An Accidental Man (33 page)

‘You are. You're breaking the law. And I've got your letter to prove it.'

‘Well, as to the law, you're the one who's for the high jump. My letter was just an emotional outburst.'

‘If you approach my brother he'll go straight to the police.'

‘No, he won't. He'll make terms. For your sake and because he's sorry. I only want a little. Christ, can't you understand. I've had this awful loss and —'

‘Wait till I get a job,' said Austin. ‘I'll give you a little now and then, just because I'm — sorry — I am sorry, you know. But I can't now — I haven't
got
anything.'

‘I asked for twenty pounds and you got twenty pound. I bet you've got plenty stashed away.'

‘Oh God —'

Austin had gone round to the flat when Charlotte was out looking for something that he could sell. There was nothing of value except a little diamond ring and matching brooch belonging to Dorina. He sold these for twenty-two pounds and suspected that he had been cheated. The shop man could see that he was desperate.

He had tried to compose and leave behind a letter telling Charlotte that she must pay more rent, but he could not find the words. He would write the letter later on tonight.

Austin and Norman were sitting in Austin's room in the twilight in the same positions, Norman on the bed and Austin on the chair. Austin hated having Norman in the room, but he did not want to be seen with him in the street. Norman was loathesome, shameful. This nightmare couldn't go on, it couldn't. But to be in that mess with Matthew publicly —

‘I only want ten quid next week,' said Norman. ‘I know you've got it, you're just holding out on me.'

‘I haven't got it!'

‘You can borrow it from your bank.'

‘I can't! I've had an overdraft for months —'

‘How you get it is your affair. Only ten quid. You can get ten quid, chum. Well, thanks for this and I'll be moving on. I'll be back this time next week. Then we'll fix something regular. I'll be reasonable and decent you know. And I won't go to your brother if you don't want, provided you pay up. Shake hands to show there's no hard feelings? I say, what have you done to your hand?'

‘My father threw me out of the window when I was five.'

‘You're kidding. Well,
auf wiedersehen
.'

The shadowy Norman took himself off. Austin sat groaning softly with his hands over his face. The future had become impossible, unlivable. Had he got Norman now for life? He must just refuse to pay, he could not live with an arrangement like that, being bled by Norman, it would drive him into insanity. Supposing he went to Matthew and told him everything and simply asked for his help? Matthew would know what to do, Matthew could not be cornered and defeated. When he had told Norman that Matthew would crush him like an insect he had spoken out of some very old feeling which he had had about his brother, an ancient feeling without a name. But no, he could not go to Matthew and let Matthew triumph over him. That would break the springs of survival forever.

‘I say, Austin, why are you sitting all in the dark?'

Mitzi switched the light on.

‘Don't do that, don't
do
that, damn you.'

‘Sorry.' Mitzi switched the light off again. ‘Austin, who was that funny looking man who came up? You sounded like conspirators whispering up here.'

‘He was offering me a job.'

‘Oh good. What in?'

‘The blood transfusion service.'

‘Oh, is that —'

‘Fuck off, Mitzi, will you.'

‘Austin, don't be cross. Would you like some coffee?'

‘I'd like some whisky.'

‘There isn't any whisky.'

‘Then go to hell and leave me alone.'

Mitzi went away and Austin forgot her. How he had hated selling Dorina's little ring. He had kissed it. Why was he not wearing it round his neck like a charm? If only her prayers would avail, if only something would avail against the devils in his life.

‘I went there but he was gone,' said Mitzi, ‘gone.'

It was the next evening after the visit of Austin's mysterious friend. That morning through misty sizzling rain, Mitzi had gone to the studio. She had had no answer to her letter or to several telephone calls. She had put on her glossy mackintosh and made her way there through the mist. The streets were lined with black bobbing jostling umbrellas, like an ill-omened ecclesiastical procession. It was a horrible morning, warm and wet and grey and full of doom.

Mitzi wanted not only her money, she wanted to see Mr Secombe-Hughes again. He had grown a little in his silence. Now she saw that it was stupid of her to be so unpleasant to him, it was unnecessary, a mere reflex. She was not so rich. And the world was a sad enough place without her little nastiness to Mr Secombe-Hughes who was guilty of nothing worse than writing a five hundred line poem about her in Welsh.

