The Golden Virgin (11 page)

*

It certainly was a rag-time battalion of Kitchener’s Army he had come to, he thought, as he leaned against a wall of the drawing-room of Grey Towers, one of several other junior subalterns taking part in the weekly Social as it was called.

Dinner was over. The ladies were in the drawing-room, knitting and talking among themselves. With the exception of the Colonel’s daughter, the ladies were matronly, homely individuals of between forty and fifty years of age: Mrs. Broad, Mrs. Fluck, Mrs. Crump, Mrs. Gleeson, Mrs. Stiff. Their husbands had been time-served N.C.O.’s, retired for many years before the war. Now they were back again, and having the time of their lives—as majors, and prospective lieutenant-colonels; for, it was said, several new battalions were to be formed out of the original Navvies. There they sat: Crump, Fluck, Gleeson and Stiff, all together in one corner, smoking pipes and playing cards—not exactly bridge, but pontoon: a crafty lot taken altogether, he thought, wicked old devils who knew all the tricks, all trying to line nests which before the war had certainly not been feathered. Now some of the feathers were in evidence: round the necks, as boas, of Mesdames Crump, Fluck, Gleeson and Stiff.

Phillip laughed as he thought of what Wigg had told him: that every grocer in Ilford and Romford had been visited at various times by one or another of these gentry, in connection with possible deals for probable Regimental Institute “comforts for the troops”—extra rations such as custard powders, prunes, fresh vegetables, and cocoa for the canteens—to be bought with a secret commission
returned to each C.O. when the new battalions were formed. “Jam,” it was called.

As the now-idle new broom leaned against the wall there were voices in the passage outside. “Steady!” “Take it easy!” “All right, keep your wool on”, etc.; then through the open door came a pushed piano. Miss Broad turned pale. Milman was going to accompany her on the piano; then they were going to sing a duet. After that, she was going to play the piano accompaniment of
The
Broken
Melody.
At intervals during the afternoon fragments of this ordeal had been audible in and around Grey Towers. Now the dreaded moment was come. Milman smiled at her reassuringly. She smiled back, her eyes still anxious. Phillip sympathised. He liked Milman.

When the violinist was rubbing resin on his bow, Wigg sauntered over to Phillip. “Look at Milman,” he said,
sotte
voce,
“little gutscraper!”

Phillip gave Wigg an amiable look, and remained silent, thinking that sotty votshy just about summed up Wigg.

“By the way, did the Cabin Boy ever thank you for letting him use your motorcar, when you first arrived?”

“Yes, thanks. What’s more, he gave me four gallons of juice. I thought it quite decent of him.”

“Yes, at Curling’s expense.”

“I don’t understand.”

“He took two cans from the pit-store in the stable, didn’t he? Well, those cans were kept there, and had been paid for, by Little Boy Curling. The Cabin Boy took them without as much as a by-your-leave.”

“But surely Colonel Broad pays for the petrol Curling uses when he drives him about in his ‘Prince Henry’ Vauxhall?”

“Not on your life! Little Boy Curling takes the C.O. to the House of Commons, at other times he takes the Colonel’s wife shopping in Regent Street, or to a
matinée,
where I bet he pays for the tickets. What it is to have for father the richest grocer in London, who bought himself a baronetcy by paying thirty thousand pounds to the Liberal Party’s coffers.”

Phillip wondered about those two tins of petrol. After the tremulous singing of
When
you
Come
down
the
Vale,
Lad,
There
’
s
Music
Everywhere,
he crossed the room to Curling and asked him. The duet,
O
that
We
Two
were
Maying!
was about to begin.

“Tell me, Curling, have you missed four gallons——”

“S-sh!” said Curling, his head seeming to shrink into his
shoulders. He put a finger half-heartedly to his lips, his eyes were those of a subdued little boy. He wore leggings and breeches; other subalterns had changed into slacks, but Curling was apparently on duty all the time, ready to drive Col. Broad, M.P. whenever he or England might require the services of his grey open motor-car with the beaky radiator and arrow-fluted bonnet. Second-lieutenant Curling had one main sorrow; he had been promised a second pip by the Colonel last July, and still he had only one on each sleeve.

After the duet, while Milman was tuning up his fiddle, Phillip asked about the petrol. Curling, lowering his eyes, and hoping that the other would not give so much as one glance at any member of the Broad family, whispered, “I was very pleased to be of use. Please forget it, Maddison.”

“Well, thanks, old chap.”

“Don’t mention it.”

