No Laughing Matter (47 page)

‘I hope you don’t think you’re going to make
me
drill.’

‘Actually,’ she replied, ‘I was talking seriously. About the
unemployed
. Labour camps are the only answer.’

It was the almost dotty, starry look in her blue eyes as she made this judgement that brought home to Marcus exactly what political
company
he was in. He felt ashamed to have believed, in his innocence, that such views were only held by black shirted bruisers and corner boys. He must at least show some fight.

‘And what if they don’t want to?’

‘Beggars can hardly be choosers,’ said Lloyd’s, ‘No national work,
no national dole. That’s fair enough. But in fact, you know, they’ll welcome it if the case could be put to them without agitators getting at them first. I believe the Colonel’s going to tell us quite a lot about what they’re doing in Germany in that way. What they call the arbeitsdienst.’

‘I’ve never heard anything so disgusting. People through no fault of their own are out of work. You pay them a pittance. Then not content with that you want to make them do physical jerks.’

‘Well, it’s that or watch decent Englishmen turning into
degenerates
,’ Dulcie cried. ‘A friend of mine who knows the seamy side of the West End says that most of these pansy boys start as
unemployed
.’

‘Which,’ said Lloyd’s, ‘suits the Reds and their friends beautifully. There’s nothing they’d like better than a degenerate England.’

‘Who are their friends?’ asked Marcus, while he contemplated whether he could hit Dulcie and get away before Lloyd’s hit him.

‘The Jewish bankers and financiers, of course.’

He could see that Dulcie had been forbearing not to add ‘silly’. Trying to control the trembling that his anger had brought on, he said in a voice that he intended to be loud and bold, but which came out as high and hysterical: ‘I think you’d better know that I’m a pansy boy. And the man I live with is a Jew.’

Some people nearby turned in shocked disgust towards them. Lloyd’s and Dulcie were too overcome with embarrassment at being seen with him to react more violently. And now a croaking filled the room as Lady Westerton announced:

‘Will all you people take your glasses through with you? You know the way. Colonel Deniston is ready to begin his address.’

Ostentatiously Marcus moved against the tide of scented old Jezebels and debollocked generals, but he could feel by the chafing of his thighs to his chagrin that his retreat was of the most mincing kind. However at last his feeble little protest was over and, released by a seedy old butler, he found himself in the autumn sunshine of Cadogan Square.

Sitting back in the Daimler he stared at the pits in Prescott’s neck that no doubt would bear witness throughout the man’s life to the acne of his youth; but he could think of nothing but Jack. There were English people – ghastly awful English people, it was true, but people not absolutely marked as criminals or thugs, people whom one might
meet at boring Belgravia cocktail parties – who would insult Jack, imprison him, for all he knew kill him, just because he was a Jew. He had agreed that, if there were to be the least danger of war – and there clearly was – the pictures should go to New York and go now. But he had tried not to listen to Jack’s occasional hints at their own emigration. It seemed hysterical and, after all, if war came, they would all be killed within the first week by poison gas or some other horror. The paintings must be preserved, that was a basic duty, but you can’t live life thinking all the time about your own skin. He had developed a hatred of pampering himself, much though he loved luxury, from the days of 52 onwards when he’d been on the streets. But now he saw that this stoicism was a silly nonsense for Jack and all Jews who could get away. He hated not to judge other people by his own rules for himself, especially just because, like Jack, they had circumcised cocks or had worn ridiculous little tassels and caps as small boys. But when ‘nice’ people revealed the obscenities of their minds and wills, such easy moral rules were no longer possible. Now he saw suddenly that people were going to get in the way of things that mattered, of the Kandinskys and Baksts. Jack, to begin with – he would have to manage Jack, to make the prickly, sensitive, rude, loving, guilt-ridden man whom he cared for above everything, not ashamed to run away. At the thought of ‘managing’ Jack’s safety he felt exhausted; at the thought of these disgusting ordinary people who out of envy or stupidity or vulgarity hated Jack, he felt sick.

