The Town in Bloom (24 page)

Dinner went off fairly well. At first Rex treated me as the guest of honour. But only when he could chaff me or talk about his earliest memories of me did he seem to enjoy himself; when I mentioned any present-day matter – concerning me or the world in general – he showed little interest. At last he turned to Eve and they bickered cheerfully for the rest of the meal. There was no irritation behind his bickering when Eve was his partner. Only with Lilian did he ever bicker with real ill temper – and mercifully, that didn’t happen at dinner.

I ate the excellent food and thought of the dozens, even hundreds, of meals I had eaten in that room – and doubted if I had ever been in it without remembering my first sight of it, on Black Saturday, when I had talked to Mrs Crossway (dead long ago, and I wondered if she had much enjoyed her post-Rex life; she had never married again). The eighteenth-century furniture was just as it had been then; merely forty years more valuable.

Soon after dinner I said I must go. Rex did not try to stop me but he smiled very sweetly and said, ‘Dear child, always running away from us, aren’t you?’ I hoped he would soon forget my present self in favour of his ‘little companion of the small hours’. Lilian had telephoned for a taxi. She saw me into it and begged me to come again soon – ‘And write or ring up – anything.’ I promised to be in touch with her very shortly. As the taxi drove off I looked out of the back window and watched Madam Lily de Luxe return to her house, where now only her untidy bedroom seemed to her like home. I felt a pang at leaving her – but only great relief at leaving Rex.

When I got to the Crossway the empty foyer had that air of being both deserted and expectant which I always feel in theatre foyers when a performance is taking place. The man in the box-office (I knew none of the theatre staff now) did not raise his head as I went towards the stairs. I paused at the back of the dress circle, listening to a roar of laughter from the house. Then I went on up to the offices. The one Eve and I had used was in darkness; Brice seldom kept his secretaries in the evening. He himself used the Throne Room.

He rose to welcome me, from behind the large desk which had replaced the long table, then settled me in the chair opposite him. He sat with his back to the wall of portraits where, ousting the mediocre painting, Rex as Charles Surface had joined his father and grandfather. No one, now, looking from Brice to Sir Roy, could have doubted that they were father and son.

Once, in his thin youth, I had seen Brice as a Manchester Terrier. If he still resembled any dog it was a far fiercer, weightier one, a Dobermann Pinscher. How right Rex had been in describing him as formidable, nowadays! But had he not always been formidable? Certainly his career had been one long series of battles – which he had
almost always won; and his greatest victory had been in getting a lease of the Crossway when Rex retired.

He had fought then not with Rex, whose lease had expired, but with ‘the bricks and mortar boys’, in this case the ground landlords, who saw no reason why a rickety old theatre should not be replaced by a gorgeous cinema or an office block, especially as the rickety old theatre had not paid during the last years of Rex’s tenancy. But Brice, having – against all odds – got hold of it, had made it pay. He had kept it alive by a series of raucous farces which had often seemed to me a fate worse than death – often, but not always; the play now running was a black farce about teenagers which fully deserved its great success.

At first we talked in the curiously casual way one so often does with one’s oldest friends on meeting them after some consider able time. How were we? Was the show still doing well? How had I found Rex? (Long ago, persuaded by me, Rex had spoken to Brice of their relationship, happily accepting it.) And while we chatted, I noted that Brice, though he still looked a brown-skinned, black-haired man, was a little pale and beginning to go grey at last; and that if not yet heavy, he was no longer slim. Also a silent film of memories passed before my mind’s eye, of scenes we had played together here in the Crossway offices, in various dingy professional lodgings, and one rather grand flat when he had launched his first successful West End play. Rows and reconciliations, partings and comings together again – over what must have been nearly twenty years – had been followed by twenty years of friendship. Perhaps its closeness had sometimes been due to the distance between us; still, I was fonder of him than of
anyone in the world. And it was pleasant to feel sure I always would be fond of him; and that I knew him through and through and nothing he could do, whether good or bad, would ever astonish me.

He was asking if I wasn’t tired of vegetating. What was it all about, really, this shutting myself away in an isolated cottage? I said I didn’t quite know – ‘I thought I did, when it started. I’d saved enough money to live on for a few years without taking a job, and I wanted to do something worth while, just for once. I never have, you know: just messed about at acting, writing, dress-designing, God knows whatall. I’d an idea that, granted perfect peace, I could write a decent novel.’

‘And have you?’

‘I shouldn’t think so. Anyway, it’s not finished – one reason for which is that I
haven’t
been granted perfect peace. I’ve too many friends. There’s the vicar, who doesn’t mind that I never go to church; and the doctor, who doesn’t mind that I’m never ill – touch wood – and a young nuclear disarmer who doesn’t mind that I agree with him, blast my elderly impertinence.’

