England Made Me (26 page)

‘Gower,' the Professor said, ‘where's Gower?'

‘He's asleep in the soup,' the blonde said. ‘Let him alone, dear.'

‘I think you'd do fine,' Anthony said.

‘What do you mean, fine?' the blonde girl said, speaking English with an American accent.

‘In the brothel scene.'

For no reason at all the dark woman began to talk French; the party began to have the international and aggrieved character of a conference on disarmament.

Anthony said: ‘Come for a walk. It's hot.'

‘What do you mean, hot?' the blonde said, as if she'd been insulted. She began to talk Swedish again to the Professor, who answered in English out of politeness to his English friends. He began to extol Krogh's virtues. He spoke of a statue next to Gustavus's facing Russia. ‘Facing Russia,' he repeated with overpowering significance and a knowing nod to Krogh. They were all amazed by Krogh's approachability; they gambolled round him excitedly; his presence lent to the party a background of peril; they were like children putting out their fingers towards the cage of a fierce but drowsy bird. They had a delicious sense of daring; they wondered when he would snap.

But Krogh smiled at them with complete happiness. He thought: all these years the keeping up of appearances, the concerts, the operas, the receptions. He said to the waiter: ‘Some brandy.'

‘
Une bouteille
,' Anthony said vaguely, and the tragic woman turned on him at once with a flow of French. He caught the words ‘
Académie Française
' and ‘
Cochons
' several times repeated.

‘Are you French?' he said.

‘She French?' the blonde said. ‘You make me laugh.'

‘Are you American?'

‘American,' said the dark woman, ‘she's never got further than Ellis Island.'

‘It's hot in here. Come for a walk.'

‘Have some more brandy.'

‘We begin rehearsing tomorrow. Where's Gower?'

‘You know they are going to be married.'

‘Don't make me laugh.'

‘The idea – a brothel scene.'

‘Well, I don't mind taking the part.'

‘A miserable little film actress.'

‘It's hot in here.'

‘What do you mean, it's hot?'

‘You need someone from the legitimate stage, Professor dear.'

‘It's the only legitimate thing about her.'

‘Where are my glasses?'

‘Where's Gower?'

‘Where's the brandy?'

‘Don't tickle, Professor dear.'

‘There ought to be a statue. There will be a statue.'

‘It's a secret. Don't tell anyone. They are going to be married.'

‘Anthony, keep your mouth shut. You're drunk.'

‘Facing Russia.'

‘It's the greatest play of the greatest dramatist.'

‘In the greatest translation, Professor dear.'

‘She makes me laugh.'

‘Here are your glasses.'

‘From ashes ancient Gower is come.'

‘Why not play the part yourself, Professor dear, instead of letting that drunken swine –?'

‘Come for a walk.'

‘Where's the brandy?'

‘By many a dern and painful perch.'

‘Ask
her
to go for a walk. She's hot. She's sweating.'

‘I don't want her. I want you.'

‘Thank you for nothing. Leave go of me. I want to talk to Herr Krogh.'

‘Kate, tell me. Do you think my job's respectable?'

‘Oh, Anthony, be careful.'

‘Let me tell your fortune, Herr Krogh. Oooh, what a long, healthy life-line! You are going to be married and have three, four, five little kiddies.'

‘You bet he's not.'

‘Anthony, be careful.'

‘Oh dear, I quite forgot. You ought to have crossed my hand with silver. Of course we don't have silver nowadays, do we? But I daresay nickel would do – or a note. Just for luck, you know. I'll give it back afterwards, if you like.'

‘With whom the father liking took,

And her to incest did provoke.'

‘Frankly, I can't think why the Professor's so pleased with this play. It seems vulgar to me.'

‘Oh, see what Herr Krogh's given to me. Would you believe it?'

‘Vulgar little thing. I'd act Marina if only to save the dear Professor's play from her. Oh, Professor, your glasses again. No, no, let
me
fish them out.'

‘And she calls
me
vulgar.'

‘Come for a walk. It's so hot.'

