1951 - But a Short Time to Live (4 page)

"I work for Mooney's Camera Studio in Link Street," he told her, pouring out a drink. "I stand at the street corners in the West End and take people's photographs." He purposely made it sound as bad as he could and watched her as he said it but her expression didn't change.

"Is it fun?" she asked.

"Well, it's all right. Of course it's not much, but one of these days I hope to set up on my own."

"I shouldn't have thought there was much in it. Is it worth doing?" she asked just as if you could pick and choose a job, and choose one that made a lot of money.

"Well, yes." Again Harry hesitated, then plunged on, "I make six quid a week to be exact."

"No wonder you don't drink whisky."

They sat in silence for a minute or so. She was staring into the fire, and there was a little frown on her face.

"Isn't there anything better you can do?" she asked suddenly.

"I mean something where you can earn more money?"

Harry was surprised at the interest she seemed to be showing in his affairs.

"Well, I don't know," he said. "The trouble is I don't know much about anything except photography. I'm not ready yet to set up on my own. I took a couple of pictures while I was in the Army in Italy and sent them in for a competition run by a Sunday newspaper and I won the first prize. That encouraged me and I went in for other competitions. During the past three years I've collected three hundred pounds in prize money."

Clair gave him a look of surprised interest.

"That's good. You must be clever at it."

Harry smiled.

"Oh, I don't know. More luck than anything else. I seem to strike on the right picture. Anyway, my boss, Mooney, wants me to put the money into his business. He says he'll make me a partner and put me in charge of the portrait side of the business. We haven't gone in for taking studio portraits, and Mooney wants to, but he knows nothing about it, and wants me to equip the studio and run it."

"That's a good idea, isn't it? Why don't you do it?"

"It's not as easy as it sounds," Harry said, stretching out his long legs towards the fire. He had never felt so comfortable or so happy in his life. He had forgotten about Wingate's wallet and couldn't believe he wasn't going to wake up suddenly and find himself in his cheerless bed-sitter in Lannock Street. "You see, I'm not convinced it would be a good idea to open a studio in Link Street. It's not much of a district, and I don't think we'd get the right kind of trade. Mooney swears we would, but I'm not sure about it. Then you see I've been awfully hard up. I lost my parents when I was fifteen and have had to look after myself ever since. It's a pretty nice feeling to have three hundred pounds in the Post Office. I feel if anything went wrong, if I got ill, if I lost my job, I'd have something to fall back on. And besides, I have to think of my old age."

Clair gaped at him.

"Old age? That's ridiculous! Why, you're only a kid. You have years and years before you need worry about your old age. And you might win other prizes. I've never heard such rot."

Harry looked doubtful.

"Oh, I know. Mooney keeps telling me that. But I can't help being cautious. That's the way I'm made. One of these days I might do something about it, but I'm not going to do anything in a hurry. I believe in saving as much as I can. Don't you?"

"Me?" Clair laughed scornfully. "Good Lord, no! I've never saved a farthing. The past is gone — forget it! The future hasn't arrived — to hell with it! The present's here — use it. It's a short life and a merry one. That's my philosophy. I have a good time while I can."

"Well, I suppose that's all right," Harry said, thinking it was far from being all right. "Girls are a bit different. They get married; so it doesn't matter so much."

"You're really the most old-fashioned boy I've ever met," Clair said as she put the plates on a tray.

"I shan't get married. That's the last thing I want to do. The idea of having to run a home and darn a man's socks and cook and be at his beck and call doesn't appeal to me. And children! No, thank you!"

Harry's face fell. She was right, of course, he thought. It was impossible to imagine her washing dishes and standing in queues and pushing a pram. And yet, Harry felt, it was a pity in a way. He supposed she might be right. He was old-fashioned. He liked to think a woman's place was in the home doing just those things she didn't want to do. But then why was he feeling like this? If she was the marrying kind he wouldn't be sitting in this marvellous room, enjoying her company and having the best evening he could remember.

"Finish your drink and have another," she said. "And pass the cigarettes. They're on the table."

"I won't have another drink, thank you," Harry said, getting the cigarettes. He handed her the box and lit her cigarette.

