The Doomsday Men

by J. B. Priestley

  Before they began the final set, Miss Andrea Baker, now an entrancing figure of warm gold, nearly came to life. She looked at Malcolm with those astonishing eyes, in which there was now just the faintest trace of warmth—as if at least a match or two had been struck somewhere in those caverns, even if no fires had yet been lighted—and said to him, in what amounted with her to tones of the most delicious intimacy: “Can we do it, Mr. Darbyshire?” His name too, though of course with the chill Mister attached to it! She was almost human.

  “Yes, we can do it. Concentrate on Madame Tissot. Either smack ’em hard at her, or drop ’em short—she can’t run. And I’m going to keep on lobbing Grendel. I know it’s risky, but I’ll have him running miles, and he’s tiring fast. We’ll pull it off all right.” He sounded more confident than he felt, but, dash it, when the girl was coming to life, right at the last minute, he couldn’t appear dubious. He gave her his broadest, friendliest grin yet.

  Then she did a curious thing, which he was never to forget. The little light there was died out of her face, not leaving it composed, reserved, almost frozen, as it had been so often, but giving it an unexpected air of melancholy, almost wistful sadness; and she looked around, taking in all the court, the stand and the thin line of spectators at each side, the other courts, the hotel, the hills and the mountains beyond, the whole landscape, it seemed, the whole fading and chilling gold of the afternoon, just as if she were looking at all these things for the last time; and then she turned to him, as if at last in this moment he was a real person to her, and said quietly, rather sadly: “I’d give anything to win this match. I don’t think there’ll be another for me.”

  Now that she had said something personal to him, he could only stare and stutter, for he was completely taken by surprise, by dismay, too, a score of fantastic tragic speculations about her leaping into his mind and conflicting there. What on earth did she mean? And why, after being so frozen, was she suddenly, at this place and time, not only coming to life, but being disturbingly tragic about it? And whatever it was, he was sure, there was no affectation there. She was not talking for effect. On the contrary, she was giving him a glimpse, the merest hint, of her real self, which she had kept so carefully tucked away. And now of course there was no time even to ask a sensible question. The umpire was calling from his high chair; the spectators were settling down, and turning curious glances their way; the final set must be played.

  But he had time to look her straight in the eyes—and what eyes!—and mutter with awkward sincerity: “It’s all right. We’ll do it.”

  That final set was the best game of tennis Malcolm Darbyshire ever played. He stopped worrying about the girl now, and concentrated entirely upon the game. Grendel and Madame Tissot were no longer two pleasant fellow-creatures, with whom he had exchanged cigarettes and stories and cold drinks in the Bristol; they were menacing monsters, one small, female, cold, infinitely cunning, the other a man-eating giant, roaring destruction and doom. The court was the whole world, and the adventures of the great white balls upon it were his whole destiny. He sent fast top-spinning drives to Madame Tissot’s feet, and killed the slow half-volleys she returned. Grendel he lobbed, and went on lobbing, sometimes chasing the giant’s tremendous smashes far out of court; and did not even hear the applause that followed him. He served with a fierce despair, as if trying to turn himself into another giant, and he banged away hell-for-leather at Grendel’s terrific services, sometimes throwing the point away, but at others scoring glorious winners. But most of the time—and it was not ordinary time but the years of an epic struggle—Grendel seemed to be smashing and he seemed to be lobbing. Andrea was playing well, but she had not the cold, almost venomous concentration of the Frenchwoman; and Malcolm could not pretend to equal Grendel’s colossal strength. They arrived at five-all, and it was anybody’s match.

  The eleventh game of the set brought the service back to Malcolm, and as he went to the service line, he suddenly realised that he was almost done. After all, he had been working hard, mostly indoors at the office, during these last two months, with the fog and sleet of London about him, and not, like most of these people, keeping himself in good trim at other tournaments. And this was the last day of a week’s intensive play, in a climate that had been a sharp change, not altogether agreeable in its sudden alternations of warm afternoons and cold nights. Every joint seemed to sag and ache. He tried to deliver two fast services, but he winced as he brought his racket down over the ball, and both went into the net. His partner gave him a sharp glance as she crossed over. Next service—another fault. This wouldn’t do. He sent a safe slow second one, and of course it was promptly annihilated. Love-thirty—and this a key-game. He took his time crossing over, then sent across a medium-pace service towards the centre. It was returned quickly as he was running in, and he gave a despairing scoop at it, to find, to his astonishment, that he had achieved a beautiful little half-volley that Tissot could not reach in time. Then the next point was theirs, for Grendel drove hard into the net. Thirty-all. Now Malcolm tried a fairly fast slice service, which went curving away, so that it was hit out. The next return was neatly volleyed by Andrea, far out of the Frenchwoman’s reach. The game was theirs, making the set six-five.

