The Welfare of the Dead (14 page)

‘Good evening,' says Woodrow, nodding rather uneasily to his house-guest, then to his wife. ‘Terrible night. Awful chill in the air. Thought I'd come home at a decent hour, my dear.'

‘Well, thank heavens,' says Mrs. Woodrow, gesturing towards the glass, ‘but isn't it a little early for that? Whatever will Annabel think?'

‘I am sure Miss Krout, though of Boston, is not a Puritan, Melissa,' says Woodrow, though he gives no opportunity for Annabel to reply one way or another, for which, in fact, she is rather grateful. ‘And, besides, I believe we have something to celebrate.'

‘Really?'

‘Saw Langley again. His man's happy with the deed – only wants signing. Junior partner.'

‘Why, that is excellent news,' remarks Mrs. Woodrow. ‘Mr. Langley is such an affable young man.'

‘Is he? Well, he's a wealthy one, according to his bankers,' says Woodrow.

‘Really, my dear!' exclaims Mrs. Woodrow.

‘Forgive me, Miss Krout, if I speak too bluntly,' says Woodrow. ‘My wife is quite right.'

‘Not at all,' replies Annabel.

‘A man of business will be blunt, you'll find – it becomes a habit. I expect your father is much the same.'

‘I couldn't say, sir,' replies Annabel. ‘He doesn't talk much of his business affairs at home.'

‘Quite right,' replies Woodrow, taking a nervous sip of brandy. ‘Quite right.'

‘Well,' says Mrs. Woodrow, cheerily, ‘I shall go and have Mrs. Figgis prepare dinner. Something special – Lord knows what we have in the larder, mind.'

Her husband, however, shakes his head. ‘Ah, no. Not tonight.'

‘Not tonight?'

‘Thought we might dine out, treat ourselves to a night at the Criterion. Reserved a table for six sharp.'

‘The Criterion!' exclaims Mrs. Woodrow. ‘Woodrow, how clever of you! But that only gives us an hour.'

‘You best hurry. And I've booked the theatre at eight. Comedy. Hope you like the theatre, Miss Krout?'

‘Well, of course,' replies Annabel.

‘The Criterion, Piccadilly, my dear,' says Mrs. Woodrow, as if not quite satisfied her cousin has grasped the full significance of her husband's offer. ‘It's the newest, most luxurious place in London. A restaurant and theatre together – and the theatre is underground, though you'd never know it – can you believe it? Quite the latest thing. It is just too perfect! Why, Woodrow, you might look a little more cheerful?'

‘Yes, my dear,' replies her husband, forcing a smile and taking another sip.

The cab that Mr. Woodrow acquires for the journey to the Criterion is more comfortable than the rented
family brougham, not least in possessing seats for four passengers, rather than merely two. Annabel Krout, once more, tries to capture glimpses of the city as it passes by. Peculiar lights abound, from the dots of white-yellow gas that illuminate distant streets, to the tarpaulin tent that shelters a nocturnal coffee-stall outside King's Cross station, and the brazier that burns beside it. She marvels at the coal-red glow warming the faces of the handful of figures clustered around.

‘A cold night, eh?' says Jasper Woodrow, following Annabel's gaze. ‘You know, I shouldn't be surprised if a fog isn't setting in.'

‘Really? How can you tell?' replies Annabel.

‘Melissa will tell you I have a nose for it.'

‘He does, my dear,' agrees Mrs. Woodrow. ‘Quite uncanny.'

Woodrow shakes his head. ‘One merely has to look into the distance. Muddy-looking, eh?'

‘I can't tell,' replies Annabel, peering down side-streets as the cab trundles along.

Woodrow nods. ‘Well, you don't know the city, Miss Krout – but I expect it all looks quite wretched compared to Boston. I expect Boston's a tidy little place, eh?'

‘I couldn't say.'

‘Quite right, my dear, a diplomatic answer,' interjects Mrs. Woodrow. ‘Stop tormenting the poor girl, Woodrow!'

‘I intended no such thing,' protests Jasper Woodrow. ‘I merely wondered what Miss Krout made of the metropolis.'

‘You are an awful ill-mannered brute,' says Mrs. Woodrow, affectionately, ‘and you know it.'

Woodrow merely shakes his head.

‘And,' continues Mrs. Woodrow, ‘you have not told
us what is the play.'

‘A surprise, my dear,' replies Woodrow.