The car was held up to allow a small group of demonstrators to cross from Byron’s statue to Apsley House. He could not see who
processed
for the press of onlookers and the linked policemen, but he caught sight of a banner that read,
SCHOLARSHIPS NOT
BATTLE
SHIPS
, and he heard voices shouting, ‘
Stop
Hitler
’
s
War
on
Children
’, or so it sounded. He could make no sense of it. Almost before
Prescott
spoke, he had some premonition of what he would say. At the very same moment he caught the eye of this stocky young man in a faded purple suit and white silk choker who was standing, picking his nose, on the island.

Prescott said: ‘Giving the police trouble again, sir. They’re holding some sort of meeting down at Trafalgar Square. Layabouts’ paradise. Of course, it’s foreigners behind it.’

Disgust and lust fought for possession of his bowels. ‘Don’t talk
nonsense, Prescott. And you can drop me here. I’m going to walk in the park. Tell Dempster I shan’t be in to dinner after all.’

He waited until the Daimler had passed well on its way to Marble Arch before he smiled and beckoned with his head to the young man to follow him down to the Dell. He had remembered picking
someone
up there in his own down and out days.

‘Rabbits! What appallingly silly faces they do have, don’t they!’ he had said then by way of an opening.

But the purple young man said, ‘You wouldn’t think you’d see them – wild rabbits right in the heart of London, would you?’

Ah, well, in England, differences of technique like most other things could be tracked back to class.

*

The northwest wind blew strong but fresh across the heath, over the downs of the main course, and into the dip where the small course lay concealed in warm intimacy. Here, coming slap up against the
members’
stand, it whirled around, stirring up dust, blowing newspapers and ticket ends to dance in horse-dung-scented air, destroying the cosiness of the little informal meeting. Gladys, seated precariously on her shooting stick, had to hold on to her wide-brimmed straw hat. That came of Alf’s insistence these days on her dressing Ascotwise for the most unsuitable occasions. She put her hand on his arm to steady herself.

‘I’m too big-bummed for these things, Alfred.’

But he looked up from his racecard and frowned disapprovingly at her words. He never used to worry about being genteel. Seeing his anxious, frowning red face bent over the card and hearing his usual stomach rumble, she felt ashamed to be criticizing the poor,
overworked
, clever old darling. The more power he got each year the less he slept and the more he burped. Fumbling in her bag she found a bottle of soda mints and, patting three or four into her hand, she handed two to him.

‘Oh, for God’s sake, kiddie.’

But luckily now they were off and she could think of nothing but gold and green hoops. And there they were – gold and green hoops down the course.

‘Oh, Marie Stellons or whatever your name is! Oh, you blighter you’ve let me down.’

‘I’m always telling you not to throw your money away on these
outsiders.’ Alf sounded really cross. But now gold and green hoops were gaining, past purple and yellow stripes, past red and grey hoops, and, Oh God, coming up to second place, coming up to flush with maroon and black.

‘Stella Maris, Stella Maris, Stella Maris wins.’

‘Oh, Alf, I’ve won a hundred quid.’

But he hardly did more than grunt.

Of course, if he’d lost money himself, well that would be different, everyone hates losing. But he hadn’t. He’d won on the first two races, it seemed; and he hadn’t even laid a bet on this race. Not even to
congratulate
her; she’d never known him like this before. She decided to disregard him and climbed up the steps to the Tote to claim her money. As she folded the notes away into her bag she thought, if I didn’t have these little bits of excitement, these little bits of luck, I don’t know that I could stand him sometimes. Clearly her luck was in. She made a little prayer to the luck provider to let it flow over from today into tomorrow. If my luck holds, she thought, I’ll get those two Chelsea figures at the sale tomorrow, and Sylvia’ll get that marqueterie table she’s after (hideous thing!). But she willed for it strongly because you must wish for others if you’re to hold on to your own luck. Then casting round for others to wish luck to, she said aloud: ‘
And
for Mr Ahrendt’ so that a man with ginger
moustaches
and a brown bowler stared at her. Lucky that Alfred wasn’t there. Oh, but wouldn’t it be wonderful if old Ahrendt’s picture
did
turn out to be by this chap Grünewald? He and the old girl looked so thin and they’d obviously sold every bit of porcelain, every stick of furniture they’d managed to bring over. She agreed with the luck god to undo her own luck, and Sylvia’s for that matter, if old Ahrendt could get all that money. Ten thousand pounds, the Christie’s man had murmured, non-committally of course. The old pair would be all right for life.

