No Laughing Matter (49 page)

‘Daddy, not “Sir”,’ Sukey said, and with this familiar correction she recovered some of her usual poise. ‘It’s not term time. Tell us some more clues. Yes, you and who else, Middleman?’ Then seeing her eldest son coming back from the house, she called to him, ‘Was that awful Eileen Dowsett there? And did she make eyes at you, darling?’ To Rose with the tea, she said: ‘Master Philip’s won the Treasure Hunt prize. What was it, by the way, P. S.? I hope Mrs Roeburn didn’t spend a lot of money. They’re very badly off. Oh, look, Rose has made jumbles. Now, is my marrow and ginger to your taste
this
year, my lord?’ she asked Senior. ‘Well, come on, give us some clues, P. S.’

‘How can I when you talk all the time? There was one jolly good one. How did it go? You know.
That
one,’ he nodded at his brother.

‘No, we don’t,’ Senior said.

‘Yes. About you know what. I can’t say or I’ll give it away.’ P. S. looked very earnest. ‘Wait a minute, “Where the hangman’s gibbet stood”.’ His voice was the perfection of dramatic elocution, ‘There within the …’

‘Look, darling,’ Sukey cried, holding up Middleman’s corps jacket, ‘Is that what you meant me to do?’

‘Oh, Mummy!’ P. S. protested.

But before Middleman could reply, Sukey had found a tear. ‘Oh, drat your old corps, darling, and I never saw it. Yes … hangman’s gibbet,’ she began to thread her needle.

P. S. took a moment to recover from his annoyance at her fresh interruption. Hugh, to smooth the situation over, started to hum and then to sing, ‘And the soldiers dum dum dum dum said they’d rather sleep on thistles than wear the skirts that sister Susie sewed.’

Billy Pop’s tuneless voice came mockingly down the stairs to her. It was the last straw of an intolerable day. Bursting into tears, she threw down the sewing and brought her fists down on to the tea tray, scattering milk, jumbles, marrow and ginger, and all.

‘Stop it, stop it!’ she cried. A bony, florid-faced woman with fair hair streaked with grey, she ran like an angry young girl into the house.

Senior looked down at his plate, Middleman busied himself picking up the debris; only P. S. cried after her:

‘Mummy, Mummy.’

Hugh, lighting his pipe, said:

‘Your Mother’s having a rather worrying time.’

Middleman and Senior both looked very serious. Senior said: ‘We quite understand, Dad. Is there anything we can do?’

P. S., watching his brothers, tried to make the same sort of face. Hugh said:

‘No, I doubt if there’s anything any of us can do at the moment except to hope for the best.’

Half an hour later, smelling of eau de cologne, Sukey came out of her bedroom, where she had been crying in the dark. She went to Hugh in his study.

‘I want us to have Frau Liebermann here, darling.’

‘Now, my dear, are you
sure
?
I’ve never seen you rattled like you were at tea. You ought to take things easy.’

‘Take things easy! It was nothing. Good heavens, as a girl I …’ Then more quietly and deliberately, ‘If she gets here in September, your mother will be staying until the fifteenth, but I’m sure if we asked her. Yes, if she goes on the fourteenth that would give us a day to get the room ready. And when term starts Arnold can come over from the school house for Sunday lunches.’

‘Promise you won’t knock yourself up, Sue.’

‘No, no,’ she cried, ‘I
want
them to come here.’

*

‘No,’ said Marcus into the telephone, ‘I don’t think the Soutane or the Dufy, do you? Certainly not the Dufy.’ He made a face at Jack. ‘But the Klees are what we specially want. The Landscape with the sea Anemones and the Bauhaus one – Study what’s it?’ Jack could hear the expected expostulations at the other end. He was peeling himself an orange in an elaborate but to him immensely satisfying manner so that it looked like a water lily. The head waiter at the Mamounia in Marrakesh had shown him how and he, who could do nothing manual, was greatly proud of the skill. He gave one segment to the blue persian cat who happily doted on all exotic foods.

‘Yes, I do understand. Of course. Of course. The Dufy’s
tremendously
decorative. Perhaps the best in an English collection. It’s just that in this exhibition…. Oh, no, you’re quite wrong. I
adore
the Soutine
pageboy. But it’s more of a fun picture – all that decadent elegance. … Nihilism? Oh! Mm. I see. I didn’t know he had a message. Anyway that’s not relevant, is it?’

Jack whispered in his free ear, ‘You’ll never get anywhere with Vernon with charm.’

