something, I think. Thank you a thousand times and good luck to you.’

Jellicoe welcomed them at the butler’s pantry.

‘Why!’ cried the President, ‘you are the man who brought us the sherry!’

‘Yes, indeed, sir. This is where I bring it from.’

‘Is that not a long way?’

‘Eight hundred and sixty-four steps, sir.’

‘Well, if you have time to count up to 864, you are not as hard-pressed as I thought.’

‘But I am, sir, if I may say so. It is just that I feel the pain more exactly if I give it a number.’

‘Oh. You have a sort of rough-and-ready philosophy, have you?’

‘Only a very simple one, sir. I hold that life is intensely painful but that the good man does not complain.’

‘I suppose you read that in a book?’

‘No, sir. It struck me quite personally.’

‘Then your idea of perfect happiness is to meet the maximum of pain with the minimum of complaint?’

‘Exactly that, sir. I despise the softness of modern life.’

‘Well, you look well enough on your philosophy, I must say. And you never feel the want of a more up-to-date establishment than this one? A gaslight in the pantry, for instance?’

‘Gaslight is only an illusion; it is no help to the soul, sir.’

‘You are a devout man?’

‘Unfortunately, no, sir. Although I deeply respect those…’

‘Yes, yes, yes; I’ve heard that one before. I must say, you seem to have chosen the worst of both worlds. Surely you should try and have either a God or a gas-fitting? To reject
both
seems foolhardy.’

‘Not according to my philosophy, sir.’

‘That’s true, of course. Without serious deprivation you would hardly know yourself.’

‘Exactly, sir. Pain is the spur.’

‘And do you expect no reward for all this?’

‘I feel that a reward would spoil everything, sir. I am bitterly ashamed of my good fortune, as it is. I have so much to make up for in my past.’

‘Well, you are certainly going about it the right Way. Good morning.’

‘Good morning, sir, and thank you for your sympathy.’

‘Not at all. The whole fun of pain is in the sharing of it.’

Out of earshot the President said: ‘That Jellicoe and Mrs Paradise – I suspect they are brother and sister.’

‘You are in wonderful form this morning, sir,’ said the captain. ‘Your guess is absolutely correct.’

Stapleton is immensely impressed. He stares at the President as at a god.

‘They have exactly the same hideous ears,’ says the President.

Stapleton groans. He had hoped for something far more profound than comparable ears. If ever he becomes a great man he will see to it that truth is given the tortuous capture it deserves.

‘Well, gentlemen!’ cried the President, ‘let me inspect
you
!
I hope
you are all in good heart, because we are now going to examine the gardener and gardenee.’

He throws open the outer door. Every man hastily lights up pipe or cigarette and reaches in his pocket for his money: they pass into the lime avenue in a column of smoke to a jingling of silver. They see Towzer and Tray in a rose-bed, and the President boldly makes for them. Towzer is bent over the base of a tall rose, grubbing for suckers. Tray is forcefully syringing the same rose, leaving a foam of dripping suds on Towzer’s head.

‘This is the President of the Royal Medical Society,’ says the captain.

Tray puts up her syringe and giggles.

‘He wants to see how Towzer is getting on,’ continues the captain.

‘Something has caught my eye!’ cries the President. ‘Why does every rose have a little tag tied to it?’

‘That’s the rose’s
name,
sir,’ answers Tray, giggling louder.

‘But why? It won’t run away, will it? It’s not a dog.’

‘To identify it, sir. Roses are all different colours and sorts.’

‘You mean, you have to know the name before you can tell the colour? Well, there are parallels in medicine, I must say. And what about that bent gentleman at your feet, my dear? What is
he
for?’

‘He’s the one you wanted to inspect, sir.’

‘I can’t if he keeps that crouching position. Can’t you haul him up a little?’

Thrusting two soapy fingers into Towzer’s matted hair, she tugs his face into view. ‘Here’s a nice gentleman to talk to you,’ she says. ‘Try and be sweet and sensible, to please me.’

His bloodshot eyes roll painfully in the sunlight. The pathetic sight is heartening to members of the club because by comparison with Towzer they are healthy giants. They reach for their notebooks and pencils; their vapid, jittery expressions become fixed in the rocky lineaments of professional men. Dr Shubunkin, who has a certain talent, makes a quick sketch of Towzer’s back-bent head – the huge yellow teeth, the dense beard, the awful furrows of the ploughed face.

‘Dear me!’ says the President, ‘he
has
been through a lot. How would you like to tell me a little of your history, my man? Don’t feel nervous; we are all doctors.’