‘Well, I certainly will after that. She's shameless.'

‘The ground's the lowest, and we are half-way there.'

‘By heart, the whole play.'

‘Waiter, another bottle of brandy.'

‘Shan't be long, Kate.'

‘Don't talk, Anthony. Be careful what you say. Do be careful.'

‘I'll be as mum as a fish, darling.'

‘Must cast thee, scarcely coffin'd, in the ooze.'

‘Somebody's being drowned now.'

‘Or tie my treasure up in silken bags,

To please the fool and death.'

‘He's so intellectual. It'll be a pleasure to work with him.'

‘Do hurry. If there's one thing I hate it's drowning.'

‘They say it's the nicest death.'

‘How hot it is. Please come along.'

‘You see the whole of your past life. In a flash.'

They came out among the flat flood-lit trees; high heels stumbling on the leaves, a thin metal complaint against the wind and dark; Anthony kissed her pinched prehensile lips; far below in the dark the tide broke along the jagged shore. ‘For look how fresh she looks,' through the wide windows the Professor's voice drunk but deeply moved, ‘They were too rough that threw her in the sea.'

‘What a wet play it is,' Anthony said. ‘The sea. And ooze.'

‘I love the sea,' the blonde said, with Garbo in her voice.

‘I suppose we could find a boat,' he said, reluctantly: full fathom five: all your past life: the easiest death.

‘Not in these shoes, darling. What's your name, darling?'

‘Anthony.'

She was like a bundle of thin ropes when he kissed her; she pulled his hair with fingers which smelt of pear-drops; her mouth was sweet, synthetic, a laboratory fruit. She said: ‘Is that your sister?'

‘Yes.'

‘I don't believe you. You're in love with her.'

‘Yes.'

‘You naughty boy.' She licked his chin. ‘You need a shave, darling,' lick, lick, mechanically, like a match against emery-paper. ‘And to her incest did – did,' he thought, the Professor's voice telling of death at sea, Lloyd's list, his never-known mother's photograph face down in the suitcase in the attic, Kate. He put out his hand and felt in the darkness for the blonde; she stood a little way above him on the steep path; his hand touched silk and climbed to skin. Melancholy drunk or sober, he wondered, and said: ‘There's someone behind you on the path.' The blonde jumped and screamed and Anthony slipped, held her and slipped, recovered with his heels deep in the path. ‘It's steep here,' he said, ‘you nearly sent me over.'

‘But who is it on the path?'

‘I don't know.'

They climbed back together to the lighted windows, the other side of the terrace with the tipped-up tables, the balustrade, the shifting sibilant leaves.

‘There's no one there.'

‘Walking in front of us. There.'

The blonde screamed again, this time for effect; she aped the legitimate stage – the tragic woman, with flung hands and tilted enamelled face; the air was full of pear-drops and sweet chemicals. Anthony said: ‘I'll see what he wants.'

‘
Farväl
,' the blonde said, dramatically Swedish, making-up her face beside the balustrade.

Anthony came round the hotel on to the drive. ‘What do you want?' The man was in the light now. He turned his perplexed smudged face and waited for Anthony. He was the younger: no collar, heavy boots; shyness. Anthony said again: ‘What do you want?' It had rained while they sat at dinner; Anthony came no nearer. The man was soaked; the loose sole of one of his boots clapped when he moved.

‘
Förlåt mig
,' the young man said. The damp gleam of Anthony's pumps, the white tie caught his attention. It was as if he were losing a piece of confidence with everything he saw, the flood-lit drive, the kiss in the dark, the blonde against the balustrade, pumps and starched shirt: it was as if he expected something different, had come to the wrong party.

‘Do you speak English?' He shook his head and began explaining in Swedish what he wanted. It was something reasonable and urgent. ‘Nyköping,' Anthony heard, and ‘Herr Krogh.'

The pale primrose dress came out of the shadows. ‘What does he want?' But the young man had stopped.

‘Darling, have you got a car here?'

‘Krogh's.'