Marcus said into the telephone, ‘Jack says I’ll never get anywhere with you with charm. So I won’t go on trying. We want the Klees and the Miro, because even though you think they’re amusing, they are in fact superb paintings. And we don’t want the Dufy because it’s a pretty poster or the Soutine because fun’s fun but we can’t smile all the time. Now have your heart attack and agree because you know you’d rather die than not have the Corkoran collection
represented
.’ Jack was right, for a deep intake of breath at the other end was followed by rather snappish agreement.

So that was settled. And now Marcus was charming again saying, ‘Yes, Yes. How amusing. We’ll certainly think about
that.
No, I’m entirely amateur as far as arranging exhibitions goes, so I shall be grateful for any advice.’

When he put the receiver down, he said at once: ‘I must have a drink.’ And when Dempster appeared he ordered a very cold
Chambery
. ‘I must freeze my temperature down, Jack, after a morning of talking to fools. Only half of these people know what’s good in their collections. And half of those wouldn’t know if they hadn’t been told. Anyhow I’ve got everything I want. It’s going to be a good exhibition. And it’s not, by the way, going to be called Kultur Bolshevismus, even though Lucy Ainley took the trouble to
translate
. “It would serve Hitler right. It’s what he says, you know. He calls all serious modern art” culture bolshevism”.’ His imitation, as of all women, except deep voiced Lesbians, was exact. ‘Do you know that Vernon Corkoran was the tenth person this morning to suggest that witty piece of sarcasm? Can’t you imagine Hitler’s little
moustache
withering under our cruel irony?’

‘And all this you are doing,’ said Jack, ‘for the little Yiddischer kindchen. Mr Matthews, allow me to tell you, you’re a damned nice chap.’

‘Oh, God! Where
did
half these refugees learn their English? It’s not really funny, Jack. Can’t you explain to that sad little man about it? I’m sure he doesn’t sound so awful and hearty in Germany. Did you know he was one of the early producers of Brigitte Helm? Oh,
yes, he was a great silent director. But that won’t help him to get work here. Especially hitting people on the back and saying ‘old chap”. Or perhaps it
will
in Denham and all those studio suburbs, who can tell? Certainly my very unhearty manner got me no farther than crowd scenes. Though I was splendid in those. But as to the children, I am only too well aware of the shame of it. Children and good works! Beastly little things masturbating in their handkerchiefs. I could kill Hitler for dragging me into all this. Anyhow I’m going to have a glorious afternoon just being poked.’

Jack frowned as he took the martini from the tray Dempster offered. He had never reconciled himself to the way that Marcus imposed his private life and language upon the servant’s susceptibilities.

‘Your
other
good work?’ Jack said casually when Dempster had gone. His beautiful, etiolated Semitic face seemed frozen in
camel-like
disdain.

Marcus walked over to him and looked into his large, liquid eyes.

‘See any green, dearie?’ he asked himself and answered, ‘Yes, one or two flecks.’

‘No, I’m not jealous,’ said Jack, ‘merely realistic.
You
were
unemployed
when I met
you
…’

‘I was
not.
A gentleman had asked me to model for Saint Sebastian. And another gentleman had said he might be able to get me a walking-on part in a production of
The
Miracle
at Alexandra Palace.’

‘As I said, you were as good as unemployed. A lot of heavy father rescue work I had to do.’

‘Oh, rehabilitation! You should have tried dumbells. You and that awful Dulcie woman! But I had my hidden talents. Ted’s one of those workers who has nothing to lose but his balls. Oh, all right! He’s a nice, boring, kindhearted, weak willed creature of low
intelligence
and moderately good intentions.
And
I shall treat him well. But there’s strictly one reason why I’m seeing him. He keeps that between his legs. And I’m quite willing to forgo that delight if it fusses you. After all I’ve been faithful or almost so for more than ten years. You said you didn’t mind when I told you. But if you do, say so. Is
that
what this is all about?’

‘No,’ Jack spoke meditatively. ‘No, I don’t mind. Or rather I should mind if I thought that you might walk out on me in a fit of claustrophobia.’

Marcus looked around the room. His eye lighted on the Klees, the green and pink Mondrian, stayed quite a while on his own portrait by Tchelitchev.

‘With those!’ he said. He went up to Jack and hugged him. ‘And you. Oh yes,’ with a tragedienne gesture, ‘this golden cage stifles me. Give me cold water and fresh air.’

Dempster received the melodramatic order quietly.

‘Luncheon is served,’ he said.