She felt tense and expectant as she neared the studio, nervously pleased to think that for once she could easily gladden someone. When she got there the door was locked. Dripping on the step she fumbled for her key. Then as she set her foot inside the sound of her footstep told her that the place was empty. Stripped. She walked through her own little office into the big room beyond. It gaped with emptiness, even the linoleum had been removed. There was a litter of newspapers and a smell of cats and a black trickle of water coming in under the garden door. Only the old familiar castle scene still hung upon the wall, hazy and desolate in the rainy light, as if it were raining in there too upon the wet glittering terrace and the pitted iron grey waters of the lake. Mr Secombe-Hughes had decamped.

Taking my typewriter with him, she suddenly realized. That was gone too. And her wages. And the poem in five hundred lines in Welsh. Was there no message left for her, a letter propped on a window sill, a little notice, an address? No. She kicked about in the heap of newspapers and found a faded yellowy tassel from an old silken shawl. Mr Secombe-Hughes had had, after all, a soul. Tears came into her eyes. Her typewriter was gone. Her bank account was empty. Mr Secombe-Hughes was fled. He was, she thought, a gent. She shed tears in the dim empty room as the warm wind pattered across the skylight and the water streamed steadily down the glass and the lines of rain descended into the brown lake. Mr Secombe-Hughes was gone.

‘He was gone,' said Mitzi, ‘gone forever, taking my typewriter with him.' She had nothing now, not even the IOUs which she had sent him through the post as a reminder. She reached out for the bottle.

Will she never go, thought Ludwig. Gracie will be here soon and nothing is properly ready and she will talk talk talk and I don't want her in my room when Gracie comes and oh God I think she's going to cry. ‘You can trace him,' said Ludwig. ‘People don't vanish. He'll turn up.'

‘Gone forever,' said Mitzi. She had put the silken tassel into her handbag where it had disintegrated into a tangle of yellow string.

Mitzi was wearing a grubby blue overall which was too tight for her. With her short fair hair tucked behind her ears she looked like an inflated schoolgirl. She unsteadily poured out some more whisky, making a wet ring with her glass upon the crisp new table cloth which Ludwig had bought for the occasion at Barkers. She pushed aside the knives and forks which he had carefully set out and placed her elbows on the table. Her mouth drooped.

Ludwig had at last persuaded Gracie to come to supper in his room. It was an important event. He had reluctantly given in to her in the matter of Oliver Sayce's sports car, a waspish MG, of which they were shortly to become the owners. Gracie seemed to have no intention of learning to drive. Ludwig knew nothing about the interior of cars. The MG was not in its first youth. Oliver Sayce, who had followed his father into the antiquarian book trade, was a formidably efficient Etonian in jeans who was constantly tinkering with the car, which was called Kierkegaard. Constant tinkering, Ludwig suspected, would be needed to keep Kierkegaard on the road. Oliver Sayce's eyes had expressed deep wild relief when the sale had been provisionally agreed upon. ‘He goes like a bomb,' said Oliver. Ludwig did not care for bombs. ‘We'll give him a gallop on the M1 on Tuesday,' said Oliver. Ludwig could not help hoping that Kierkegaard, without actually crashing, would somehow disgrace himself. Meanwhile, in return for Ludwig's resignation in the matter of the car, Gracie had agreed to come to supper in his room on condition that she did not have to meet any of the other inmates of the house.

To preclude such encounters Ludwig had decided to cook everything on his own gas ring. There was to be consommé with a little sherry in it, omelette with cold potato salad, apple strudel and cheese. He had suddenly felt so happy as he was laying the table. He was thinking about the house in Oxford and how it would be. Then Mitzi had arrived, carrying her glass and bottle.

‘I just don't know what I'm going to do,' said Mitzi. ‘He was a gent, you know. You never met him, did you. He was a dear. He wrote such marvellous poetry in Welsh. He was a kind man. He was gentle, gentle all the way through. A gentle man. A gentleman. Is that what it means? Not many men are really gentle. I do wish you'd known him.'