While Milman was playing the dreamy, rather sad and beautiful
Alice,
Where
Art
Thou,
that Uncle Hugh had played on his cigar-box fiddle with a brass horn so movingly, Phillip thought that Curling, despite his one pip, could not grumble. His father was very nearly a millionaire, and Curling was not likely to be sent out to France, when he was useful to the C.O. All the same, he was in half a mind to offer six shillings for the four gallons, but thinking of Curling’s ‘allowance from the guv’nor’ of £600 a year, plus his pay, he thought better of it.

Sitting beside Curling, he noticed on the brown leather of his boots the black marks of spurs and chains, but no signs of rubbing on leggings or breeches strappings. Evidently Curling had glorified himself to equestrian status when he was home on leave, and out of sight of Colonel Broad. How funny that a baronet’s son should want to swank. After the music, the piano was moved back for dancing. Phillip got away, before anyone could suggest that he dance with any of the girls sitting with their mothers. By the door he met Wigg, who said, “I met a friend of yours the other night in town. Her name is Frances. She says you know her cousin.”

Frances, Frances, thought Phillip, who could she be? Fearing Wigg’s cynical tongue, he asked no questions.

After lunch two days later Wigg came up to Phillip in the ante-room and said, “Would you care to come with me to Town this evening? I am meeting Frances, who said she knew you, and she has a friend.”

“I have been wondering who ‘Frances’ can be, Wigg.”

“All I know is that she is called Frances and that she is a mannequin.”

“Then it must be another Maddison. A mannequin? I knew
of
one once, long ago, who wore a hobble-skirt.”

“This one is too young for that. Are you on?”

“Thanks, I’d like to come. Shall we go in the Swift? I’ve just had some lamps fitted.”

They went after tea through Romford and Ilford to the Bow Road and broad sett-stoned Whitechapel High Street; onwards to the City; down Fenchurch Street in the darkness—past Wine Vaults Lane, and the round face of the Moon hanging above the little office of many memories; Cheapside, with Benetfink’s toy shop, belonging to an age now gone. How unsophisticated he was then!

“Straight on,” said Wigg.

They turned off a crowded street of shops and hurrying figures into a side alley where a row of Post Office vans was parked.

“Stop here,” said Wigg.

Walls arose on either side. At the corner was a building with open warehouse doors beyond which small gas-jets flickered upon elderly men in white aprons loading cardboard boxes into a horse van. He recognised the name of a fashionable West End shop which sold frocks and gowns to Society women; and a slight fear came to him as he thought again that the girls they were to meet were mannequins. Could “Frances” possibly be another name of Marie Cox, who had dared to walk down the High Street in that hobble skirt, to be jeered at by common boys? She had lived in Charlotte Road, and had bleached her hair—a very fast thing to do, Mother had said. She would be quite old now, quite twenty-four.

Wigg’s pronunciation of the word
mannequin
in French made him the more uneasy as he waited in the dim alley. At one moment he had to suppress an impulse to touch Wigg on the arm and say he
didn’t want to go through with it. He would much rather go to a theatre or electric palace. What could he say to a mannequin? Worse, what was he expected to do? All he had heard about the West End at night was alarming. Also, he had only thirty shillings on him: mannequins would be used to dining at places like the Ritz or Carlton, where only champagne was drunk. The more he thought of it, the more he wished he had not come, and especially with an obvious
blasé
roué
like Wigg. As minutes passed, the deeper his alarm.

“Give them a little grace. It’s only five minutes after six.”

The elderly loaders finished; the van doors were closed. There was, around the base of a lamp-post standing in a tiny pool of light, a suggestion of fog. The damp air hung tenuous; the horse whinnied as it tossed its empty nose-bag.

“I loathe women who keep a man hanging about,” said Wigg, as a clock struck the quarter hour. “I was to see my brother at the Goat at twenty-past six.” He looked at his wristlet watch. “My girl is called Frances, so don’t try and get off with her. I know nothing about her so-called friend. That’s your risk.”

“I wish I could think how your friend Frances knows me. You say you don’t know her surname?”

“I’ve told you, NO! half a dozen times! It can be Buggins, for all I care.”

This harsh remark depressed Phillip further. He strolled down the street, and taking the three ten shilling notes from his fold-over case, hid them in different pockets. He was returning, hoping that Wigg would decide to leave, when two girls wearing large black straw hats, wider in the brim behind than in front, on which was a flounced bow of black velvet completing a band around the crown, and dressed in loose jackets with military cuffs to the sleeves and open roll collars, with wide flounced skirts of the same material, and each carrying a slim rolled umbrella with a floppy black velvet hand-bag came out of a door, hesitated by the lamp-post; then the taller one went forward to Wigg standing on the kerb with hands in pea-jacket pockets. Phillip heard a pleasant voice say, “Hullo! Are we very late? So sorry! How nice of you to have come,” then a gloved hand, level with her shoulder, was held out towards Wigg.

