The Girl in Blue (6 page)

Nor was
the clerk unmoved. A suspicion was beginning to steal over him that his
employers had passed up a good thing. Vera’s enthusiasm he could overlook as
pure routine, but unless the man behind the spectacles was her uncle or father
or something, this sudden call for copies of
Daffodil Days
might well be
the start of a big popular demand; the first scattered raindrops, as it were,
that herald the deluge. If, that is to say, one short stout person wanted to
read
Daffodil Days,
it showed that it could be done, and who was to say
that others would not want to do it?

He was
shaken, but he tried to recover his poise. Regretfully confessing that the book
was not at the moment in stock, he suggested to Homer that he should get it for
him, an offer which Homer declined, saying that he would be leaving England on
the following day. The clerk then put forward as possible substitutes
My
Life On The Links
by Sandy McHoots (as told to Colin Jeffson) and
Theatre
Memories
by Dame Flora Faye (as told to Reginald Tressilian), but no
business resulted, and Homer was on the pavement outside the shop and about to
head for Chelsea Square, when a voice said: ‘Excuse me’, and he turned and,
having turned, stood rigid, like someone in a fairy story on whom a spell has
been cast.

Homer’s
life had been singularly free from beautiful girls. He did not go out in the
evening very much, almost never to parties where such fauna abound, and during
office hours a corporation lawyer’s chances of seeing anything in the Helen of
Troy class are limited. The impact of Vera Upshaw was in consequence extremely
powerful. He gaped at her like a spectacled goldfish, and it was she who opened
the conversation. Her manner was brisk and free from diffidence. If a
criticism must be made, it was, if anything, perhaps too firm and
authoritative.’ Her public was not so large that she intended to let a
potential reader get away.

‘I
think I heard you asking for
Daffodil Days,’
she said crisply.

Homer’s
vocal cords were not in the best of shape, but he was able to reply huskily
that this was so, adding that they hadn’t got it.

‘I know
they hadn’t,’ said Vera with bitterness. ‘That’s the slipshod way book shops
are run over here. Is it the same in America?’

A
little surprised at her penetration in guessing his nationality, Homer replied
that he had always found the New York book shops pretty good. He was, however,
scarcely to be regarded as a normal customer, for he seldom read anything but
legal tomes.

‘I am a
corporation lawyer. My literature is mostly technical.’

‘Have
you been in England long?’

‘A few
days only. It is not, of course, my first visit. I have always been fond of
London.’

Though
I suppose your wife prefers Paris? Most American women do.’

‘I am
not married.’

‘Oh.
Well, what I was going to say was that I shall be very glad to give you a copy
of
Daffodil Days.’

‘No,
no, really, I couldn’t think —’

‘I have
several. I wrote it.’

Homer’s
eyes widened to about the size of standard golf balls. He gasped a startled ‘Really?’

‘It is
my second book. I had another out last year called —’

‘
Morning’s
At Seven,’
said Homer devoutly.

‘Don’t
tell me you read it.’

‘I read
it several times.

‘But it
wasn’t published in America.’

‘An
English friend sent it to me.’

‘And
you really liked it?’

‘I
thought it admirable.’

‘How
very gratifying. And how strange.’

‘I beg
your pardon?’

‘You
said you only read law books.’

‘Except
when I find a
Morning’s At Seven,’
said Homer, coming within an ace of
adding ‘Dear lady’. ‘I make an exception in the case of charming, delightful,
dainty works that make me feel as if I were sitting beside a rippling brook,
listening to its silver music. It had what so few books have nowadays, charm.’

Well
put, thought Homer, and Vera thought so, too. There had been a few reviews of
Morning’s
At Seven,
but only in obscure provincial papers and only things like ‘will
help to pass an idle hour’ and ‘not unreadable’. This was the real stuff.

‘You
speak like a poet,’ she said, feeling for the first time that the aura of
wealth that floated about him like some lovely scent was not his only claim to
her esteem, and she bestowed on him one of those melting glances which hit a
susceptible man like the kick of a mule.

‘In a
small way I am,’ said Homer, framing the words with difficulty, for the effects
of that look still lingered. ‘I write little verses in my spare time.’

‘Have
they been published?’

‘Very
occasionally.’

‘You
must make a book of them.’

‘I don’t
think I could quite aspire to that.’

‘Nonsense.
You’re much too modest. And now I must ask who and where.’

‘I beg
your pardon?’

‘What
name and what address. Who do I send the book to?’

‘Homer
Pyle is the name, but —’

‘Of
course. I remember. You said you were leaving England tomorrow.’

‘Yes, I
am going to Brussels for the P.E.N. conference.’

‘Why,
so am I.’

Once
more Homer found it difficult to speak, and when he did, all he could manage
was a weak ‘Really?’

‘So we
shall be seeing something of each other. And about the book. I can give it to
you now, if you will come round to where I live. It’s only a step, and I should
like you to meet my mother. Her name will probably be familiar to you. Dame
Flora Faye.’

2

A girl who has brought a
strange man home to meet her mother, rather in the tentative spirit of a dog
bringing a bone into a drawing-room, naturally seeks the earliest opportunity
of learning the latter’s opinion of him. Vera, having seen Homer out at the end
of his visit, returned to where Dame Flora Faye reclined in her arm chair, and
Dame Flora looked up at her from its depths with an enquiring, ‘Well?’

‘Just
what I was going to say to you,’ said Vera.

‘Meaning
what did I think of Mr Pyle?’

‘Exactly.’

‘Well,
I’ll tell you, my poppet.’