"Can I help you wash up?" he went on, nodding at the plates on the tray.

"My goodness!" she exclaimed. "You're the first man who's ever offered to do that. It's all right. I have a woman who comes in every morning. She'll take care of it." She handed him her glass. "Well, if you won't, I will."

While he was mixing another drink, she asked, "Tell me about your place. Did you say it was in Lannock Street?"

"Yes. It's not bad. Not like this, of course." Harry gave her the drink and sat down again. "I share the room with another chap. By splitting the cost we get a big room."

"Who's the other chap?" Clair asked, surprised she was asking these questions: surprised at her own interest.

"His name's Ron Fisher," Harry told her. He writes articles and things. At the moment he's working on a series of articles on London nightlife for a Sunday paper. He'd make quite a bit of money only he sends most of it to his wife. They're separated."

"There you are, and you talk about married life," Clair said, and grimaced. "That's what generally happens. Not for me! I prefer to be free to do what I like."

"What do you do if it's not being rude?" Harry asked; then added hastily as he saw her frown, "But perhaps I shouldn't ask."

"I don't mind," she said, not looking at him. "I'm a model. It's a pretty good job and it pays well."

"What do you have to do then?" Harry asked, interested.

"Oh, you know, I'm on all the big agencies' lists. Whenever they want a girl to advertise anything, they send for me. The money's good, and the things I pick up are even better. I did a whisky advertisement last month, and they gave me a couple of dozen bottles as well as a fee. Last year I did a series of pictures advertising the M.G. sports car, and instead of a fee I asked for a car and got it. That radiogram over there was given to me as part fees. It's a good racket to be in, and the work isn't hard."

Harry thought this was marvellous, and said so. When he had come into the room he had wondered how she managed to live at such a standard, and had been a little uneasy about it "I bet you thought I was a tart," Clair said, smiling at him. "I saw the look on your face when you saw all this. You did, didn't you?"

"I wish you wouldn't talk like that," Harry said. "I didn't. I spend a lot of time in the West End, and I know a tart when I see one. They're unmistakable. I don't like to hear you say that even if you are joking."

"Don't you want to know how I ran into Wingate?" she asked. "Now, admit you're curious."

"Well, I suppose I am," Harry said. "But that doesn't mean I expect you to tell me."

"I was feeling lonely," she said, and leaned forward to poke the fire. "I hadn't anything to do and this place got on my nerves and I wanted to do something reckless. Do you ever want a violent and complete change? I don't suppose you do, but sometimes I feel I want to do something crazy — to take my clothes off and swim in the fountain in Trafalgar Square or smash a shop window or knock a policeman's helmet off. You don't ever feel like that, do you?"

"Well, no," Harry said, startled. "I can't say I do."

"I can't imagine you would," she said and laughed. "I was walking along Piccadilly looking for trouble and Wingate turned up. He followed me all over the place and finally propositioned me. I thought it would be fun to lead him on, but he was so damned crude and horrible I lost my temper and decided to teach him a lesson. There, now you know all about it."

"I shouldn't have thought a girl like you would ever be lonely," Harry said seriously. "You must have hundreds of friends."

"I suppose I have," she said. "But sometimes friends are a damned bore." She looked at the clock on the mantelpiece. "My goodness! Look at the time! I have a date in half an hour and I haven't changed." She jumped to her feet and smiled at him. "You don't mind if I turn you out now? I'm sorry. It's been fun, hasn't it?"

Harry stood up.

"I think it's extraordinary nice of you to have given me such a grand evening," he said. "I've enjoyed it. And thank you for the meal and — and your company."

She made him a little bow.

"I liked it too," she said, and moved to the door.

"I wonder if I'll see you again," Harry said hopefully as he followed her. "I don't suppose you have much time to spare, but if you ever feel like going to the movies and would like me to take you . . ."

She laughed as she opened the door.

"I'll remember. You can always find me here. Give me a ring sometime. I'm in the book."

This was too vague to satisfy Harry.

"I suppose we couldn't fix up something for next week?" he asked, standing in the doorway and looking hopefully at her.