As they walked in Marcus observed: ‘Having it off may make you feel very good but a diamond bracelet lasts forever.’

Crumbling his toast melba and drinking the lunch of lemon juice that kept his figure so slim, Jack said: ‘All the same there must be some pressure on our partnership, otherwise you would never use a stale quotation like that. Even in your dirty version.’

*

‘You play him along, really, don’t you?’ Ted commented with a worldly look in his empty blue eyes.

He was lying full length in his shirt on the divan bed in the recess of the one room flat Marcus had rented for their meetings. When Marcus showed no recognition of this cynicism, Ted assumed a more serious look.

‘Ees all right, isn’t e? A lot of blokes wouldn’t take it so easy. I mean your goin with me. A lot of blokes like im would be like wild cats about it. Proper bitches! No, ees all right, your Jack is.’

Still Marcus made no response, but contrived to wash up the tea things in the cupboard-like kitchen.

‘Oh, well,’ Ted said, ‘What’s e matter to us? You’re all right, you know. I mean larks apart. I don’t know I’ve met another bloke I’ve liked as much as you.’

He stretched and scratched his thigh, and as he did so his shirt moved up. Marcus almost buried his head in the washing-up lather. This bloody randiness always threatened to suck him down into the vast, empty emotional gulf of Ted’s shapeless life, a fluid mess of random thoughts, chance feelings and appetites, half formed words, glottal stops that took mould only as now from a desperate attempt to suit the mood of the person he was with.

‘I was lucky meeting you.
And
you can cook.’

He offered the joke to Marcus perfunctorily, but then, perhaps
remembering
the number of pickups to whom he had said it when it
had no meaning, he added, ‘No, I mean that. That fish you done for tea was as good as Lyons. Better.’ He belched to show his
appreciation
. ‘I don’t know anyone who cooks better. Well, cept my Mum did, of course.’

But Marcus knew that big tough lost boy look, so he kept his eyes on the iridescent bubbles. Ted stirred uneasily.

‘And my sister-in-law, Madge. You and er ought to meet, you’d like er. She’s a proper caution. You two could talk about cooking.’

Already a note of defensive sarcasm was creeping into his voice. Marcus knew he must find soothing words or face a quarrel.

‘Anyone ever tell you you’ve got hard tits?’ he asked. The soothing remark was at least sincere. The element of therapy irked him but it worked.

‘Oh, a few,’ Ted said, soothed. He added, ‘Well, I think I’ll take a kip.’

Thank God, Marcus thought, for to watch the sleeping figure was one of his best rewards. But Ted’s need for affection was too great that evening for sleep. In less than a minute he opened his eyes.

‘What you watchin me for? You
like
me, don’t yer. I mean more than just screwing. You like to play tough, but I know. I like you too. You given me a lot I needed. I don’t mean just money. Madge saw it. She’s quick. I told er what you said. You know. “It’s not bein out of work that matters, it’s when you don’t care.” Madge was quick on that all right. Ees right there, she said, of corse she was thinkin of Arthur as much as me. Your bloke’s right, she said. Look at Arthur, e was only stood off once and e never rested till e got work. That’s what you’ve got to do.’

Ted looked for Marcus ‘approval and when there was no response, he added:’ I dunno. Talkin’s easy.’

The repetition of the facile moralizing he had used in his first meeting with Ted sickened Marcus with himself.

‘I need a bloke like you. It’s not my fault, yer know. I go regular to the Labour. But it’s like they say, one alone can’t beat the system. Friends and family help though, don’t they?’

In Marcus self-disgust swelled into intense irritation that burst upon Ted.

‘For God’s sake, shut up. I’ve taken on the Jews. I’m not taking on the unemployed. Not even you as a sample. I’ve been rent myself
once. But at least I was honest about it. I just gave what they paid me for. I never asked any of them to hold my hand or wash my nappies. And I’m not going to do either for you. Just because you’re cinema sodden you needn’t imagine you’re Spencer Tracy. Your butch looks don’t go with baby talk. Or not for me. So for God’s sake let’s not have any more love on the dole. You’re here because of one thing, and one thing only. And you know what it is.’

‘You fuckin bastard. All right. If that’s ow your ladyship feels, you can fill your own ole. I’m off.’

Ted even went so far as to swing his legs down on to the floor and pick up his socks, but bewilderment, depression, lassitude prevented him going further. By chance, however, his choice of words resolved his dilemma for Marcus, for he heard the echoes of his own voice in the room and recognized them with horror.