Rather fascinated by the charm of her voice, Phillip walked towards them. Then to his alarm he saw Wigg take the girl in his arms, bend back her head, and give her a cave-man kiss, as on the films. “Well!” said the girl, when he released her. A scent of
flowers hung in the air, and he saw that her face was fresh and young. She looked used to High Society. The other girl’s face was shaded by her large hat.

“What a jolly runabout you’ve got!” said the girl who had been kissed, turning to Phillip.

After introductions, they all squeezed into the Swift, and he drove out of the alley with Wigg’s girl sitting on Wigg’s lap, and his girl wedged in between them and himself.

“Do you mind my arm behind you?” said his girl. He congratulated himself on having hidden the ten shilling notes.

“I’m afraid it must be frightfully uncomfortable for you.” His thigh was rather frighteningly warm against her. “Which way, Wigg?”

“Turn left. Down Oxford Street, and straight on.”

At the junction with Regent Street, Wigg said to the girl on his lap, “I thought we’d have a drink in the Goat. My brother is coming up from Pompey, and will be there.”

“Oh.”

“Don’t worry, he won’t be gooseberry, he’s leaving soon.”

“What is the Goat? Is it a restaurant?”

“It’s a pub frequented by sailors.”

“Well, thank you very much, but I don’t think we ought to come, Mr. Wigg. We don’t drink, you see. I’m so sorry if it looks like false pretences.”

“Stop by the kerb,” said Wigg.

Phillip could feel him turning cold and angry. From her voice she was much too good for Wigg. Fingertips lightly touched his cheek. Was the girl beside him trying to vamp him?

“Very well,” said Wigg. “We’ll go to the Nicosa.”

“Where shall I drive?”

“Oh, down to Piccadilly Circus.”

That was, for Phillip, a name holding further alarm. Were these girls high-class
demi-mondaines
? It was not reassuring that Wigg was fondling the breasts of the girl on his lap, as his voice grated, “At the Nicosa one can get broiled kid, and the wine has the tang of the pines of Greece, from the barrels in which it is shipped. The wine of Circe’s Isle, and the pipes of Pan.” Wigg gave a short, cynical laugh. Phillip wondered how he could get away. With relief he heard the girl on Wigg’s lap saying,

“Well, thank you again, but would you mind if we all went somewhere more ordinary? We are both working girls, you see, and not used to such places. I’m sorry if it sounds horribly suburban——”

“What sort of place would you suggest, since you do not care for my idea of hospitality? The Apex House?”

“Well, the cooking is quite good there.”

“Good God!” said Wigg. He appeared to be struggling. “Stop! Stop!” he cried.

Phillip drew into the kerb. Pushing the girl from his lap, who got out, Wigg sprang to the pavement. “I am going to the Goat! I promised to see my brother there! He’s coming up from Pompey to see me, and so to the Goat I am going!” He said to Phillip, “if I don’t see you later I’ll find my own way back.” Hunching his shoulders, Wigg walked away.

“I’m most awfully sorry Mr. Maddison,” said the girl on the kerb. “I’m afraid it is all my fault. Have a good time, you two. Goodbye, thank you ever so much for the ride.”

“No, don’t go!” said Phillip, not wanting to be left alone with a vamp. “Wigg’s a bit temperamental, that’s all. Let’s find somewhere to dine. Only, I don’t know London very well.”

“But two’s company, three’s none,” she said, looking at him with serious eyes. “You and Alice go and enjoy yourselves.”

Phillip had a wild idea to be seen in Freddy’s with two such splendid girls: but they were used to the West End; and they weren’t the kind to go into pubs. “I won’t hear of you going off alone.”

“Well then, I shall insist that you allow me to pay for myself.”

“Of course not!”

“Let’s talk about that later. Meanwhile may I recommend the Apex House? Or there’s Snow’s Chop House, on the corner, if you are enormously hungry. Both are inexpensive. I’m afraid I don’t know any grand places, Mr. Maddison.”

“I vote we go to the Apex House,” said Alice, “and watch Piggy Wiggy playing the violin!”

“Oh, do you like music, too? How ripping!” said Phillip, as he made room for Frances.

“One can get a good dinner for half-a-crown at the Apex, Mr. Maddison.”

“Good lord! I thought it would cost a pound each, and I’ve only got thirty shillings! Which way now?”