Coming down the steps again she saw suddenly a heavy, red faced old man with a desperate look in his eyes making his way to the telephone. Then she realized with horror that he was Alfred. And she had never even thought to wish him some of her luck. She firmly opened her race card and began to study the form of the horses for the next race. So Daffy Down Dilly had been carrying a couple of pounds more last time out…. That was the only way of doing it. Look how she’d mugged up her porcelain over the last two years – first English
and now, though only for background, continental. Everything, as Alfred said, should be systematic. Luck was superstitious. She felt almost ashamed of the twenty new five pound notes in her bag.

She was still studying form when she felt an arm round her waist and, looking up, saw Alfred, his eyes smiling, the lines of his face all upturned in laughter.

‘You’re getting to be an obsessive punter. Just because you win a hundred quid by picking a winner blindfold with a pin …’

‘But I’m trying to be more serious, Alf. I’m studying form.’

‘No, put it away, darling. I can’t have
you
becoming a gambler. Let’s go and have a plate of cold salmon and a bottle of bubbly. They’ve got a very good Heidsieck here.’ And at the table ‘Come on’ – he smothered his fish in mayonnaise – ‘tell us the best news from home. What happened about that old girl’s Chelsea Neptune?’ But before she could answer, ‘I think it’s in the bag. I think I’ve pulled it off. I’m almost certain of the collateral now. If only the bloody bank manager hasn’t got an attack of Hitleritis.’

She supposed that he meant the new trading company but his affairs moved so rapidly that she was not always sure.

‘Oh, Alf, I am pleased. Tell.’

But no, he said, much better to wait until we’re past the post. Meanwhile what news of the shop, what about this sale, where was this big pot’s place, at Bottisham, where was that?, and so on. She told him about the two Chelsea figures, she explained about the Commedia dell’ Arte. He seemed delighted.

‘Clever girl. How you’ve learned it all! I might start buying myself, one day, you never know.’

‘Oh, I wish you would, Alf. Anything that would give you a hobby.’

‘You’re my hobby.’

‘At rising forty, Alf! Don’t be silly. No honestly. If you would only just slack off a little. You’ve provided for Doris. You’ve no need to work so hard.’

He took her hand. ‘Don’t nag, Glad. I’m doing the job that excites me most. There are big possibilities. How can I stand aside and let them go by? But you do help me, Glad, you know, in times like this, when things get on top of me, just by chattering away.’

‘Well! If that’s all I do.’

Yet she felt delighted. She described to him the chances at the Sale; she told him of her luck in identifying the Harlequin.

‘And Sylvia has a rich lady from Detroit if we can secure her the Louis Seize marqueterie table.’

At Sylvia’s name as usual he made a face, but this time since he was so happy, a droll rather than a glum one.

‘Oh, shut up, Alf. You can’t sulk about a three year old snub. And she’s proved to be the greatest asset to
me.
You
wouldn’t have been paid back if it hadn’t been for her efficiency. When I think how nearly I sent old Ahrendt away with that medieval woodcarving of his. If it hadn’t been for Sylvia …’

But two mentions of her name proved too many, or else he had not liked to be reminded of having been repaid – it had been their nearest moment to a serious quarrel. Anyhow he began to frown, so she decided to tell him of the Ahrendt possible luck, it was such a happy ending fairy story that it couldn’t possibly fail to cheer people up.

‘But you mustn’t mention it to anyone, Alf, in case it doesn’t prove to be genuine. I think the excitement might kill Mrs Ahrendt. She’s very frail.’

‘My dear girl, you can’t get anywhere in the City if you talk out of turn. How much would it be worth if it was by this chap?’

‘About ten thousand pounds.’

‘A nice little pile of spondulicks.’

‘It would mean the difference of life and death to those poor old things, I think. It can’t be right, Alf, for us to sit by and let that
dreadful
little man push wretched people around in that way. And as the old boy said to me, “
We
were the lucky ones that got away, Miss Matthews.’”

‘My dear girl, whatever you do, don’t start a lot of war talk. The market’s only just bearing up as it is.’