‘Well! I hope it is a pleasant one,' says Mrs. Woodrow, though her tone of voice suggests she is quite excited by the mystery.

Annabel, on the other hand, returns to placidly watching the streets go by, as the carriage turns and hastens along Gower Street, then along New Oxford Street. After a few minutes, it swings abruptly down a narrow lane.

‘Where are we now?' asks Annabel.

‘Soho,' replies Mr. Woodrow. ‘Awful area – wretched foreigners everywhere – Frenchies, Italians, all sorts.'

Annabel Krout blushes, perhaps waiting for the list to include another particular nationality, but Mr. Woodrow does not notice her slight discomfort.

Mrs. Woodrow, meanwhile, returns to talking amiably of her favourite theatrical experiences, and the best theatres in London, and the famous theatrical personages she has seen in a variety of interesting circumstances. Her cousin stares out of the window. Soho, it seems to Annabel, grows darker and darker as the clarence penetrates further into its labyrinthine arteries.

‘Damned fog,' mutters Woodrow. ‘I knew it.'

Indeed, a fog is undoubtedly brewing: the gas-lights seem to flare in an increasingly brown-ish hue; the faces of the district's foreign exiles, leaving the coffee-shops and cheap lodgings, loitering outside cramped terraces, begin to take on a dull, shifting mutability; the very air seems to grow thick and smudged. But just as Annabel fears the cab cannot safely escape the warren of streets, they pull out into a wider, open boulevard, well-illuminated on both sides, and, within a few moments, draw to a halt by the Criterion.

‘Ah, here at last!'

The two women wait for Mr. Woodrow to open the door, exit the cab and pay the driver. Annabel, in turn, then insists her cousin goes first after her husband. But as Annabel steps out of the carriage, taking Woodrow's hand, she is struck by the sound of her cousin's amused laughter. It is so distinct that Annabel worries she herself, through some peculiar breach of English etiquette, is the cause of it.

‘My dear – look – how delightful – it couldn't be more apt.'

Annabel looks at the theatre. Even in the lowering fog, the grand white stone-work of the Criterion's classical façade is quite visible, though its smaller detailing – the chiselled cornucopias, cheery-faced cherubs and draped statuary, sunk in various alcoves beneath the entablature – is a little indistinct. But it is the iron-canopied entrance, and the sign beneath to which Mrs. Woodrow draws her attention, the sign announcing the evening's comedy:
An American Lady
.

‘
An American Lady
– Woodrow, how clever of you!'

‘Come then, let's go in,' says Woodrow. ‘I hope the grill room suits you? I don't have much time for French muck, I'm afraid, Miss Krout. Still – I expect you Yankees are much the same – prefer a nice bit of well-cooked meat, eh?'

Annabel smiles politely; she decides she might enjoy a comedy after her dinner.

Harold: Marry an American lady? An impossibility.

Greville: Why on earth do you say that?

Harold: Oh, the American gentleman exists, for are
you not an American, Greville? But when you talk of the opposite sex, well . . .

‘What do you make of it, Miss Krout? Not too bad, eh?'

Annabel Krout bites her tongue.

Harold: She's so unlike any woman I ever met; so honest, so appreciative; by Jove she might almost have been an Englishwoman!

With the play long since finished, Annabel inches her way forward through the Criterion's foyer, together with Mr. and Mrs. Woodrow, having finally acquired her coat and hat from the cloak-room. Unfortunately, the queue to leave the narrow lobby, and acquire one of the cabs that queue around the circumference of Piccadilly Circus, is even greater than that for coats. Moreover, the fog has developed into the treacly brown variety that obscured Annabel's first night in the capital. Thus, with the cabs themselves only dim outlines, best located by the gleaming twin lamps at the front of each vehicle, the progress of the outgoing theatre audience is a slow one. Annabel watches the stop-start movement of the crowd in the foyer's gilded mirrors: the men in evening dress, restraining their steps to half-paces; the woman shifting by inches, nervously wrapping their skirts close to their legs, lest the footfall of a muddy boot should tear the hem of a prized silk.

‘Well, I do think it was awfully funny,' says Mrs. Woodrow, as they approach the doors. ‘Mr. Byron is such a clever writer. Did you not warm to it, Annabel dear?'

Annabel merely smiles and nods as the crowd trickles forward. Fortunately, any further discussion of the play's merits is curtailed as they push through the doors on to the pavement.