‘He isn't dead, for God's sake!' said Ludwig with exasperation. ‘There's no need to talk about him in that lugubrious way. And now, Mitzi, if you don't mind —'

‘I cared for him,' said Mitzi. ‘He cared for me. But it was not to be. It was not to be.'

‘Oh there you all are,' said Austin. He came in and sat down at the table opposite Mitzi.

‘You look a wreck,' said Mitzi. ‘Where have you been all day?'

‘Out.'

‘Where out?'

‘Coming, going.'

‘Going where?'

‘To see a lady.'

‘What lady?'

‘A lady who lies fast asleep in a room in Tregunter Road. She has been asleep for sixty years. She was eighteen when she fell into a trance. And there she lies still in all her girlish beauty. When a man kisses her she will wake up but in the twinkling of an eye her beauty will fade and she will rise up in her bed a wrinkled old hag of seventy-eight, but as she's good for a hundred thousand pounds it could be worth somebody's while.'

‘Did you kiss her?' said Ludwig, judiciously stirring eggs.

‘No. I gazed upon her loveliness and tiptoed quietly away.'

‘You're drunk,' said Mitzi. ‘You don't know anybody in Tregunter Road.' Road.'

‘Can I have some of that stuff?' said Austin. He took one of Ludwig's wine glasses and slopped some whisky into it.

Norman had telephoned. Norman was coming again tomorrow.

‘I see you're entertaining Mitzi,' said Austin. ‘I'm jealous. Can I come too?'

‘I'm not entertaining Mitzi,' said Ludwig. ‘I'm entertaining Gracie. I've persuaded her to come here at last.'

‘Persuaded her?' said Mitzi. ‘I suppose present company isn't grand enough for the young lady?'

‘Oh Gracie's coming, is she,' said Austin. ‘Good.'

‘It isn't that,' said Ludwig.

‘I don't see what else it can be,' said Mitzi.

‘Can we join you?' said Austin. ‘You needn't feed us. We can just sit by and drink.'

‘I'd rather you didn't, if you don't mind,' said Ludwig. ‘I'd prefer to see Gracie alone, please understand.'

‘So we
aren't
grand enough,' said Mitzi. ‘I suppose we should feel honoured that Miss Gracie comes slumming here at all. Miss Dorina has never even set foot in the place.'

‘You keep off Dorina,' said Austin. ‘You understand nothing about her and you never will.'

‘Oh of course no one understands
her
,' said Mitzi, ‘she's so deep. It's just that these mystery ladies get rather boring for us ordinary mortals.'

‘You're jealous,' said Austin. ‘Just shut up about Dorina.'

‘I am
not
jealous,' said Mitzi. ‘Why should I be jealous of a poor sick girl who isn't even in her right mind?'

‘How dare you speak of my wife like that!' said Austin, rising to his feet. ‘She's worth a hundred of you, a thousand. Don't you dare utter her name! She is my wife and I honour her and I love her.'

Ludwig said, ‘Please would you mind going and fighting somewhere else?'

Mitzi rose. She towered across the table. ‘Your wife! Your wife! You're very quick with that cosy little title, but you don't go to see her, you don't ask
her
for help, she isn't supporting you. You come rushing to me to be rescued and then you insult me in my own house —'

‘Please,' said Ludwig. ‘Gracie will be here in a minute and —'

‘You wanted me to come here. You were wagging your tail like mad when I said I'd come. It wasn't my idea.'

‘It was your idea! You had it all worked out. You just prey on people. You're just a mean cadger. You have all the instincts of a common sponge. Even when you sent Ludwig along to me you had to say, “Here's a rich American, you can fleece him for anything you like.” He said that about you!'

‘I said no such thing.'

‘You did, you did. You're a liar as well as a parasite. You prey on women. You've driven your poor little Dorina round the bend. You probably wore your first wife into her grave. You'd get your claws into Gracie if you could. You watch out, Ludwig, he'll get hold of Gracie too if he can —'

‘
Please
, Mitzi,
please,
Austin —'

‘Get out of this room,' said Austin. He began to move round the table.