She shook her head.

"Not next week. I'm booked up. You ring me sometime. I won't forget you."

"All right," Harry said, and took a slow, reluctant step into the passage. "It's been a wonderful evening, and thanks a lot."

She held out her hand, smiling.

"Good-bye. I must fly now. And don't fuss, will you?"

He took her hand.

"No," he said. "Well, good-bye."

As he still didn't move, she gave him a bright smile and closed the door in his face.

chapter four

W
hat an extraordinary boy," Clair thought, leaning against the door, her hand still on the door— knob as she listened to the sound of Harry's footfalls as he ran down the stairs. "But he's nice. A bit soft, of course, but nice."

She walks in beauty like the night...

No one had ever said anything like that to her before, and no man she had ever invited to her flat had left without at least trying to kiss her.

She frowned, and moved over to the table where she had left her bag. She picked it up, still thinking about him. She wondered if he would telephone, and if he did whether she should go out with him or not.

A boy like that could make life complicated. But what a change from the other men she knew! She couldn't ever remember spending an hour alone with a man without being pawed. And he was good looking too. She wondered what he would look like in a good suit, and immediately felt a surprising urge to buy him one: to give him a complete outfit.

"I'm getting as bad as Babs," she thought, resting her hips on the edge of the table and staring at her reflection in the mirror over the fireplace. "She buys Teddy his clothes, gives him pocket money, and takes him out. Of course Teddy's a stinking little rat. There's no comparison between him and Harry. The trouble would be to persuade Harry to accept anything. But it might be fun to try."

Her thoughts were abruptly interrupted by her bedroom door opening. She stiffened and pushed away from the table. A tall, fat man, smoking a cigarette, appeared in the open doorway. His face was pink and smooth shaven. His hair was ash blond and grew in two heavy wings, brushed carefully above his ears. His eyes were pale blue, almost colourless, shrewd, hard and steady. He wore a light grey suit that had cost him fifty guineas, a white silk shirt, a yellow tie ornament with horses' heads in dark brown, and reversed calf shoes.

His name was Robert Brady.

"Hallo, darling," he said, and smiled, showing a mouthful of gold-capped teeth. "How very pensive you look."

"Have you been in there all the time?" she demanded, her face hardening.

He nodded.

"All the time, precious, with my ear glued to the keyhole." He dug his finger into his right ear and grinned. "Keyholes are beastly draughty things," he complained, sitting down before the fire. "Did you have to bring him here?"

"I was nearly caught," she said shortly. "If you were listening you must have heard all about it. I had to be nice to him or he might have been difficult."

"It didn't seem such an unpleasant task," he said. "Did you have to give him chicken? I was going to eat that myself."

"Oh, shut up!" Clair said crossly. "How did you get in here?"

"With a key," Brady said. "You know, one of those metal gadgets that lock and unlock doors. Didn't you know I had a key?"

"No, I didn't!" Clair said. "Give it to me at once! I'm not going to have you in and out just whenever you like."

"After all it's my flat," Brady said mildly. "I'm entitled to come in and out, precious."

"If you don't give me that key I'll have the lock changed," Clair said furiously. "And as long as I'm here, this is not your flat."

Brady studied her; his fat, pink face expressionless. Then, because he had two duplicates of the key, he dipped a fat finger and thumb into his waistcoat pocket and produced the key.

"Have it your own way," he said. "We won't quarrel about it Where's the wallet?"

"That's all you think about!" She opened her bag and threw the wallet at him.

"Darling, couldn't you try to cultivate a few manners?" he asked as he bent to pick it up. "Do you always have to behave like the gutter-bred whore that you are?"

"Oh, shut up!" she said, and walked over to the cellaret and poured herself out a drink.

"I'm afraid your new friend has had a disturbing influence on you," Brady said as he counted the five-pound notes he found in the wallet. "Was he very romantic?"

"Oh, shut up!" she repeated, sitting down.

"Fifty quid!" He glanced up and showed his gold teeth in a meaningless smile. "That's not bad." He took six of the notes and folding them into a compact packet, stowed them away in his waistcoat pocket.