Surprisingly
in a woman who in the course of a long career had spread more nervous
breakdowns among directors, leading men, supporting players and assistant stage
managers than any other female star of her weight and age, Dame Flora’s vocal
delivery was soft and gentle. She had never been one of those empresses of
stormy emotion so popular at one time on the silent screen who raged and
bellowed; she got her effects more subtly. One of her playwrights, speaking
from the nursing home where he was recovering from mental exhaustion, had once
described her as the vulture who cooed like a dove.

‘It
depends,’ she continued, ‘on what aspect of him you have in mind. If you refer
to his looks, I doubt if he will ever win a beauty contest, even a seaside one.
On the other hand, he is an American corporation lawyer, and one of the first
lessons we learn in life is that there is no such thing as an American
corporation lawyer who does not wear hundred-dollar bills next his skin summer
and winter. I should imagine that when Mr Pyle is called upon to act for a
company in its suit against another company, his clients consider themselves
lucky if they come out of it after paying his fee with enough to buy a frugal
lunch next day. Give me another cup of tea, dearie, and pass me those little
cakes with pink sugar on top.’

They’re
fattening.’

‘Everything
in life that’s any fun, as somebody wisely observed, is either immoral, illegal
or fattening. Returning to your question, I think I know why you asked it. You
did not fail to notice that you had made a marked impression on this hand
across the sea. He couldn’t take his eyes off you, and I’m not surprised,
because you’re the most beautiful thing on earth, my lamb. So you’re saying to
yourself “Where do I go from here?”, and you naturally come to mother for
advice. I could give it to you better if I knew how matters are between you and
this ginger-headed pavement artist you’ve got engaged to. As I understand it,
he has money coming to him, but it’s in trust and his trustee won’t give it up
and you very prudently refuse to marry him till the deadlock melts, if that’s
what deadlocks do. I may be thinking of ice packs. You’re in the position of a
manager who has a show that’s a turkey at the box office, and he thinks “Shall
I put up the fortnight’s notice or shall I carry on on the chance of business
improving?” If he knows what’s good for him, he puts up the notice, and I
advise you to do the same, my dream child.’

‘It isn’t
quite like that, Mother. Gerald is getting his money today.’

‘How do
you know?’

‘I told
him what to do. I’ve been studying up the legal end of the thing. It’s too long
to explain, but it all turns on the trust being terminable. It is terminable,
so Mr Scrope won’t have a leg to stand on. Gerald was lunching with him today,
so by now everything must be settled.’

‘I see.
But even so, what on earth do you want with him when you can have this
excellent corporation lawyer with about a hundred times as much? I wouldn’t
call Mrs Homer Pyle a euphonious name, but I strongly urge you to take it on. I’m
not asking you to love him, mind you. I nearly married for love when I was
young and foolish, but I came out of the ether in time and saw there was
nothing in it. Mutual respect is what matters in marriage. Pyle respects you,
doesn’t he? Of course he does. And don’t tell me you don’t respect someone who
makes his sort of money. And you’ll be together in Brussels for I don’t know
how long. And you get lovelier every day. And a man who writes little poems can’t
have any sales resistance. Why, the thing’s in the bag. The scenario couldn’t
read better if it had been turned out in Hollywood with six supervisors and
fifteen writers working on it. Don’t wait, honeychile. Get on the phone and
tell your French polisher it’s all off. I never could see what you saw in him
in the first place.’

No
daughter could have failed to be stirred by such admirable counsel coming from
Mother who knew best, and Vera was plainly swayed. Nevertheless, she was
dubious.

‘But
how can I? I wouldn’t know what to say.’

Dame
Flora smiled a gentle smile. Rising from her chair, she put an arm round her
little girl and gave her a kiss, as she had done to a dozen daughters in a dozen
productions since the march of time had forced her to play mothers.

‘Don’t
worry your pretty head about that, my pet. I’ll do the ringing up. You say that
you would be at a loss for words. I won’t. Words are the last thing I’m ever at
a loss for. I know exactly how the scene should go. I tell him you think he’s
weak, and you must have a strong man for a husband, because you need someone to
guide you and make decisions for you. So-and-so I’ll say and so-and-so and
so-and-so, and I’ll wind up by telling him you will always look on him as a
dear, dear friend and will follow his career with considerable interest. Any
questions?’

‘Oh,
Mother!’ said Vera.

3

The policeman on the
corner, watching Homer start on his journey back to Chelsea Square, probably
debated with himself the advisability of weaving a circle round him thrice, his
aspect being so plainly that of one who on honeydew had fed and drunk the milk
of Paradise. Only the fact of his wearing spectacles and having a hat on kept
attention from being drawn to his flashing eyes and floating hair. He was, indeed,
in as uplifted a mood as if he had just received a six-figure fee for
negotiating a merger between a multi-million corporation and another
multi-million corporation.

His
visit to the home of Dame Flora Faye and her daughter Vera had been the most
triumphant success. He had expected to pop in and pop out again in a matter of
minutes, and they had kept him there for nearly two hours, and it had been
delightful, perfectly delightful.

He had
found Dame Flora charming. Too often artists of her eminence are inclined to be
cold and distant towards those as alien to their rarefied atmosphere as
corporation lawyers, but she, on being informed that that was his walk in life,
could not have been more cordial. She had shown the greatest interest in his
prosaic profession. He could well understand why for so many theatrical seasons
worshipping audiences had been falling at her feet and why a gracious
sovereign, feeling that there is nothing like a dame, had made her one.

As for
her daughter Vera, she had been a revelation to him. His first act on reaching
his destination was to sit down and write a poem directly inspired by her.

Barney
came in as he was finishing it, and he greeted her in the precise and formal manner
in which he always greeted her.