‘Are you having an affair with any of them?’

‘What a shocking question to ask a respectable old lady! Though I do sometimes wonder if the nuclear disarmer had a fixation on his grandmother.’

‘You could pass for forty.’

‘That wouldn’t help as he’s only twenty-six. Still, thanks.’

‘You must have been there two years. Haven’t you spent all your savings yet?’

I was within sight of it but I said airily, ‘Oh, I can
manage even when I have. Quite a bit of income dribbles in. Amateurs still do my one play, which you so kindly lost money on. And the shares my dear aunt left me have gone up so much that she must be dancing in heaven. And anyway, there’s plenty of secretarial work to be had locally. But what I really want now is to have a shot at painting.’ I described my recent ambition very fully.

After listening patiently he said: ‘Utter nonsense, of course – except that, in your case, it just might not be. I’d never put it past you to turn into a Granny Moses. But you could paint in London. Why not come back? Take a little flat.’

‘Even little flats are ruinously expensive.’

‘Well, I can always give you work. Would you like to adapt a German farce for me?’

‘You would never produce my adaptation of a German farce. When I want you to support me I’ll demand it – for past services.’

‘You wouldn’t have to demand, as you’ve always known. I’ll find you a flat, if you like or …’ his tone became histrionically casual, ‘you could share mine. You know how large it is.’

I did indeed. He now occupied one of London’s earliest mansion flats, so archaic that one felt there ought to be a preservation order on it. All its front rooms had bay windows, all its back rooms looked on to a well; it was as inconvenient as it was hideous and his only reason for living in it was that, in the eighteen-nineties, it had been lived in by Sir Roy Crossway – not that, even to me, Brice had ever admitted he had any feelings about that. I thanked him for the suggestion but said people would think it very funny if we set up house together.

‘Well, if you minded that, we could marry.’

So he
could
still astonish me. I hastened to explain I hadn’t meant that kind of funny. ‘I just meant comic. And our getting married would be even more comic. Still, I’m grateful for the offer, belated though it is.’

‘You’ve always known I was ready to marry you.’ He grinned. ‘That is, whenever we were on speaking terms; and even when we weren’t, really.’

‘Still, you never mentioned it. Nor did anyone else. I can’t remember having one respectable proposal.’

‘You discouraged them in advance.’

‘Could be. But it’s nice to have one to chalk up, even at my age. Was it a sudden impulse?’

He said he supposed so. ‘It was so pleasant, sitting here talking together. And I’m fonder of you than anyone in the world.’

‘You take the words out of my thoughts. Well, I can’t turn respectable now but I will consider the loan of part of your almost historic flat. It depends on how Granny Moses progresses. I may want to go on and on painting the view from my window.’

‘Is there nothing in London you fancy painting?’

‘Teenagers, perhaps – the scruffier the better. They strike me as gloriously paintable. Can I see a bit of the show?’

He looked at his watch. ‘It’s almost the end of Act II.’

‘I’ll watch through the spy-hole.’

I slid open the panel and looked down over the dark, crowded gallery to the bright oblong of the stage. In a composite set showing attics, garishly decorated with Pop Art, a group of teenagers were coming as near to raping
each other as a broad-minded censorship permitted. The show was really a bedroom farce in which no one shut the bedroom doors. I liked it much better than the first play I had seen through the spy-hole.

‘Lovely,’ I said to Brice, when the curtain had descended. ‘Especially your leading lady. She’s no taller than I am. Her head, like mine, is too large for her height. And she’s overacting to high heaven. Was I simply in advance of my time?’

‘No, love,’ said Brice affectionately. ‘If you were young now you’d still be all wrong, somehow.’

‘I see. Just a freak, at any period. Brice dear, how very well you’ve directed this show. I must see the whole of it again.’

‘It’s slipping. And I’m losing control of the kids. The trouble is, I’ve grown to like them. They quite approved of me when I bullied them, but if one softens towards them they think one’s trying to get in on their act, hand oneself a second helping of youth. They resent that.’

‘Well, God knows
I
long to get in on their act – I’d love to be a teenager now. But the few I know don’t seem to resent me.’

‘Even the ruthless young are sometimes tolerant to freaks,’ said Brice. ‘Besides, in some odd way, you’re still stuck in your own teens.’

It was something I often felt myself. I could look in the glass and note the signs of age with calm disinterest, as though they had nothing to do with me. Frequently I reminded myself not to ‘act young’ when people were present. When quite alone I was liable to dance. Oh, yes, I was a freak all right. Absurdly, I had not really felt
complimented when Brice said I could pass for forty. I had never felt anything like as old as forty.