‘Let's find the car and sit in it awhile.'

The young man saw that they were leaving him and began to talk urgently.

‘What's it all about?' Anthony said.

‘He wants to see Herr Krogh. Something about his father. His father has been dismissed. His father knows Herr Krogh. Nothing to do with us.' Her accents went on and off like an electric road sign: American, English, now charmingly Swedish. ‘He is yust a bore, Anthony darling.' She was gleamingly international under the floodlights, between the puddles; the minor theatrical companies of every capital had embellished her with innumerable accents, had worn away any trace of a national origin. ‘He says his name is Andersson.'

‘A hard-luck story?'

Andersson at any rate was national in his heaviness, his fairness, his inability to talk another language, and a thin spray of sympathy passed between the two of them, as if they recognized each other's limitations in a strange world.

‘Might go in and tell him,' Anthony said.

‘What are you thinking of?' the blonde said. ‘Herr Krogh wouldn't see a fellow like that.'

‘He looks all right to me.'

‘Come and have a good time in the car, Anthony darling.' She had the high-class prostitute's contempt for working men; she was firmly conservative; she had risen and she wasn't going to look back.

The young man stood patiently, waiting for their decision.

‘You go and wait for me,' Anthony said. ‘I'll just pop in and see Krogh.'

‘All this fuss about that dismal Yonnie.'

‘Been down and out myself,' Anthony said.

‘He's not down and out. He says he works for Krogh.'

‘Well,' Anthony said angrily, ‘it's just about time he met one of his workmen. The man's wet through. We can't leave him out here.' He flung himself petulantly at the glass door and beckoned to Andersson. The man followed him on tired dragging feet: a pillar of light glowed softly in the centre of the hall; the pale brown walls, the deep square seats, the music from the restaurant, these seemed to take his dust, his weariness, his heavy boots and hang them there like an odd exhibit, a scarecrow fetched in for a sophisticated joke.

‘Now you tell us a story, Herr Krogh,' the tragic woman was saying. Everyone was eating cheese-biscuits out of a tin, everyone except Kate, who sat watching Krogh with apprehension.

Krogh laughed, smoothed his bald papery head. ‘I – I haven't any stories.'

‘Oh, but in the life, the romantic life you've led –'

‘I'll tell you a story,' Hammarsten said.

The tragic woman oscillated wildly between them in the effort to keep them both. ‘Dear Professor, in a moment . . . Your Marina would love it, but first . . .'

Krogh said: ‘There's a story about the three men who went to a bawdy house in Chicago.' He said: ‘Wait. I must get it right. So many years . . .'

‘Listen,' Anthony said, ‘there's someone wants to see you. A fellow called Andersson, Erik. Says he works for you.'

Krogh said: ‘They'd no business to let the old man in. I won't be bothered. Send him away.'

‘He's not an old man. He says you know his father. His father's been dismissed.'

‘Erik,' Kate said, ‘was that the man you saw the other day? The man you promised . . .'

‘Get fire and meat for the poor man,' Hammarsten said fiercely, his glasses falling this time among the cheese-biscuits, ‘'T'has been a turbulent and stormy night.'

‘I put nothing on paper,' Krogh said.

‘You've had him dismissed?'

‘It was the safest thing to do. We put something on him at the works. The union couldn't object. I couldn't risk a strike.'

‘A frame-up?' Anthony said. ‘His son doesn't realize. He thinks you'll be of help.'

‘Send him off,' Krogh said. ‘He has no business here.'

‘I doubt if he'll go.'

‘Then throw him out,' Krogh said. ‘I pay you, don't I? Go and throw him out.'

‘I'm damned if I will,' Anthony said.

‘For God's sake,' Kate said, ‘let's stop this party. It's no fun. We've finished the brandy. Why in hell's name did you bring these biscuits, Professor?'

‘An old car,' the Professor said, ‘I thought we mightn't get here. The girls couldn't be allowed to starve.'

‘Let's go home,' Kate said. ‘Go and send the man away, Anthony.'