Tray bursts out laughing and Towzer angrily tugs his hair out of her fingers and returns to his grubbing.

‘You’ll never get a word out of him, sir,’ Tray says.

‘Why? Is he a hopeless case? Or has he an unconscious resentment of doctors?’

‘He is determined to go his own way, sir. He imagines everyone is trying to change him.’

‘When did he first get this suspicion? It is not easy to cure. We find it nowadays in patient after patient.’

‘He’s much better than he used to be, sir. At first, he wouldn’t even speak to
me
.’

‘And now?’

‘Now, he trusts me.’

‘Why? Are you a trained nurse?’

Tray goes into convulsions. ‘Of course not!’ she screams. ‘I’m a Land Girl.’

‘Then why are you so interested?’

‘
Because
,’
says Tray tartly, blushing.

‘Surely you don’t ever expect him to become
marriageable,
do you?’

‘And why not?’

‘But, my dear, he’s just like an animal. How could a pretty little frigate like you think of marriage with such a sunken wreck? I think I can guess, as a matter of fact. You believe that he is not what he appears to be. You think that deep inside there is quite another Towzer. I wonder what it’s like. Something rather
soigné,
d’you think?’

Tray blushes.

‘I must say, if his nose were wet I’d think him a dog.’

‘I’m afraid I spoil him like one.’

‘Is he grateful?’

‘Not a bit. He’s a real man.’

‘Perhaps he knows you’re trying to change him.’

‘But I’m not. I only want him to be himself.’

‘Yes, dear, I know, but there are always two views on what that is. And is he not rather
old
?’

‘Good heavens, no!’

‘How do you tell? By looking at his teeth? Or does he have annual rings?’

‘He’s only
playing
old, sir. He’s sharp as a young fox underneath.’

‘Give me an instance.’

‘Well, the other evening, he did his sums so well that I gave him a
big kiss and showed him how pleased I was. Next morning, he came down to breakfast wearing his pants on his head.’

‘What did he mean? “Keep off the Grass”?’

‘He was afraid I’d found out who he really was. When I said, “There’s only one man in the world who would come down like that,” he whipped off the pants in a flash.’

‘So. Well, you’ll get him tagged yet, I don’t doubt. Does he know you belong to another sex?’

‘He knows I don’t belong to his, but that’s as much as he’ll admit.’

‘Have you tried tears on him?’

‘It would be water off a duck’s back, sir. He hasn’t got his guilt back yet.’

‘Well, I don’t think I have any useful advice to give you. You seem to have the case well in hand. I only wish that we of the medical profession had more of the enterprise of you young women. You seem to understand your male cases so much better. Just one more question: do you have any idea what identity will emerge from him?’

‘I’ve only noticed one or two suggestive things, sir. He winces at the sound of a bell. He is never punctual. He hates to have things neatly laid out. He doesn’t mind short jobs, but if they get long or complicated he throws up his hands and walks out.’

‘That sounds like a plumber.’

‘Oh dear! I couldn’t have that. I want it more intellectual. Some sort of civil servant, I thought.’

‘I don’t think the symptoms are suitable.’

‘Then I probably imagined them.’

‘Yes. I am sure that if you persevere you will find ones that are more in harmony with your hopes. We often find that, in our work. Tell me quite frankly now: what do you
most
hope to find he is evading? What figure do you dream is concealed in this shaggy marble?’

‘I would be the happiest woman in the world, sir, if he turned out to be a matinee idol, trying to escape from it all.’

‘Well, why not? Has he any bent suggestive of the stage? Apart from his love of flowers, of course.’

‘He takes readily to poetry, sir. Anything with a beat and no exact meaning excites him.’

‘Why not try him in a play, then? I am sure Dr Mallet would have no objection.’

‘None whatever,’ says the captain. ‘Like all doctors, I always regret that I am so busy with serious matters that I have no time for art.’

‘If I could persuade the kitchen staff to help …’ says Tray excitedly.

‘I’m sure there are many volumes of Shakespeare in the library,’ says the captain. ‘I assume Shakespeare would be your choice.’

‘So there you are, young lady,’ says the President. ‘The rest is up to you.’

They move on and leave her quite delighted. The members, too, are impressed and happy with the interview. Each has already set the great organ of his brain to work on the case and found how neatly it may be tooled to his speciality. The President takes Stapleton’s left ear and gives it a napoleonic tweak. ‘And what did
you
think?’ he asks.

‘I thought it very
sad,
sir,’ says Stapleton frankly.

‘Sad, eh? And what was sad?’