I said I knew what he meant. ‘I’m not merely a freak. I’m a mentally arrested freak.’

‘Still, you’re old enough for a drink and I’ve forgotten to offer you one. What’ll you have?’

I told him I’d had more wine at dinner than I care for.

‘Shall I send down for some coffee?’

‘No, thanks. Do you remember Eve’s black brew?’

He smiled. ‘I wonder the office isn’t haunted by the smell of it – which was much better than the taste. Poor old Eve.’ He always combined affectionate admiration for her with intense disapproval of her life. ‘Sixty years devoted to Rex.’

‘I was thinking of that this evening.’

‘And also thinking, “But for the grace of God there went I”?’

‘It might have been
by
the grace of God.’ Why had I said that? Surely I didn’t mean it?

Brice obviously didn’t think so. ‘That’s nonsense and you know it. I’ll have to leave you now, for a few minutes. I told my stage manager I’d see him in this interval.’

‘Is he anything like you were?’

‘Much fiercer. Will you wait? Then we’ll go out to supper.’

I said it would make me too late. ‘I ought to leave now. I’ve someone else to see before I start for home.’

‘Oh?’ Brice sounded curious.

‘A woman. I don’t think you ever met her. Come on, or the interval will be over.’

We went down together. There were a good many
people in the foyer, most of them in day clothes. ‘Unglamorous audiences, nowadays,’ said Brice. ‘Still, they do cough less.’

He sent the commissionaire for a taxi, repeated his offer to share his flat, adding, ‘Just try it – even if you hang on to your bloody cottage as a bolt hole,’ then hurried off towards the pass door. I went outside to wait for my taxi. Leaning against one of the pillars of the portico, I wondered how long he could keep the Crossway from demolition. He had satisfied a lifetime’s ambition by getting control of it but he never admitted to any strong feeling for it; instead, he insisted it meant much to Rex and must be kept standing as long as Rex lived. I did not think it mattered to Rex now and I even doubted if he had ever felt emotional about it or about the Crossway family. Basically, Brice was a far more emotional man than Rex had ever been.

Once in the taxi, I wished I did not feel I must try to see Zelle. I dreaded it, rather; also I wanted to think about my own affairs. Should I share Brice’s flat? Should I even marry him? (No, I should not. But I was complimented to have the chance, particularly as, of recent years, he’d had some very attractive young women in tow; I doubted if any of them had had
him
in tow.) Also, a puzzling thought had stirred in my mind while I talked to him and I wanted to investigate it. Well, that must wait.

Soon I was at the block of tenement flats where Zelle lived. Could I really knock on all the doors and enquire for her?

I didn’t have to. As I walked towards the entrance to the block I looked down at a basement room where the
curtains had not been drawn. It was lit only by a gas fire, in front of which, stiffly stuck out, were two pony-straight legs. My sight line was such that I could not see the rest of their owner, but they were unmistakable legs. I was glad to see they wore good stockings and that the slender feet were well shod.

I went down dimly lit stairs and rang the basement flat’s bell. Zelle opened the door. My first impression was of greyness, grey hair, pale skin, grey sweater and skirt. She was no crone; just an elderly, neatly dressed woman, rather too thin.

She smiled and said: ‘Oh, hello! I’m glad you’ve come. I was terrified you would, this afternoon – you followed me, didn’t you? I saw you jump in the taxi. But when you didn’t turn up, I was disappointed. Come on in.’

She took me into the gas-fire-lit room and switched on a lamp. It was red-shaded, kind both to her and to the drab little sitting-room with its dull, inexpensive furniture. I told her I had recognised her legs. She laughed and said they were getting very skinny, then told me she’d just come back from baby-sitting and had been too lazy to draw the curtains – ‘I was wondering if I’d go to bed at once.’

I asked if she did much baby-sitting and she said she had four regular nights a week. She preferred it to day work, though she still did that occasionally – ‘I don’t mind sewing or silver polishing but they will try to edge in cleaning and cooking. Cleaning tires me now and I’ve never been much of a cook. But I quite enjoy baby-sitting and my nicest job of all is sitting with a dog. Anyway, it’s all very well paid so I do quite well. Did you think I was down and out? I borrowed those clothes from an old actress who has the flat
opposite – they’re from what she calls her “character
wardrobe
”. Of course I never expected you to recognise me.’

‘Why didn’t you join us? Oh, I know you hardly could, in that get-up, but why didn’t you come as yourself?’

‘Well, I did think of it. And then I felt I’d rather just have a look at you all. Not that I’d have disgraced you – I’ve some quite nice clothes. The woman whose dog I sit with often gives me things. It was her copy of
The Times
I read the advertisement in. I couldn’t believe my eyes.’