This was an adventure, he felt, driving into the wonders of the West End. He was actually in Piccadilly Circus! Scared of the rushing traffic, he went on in bottom gear and drew into the kerb at a place suggested by Frances.

There, having turned low the wicks of the oil-lamps, he left the Swift, with a backward glance of pride and gratitude, to walk between his two companions down the street. The pavement was crowded. Daring to hold an arm of each girl, he piloted them through a drifting mass of soldiers and women glimpsed in the lights of opened shop-door, oyster bar and jewellery store. There was the dark blue of Russian uniform, pale blue of French, Belgians in khaki wearing tall forage caps with tassels, grey Italian, greenish-grey Servian; while against the walls of theatres, upon sand-canisters, and by lamp-posts lounged homeless Australians and New Zealanders. He felt romance in every person and object that he passed: this was Piccadilly, here was the hub of the world.

Outside a theatre, revealed in the sheen of a lighted foyer, stood an old bare-headed man with long white locks and beard, and a face rather flat, but with an expression of remote idealism as he held up a tract.

“He looks like Tolstoi, doesn’t he?” said Frances, smiling with eyes large and shining like cherries. Tolstoi? Tolstoi? Oh yes, there was a copy of the
Kreutzer
Sonata
locked up in Father’s desk at home.

“Do you think he
is
Tolstoi?” Could he have been looking at a real author?

“Didn’t Tolstoi die four years ago?”

He felt a little ashamed of his ignorance; but her friendly squeeze of his arm was reassuring. He led them closer to the theatre, to examine the photographs of actors and actresses; and daring to look more fully at the other girl’s face, saw with delight that she too was pretty. They were, in spite of being mannequins, only ordinary girls after all!

“Here we are,” said Frances.

Proud to be seen with such beauties, he led them into a palace of marble and gilt, and chandeliers glittering with electric light: a hall of many vistas seen through doors of bronze and glass, of rooms seemingly endless with tables and electric lights.

Passing up a wide stairway they came to other rooms similarly large and lofty, and entered one with pale green carpets: a room full of Italian waiters gliding as they bore silver trays to tables, over which they bowed deftly. Could such a splendid place be as inexpensive as Frances had said?

He had thought that all the West End was aristocratic and fearfully expensive; now, with wonder and delight rising through his entire being, he heard his first string orchestra in a restaurant; and
recognised Brahm’s
Hungarian
Dances,
hitherto heard only on the gramophone.

“Will you excuse us while we go and powder our noses? We left the shop in rather a rush, you see. Won’t be long!”

He watched them going to the door, and for a moment wondered if they were leaving him, for they went down the stairs. Then he saw their rolled umbrellas, smaller and more slender than a man’s, leaning across their chairs.

Looking around the room, he saw other officers like himself, and here and there a ranker; all quietly sitting, with wives and sweethearts, pink faces in the shaded lights upon the tables. So ordinary people like himself came here.

He watched the door; and with relief saw the girls returning. It gave him pleasure to see, as they walked across the room, several heads turning to look at them. Then Frances, the taller of the two, went off at a tangent to the orchestra upon a daïs. She spoke to the conductor.

Alice, sitting down, said, “Frances is asking for a special request. It’s a surprise for you.”

The orchestra began to play music from
Tonight’s
the
Night,
and instantly the scene around him changed, so that he was drawn out of himself, and with a strange joy, re-entered a world that haunted him—and looking at Frances across the table he saw an expectancy in her eyes that he avoided. He felt thwarted; her look had spoiled his dream of the battlefield. He felt weary.

“I think you want some food,” she said. “Or a drink—perhaps? I’ll call the waiter—oh, here he is! Phillip—may I call you that?—will you think me horribly rude if I invite you, at your own table, to have a drink with me? For a very special occasion?”

His doubt returned. What was the ‘very special occasion’? Were the drinks to be doped—or his glass? The waiter brought some sherry.

When the waiter had gone away with the food order—herb omelettes for the girls and roast saddle of mutton for Phillip—Alice said, as they raised their glasses, “Go on Frances, don’t keep Phillip in suspense! He looks quite bewildered, poor boy.”

The endearing tone of the
poor
boy,
drew him in imagination to the silken bosom below the charming face of Alice; he drained his glass of sherry.

“Does the song they are playing now mean anything special to you?” asked Frances, leaning with an expectant smile over the table. She began to sing the words in a whisper, her eyes upon Phillip’s.

then she broke off, and said, “A Decca trench gramophone? A dugout? Harold West?”

“‘Spectre’ West! How do
you
know about him?”

“He’s my cousin.”