  It was Grendel’s service, and this was clearly to be his last and most terrible effort. Rather painfully, he drew himself up to his full height, sent ball and racket flashing in the sky, and produced an ace. He went across, taking his time and shaking the perspiration off him like a dog just out of the water, and then delighted the stand once more by producing another terrific ace. But now his next service was a fault; the second, much slower, was returned; Tissot drove deeply and Grendel came roaring up to the net; Malcolm lobbed high, but Grendel jumped back and smashed, but Malcolm lobbed again, there was another smash, again Malcolm lobbed, and this time Grendel fumbled and lost the point. Again his first service was a fault, and again the much slower second was returned; and this time Andrea won a short but sharp duel of drives against the Frenchwoman. Grendel tried to make it forty-thirty by another ace, but lost the point with a double-fault. Set point, in favour of the Anglo-American pair. Grendel got his first service in, but it was returned, and now the ball flew across the net from a series of hard drives, which ended with a stupendous forehand drive from Grendel. Malcolm just succeeded in putting his racket to it, and the ball went high above the net. Grendel smashed, and Malcolm ran achingly after it and retrieved it with another lob. This time Grendel could not reach it, but Madame Tissot did, with a fairly slow dropping drive. Malcolm rushed forward, despairingly slammed his racket at the ball, heard in wonder and delight the deep grunt of the strings that told him he had hit the ball fairly and squarely, and then saw it shoot, a perfect drive-volley, between his opponents, to give him game, set, and match.

  There was the usual clapping, hand-shaking, towelling and muffling up, congratulations and snapshots, but Malcolm saw and heard it all as if in a dream. After that final stroke of his, when the match was over and won, for one dazzling second the strange Andrea Baker had come to life. With eyes like lamps, she had put out a hand, and said, in her agreeable deep American voice, now a little choky and breathless: “Thanks a whole lot, partner. You were grand.” That was all, but it was, as this mysterious girl said, a whole lot.

  Now, with the match over, the whole afternoon fading, that horribly cold wind of the Riviera chilling everything, he had only one desire, and that was to prevent this girl from vanishing for ever. He must see her again, and probably there was only this night for it. He carried this determination through the confusion and congratulations that followed the end of the match. He saw her exchange a few remarks, and then go to change. The car, the large fateful mysterious car, was already waiting, with the little brown chauffeur, to take her away for ever. He dare not go and change himself, for fear he might miss her. Shivering a little and horribly anxious, he hung about, dodging acquaintances, and putti
ng off those he could not dodge with the briefest replies. Doubtfully, he rehearsed speeches, and could not help feeling a fool. The girl had had a few good games of tennis with him; they had contrived to win the Mixed Doubles; and that was that. She had shown no real interest in his existence. She liked tennis, not young architects from London who happened to play pretty well. She had her own life—though he could not possibly imagine what it was, probably something distant, immensely rich, very American—and had shown not the least desire to share even half an hour of it with him, off the tennis courts. She was not only self-possessed but also self-sufficient, it seemed. Where did he come in? But then, just when he was deciding he did not come in at all, he remembered the look she had given everything, the way she had turned to him, the odd sudden sadness, her strange tone and equally strange remark. So he gradually edged nearer the car, now parked in front of the hotel.

  She seemed faintly surprised, but not displeased, to find him waiting there. But she looked still more remote, out of her tennis clothes, a very haughty dark beauty indeed, and it took him a moment to find a voice. “I was wondering,” he stammered, not using any of the rehearsed appeals, “if you were going to the dance to-night.”

  She shook her head, and surveyed him calmly, making him feel as if there was nothing else he could possibly say to her. “No,” she replied, with an awful finality, “I’m through here now.”

  “I’m not going either,” he hastily informed her. Then he stopped, faced that calm dark gaze, summoned up fresh courage, and plunged in with: “Look, Miss Baker, couldn’t we—I mean, I think we ought to do something about winning this match—can’t we—I wish you’d dine with me to-night!”

  She did not reply at once, but merely looked thoughtful. “I’m leaving for Paris early in the morning,” she announced, finally.

  “Well, there’s all to-night. Couldn’t you manage dinner?”

  She hesitated a moment, looked at him quite solemnly, so that he felt he was going to be denounced for daring to suggest such a thing, then lifted him clean up into the sky by suddenly declaring: “Yes, I’ll come. Where?”

  Wherever was most convenient for her, he told her, but as she did not seem to care, and he did not even know where she was staying, he ended by naming a very good but shockingly expensive little restaurant overlooking the sea just outside Beaulieu, a famous place. To this she agreed, and fervently he fixed the hour. “I don’t suppose you’ll want to change, will you?” he concluded.

  She gave this some thought too—she was a most deliberate young beauty—and then, just when he was beginning to feel gloomy about her again, she lit up, quite genuinely lit up, actually smiled at him, and said: “I’ve a dress I’d like to wear, so you change too.”

  “Right. Eight o’clock then. You know the place?”

  “Yes. I think I’ll drive myself over.”

  “Grand!” He could feel himself bubbling.

  Before getting into the car, she looked at him calmly but not unkindly, and to his astonishment observed: “You’re very English, aren’t you?” Rather as if being English were some amusing little game he played with himself.

  “Well, I suppose I am—just as you’re American. I mean, that’s all right, isn’t it?”

  She nodded. Then, with a quick change, asked: “Did you ever play a better game than you did that last set?”

  “No, I think that was about the best I ever turned in,” he told her, adding, “I’m apt to be a bit lazy, and I don’t care enough as a rule about winning.”

  “Why did you this time?”

  Well, she’d asked for it, and she should have it. He looked her in the eye. “Perhaps because I thought you were so keen on our winning.”

  She stepped into the car, but then leaned forward and looked at him gravely. “That’s what I thought. Eight o’clock then.” And she had gone.

  He limped happily into the hotel, and after a long luxurious bath, he stretched himself out and enjoyed his first smoke of the day. He had that sense of accomplishment and fulfilment which follows hard exercise and a bath, and which accounts for the spurious moral value attached to the playing of games in England. Malcolm, as the girl had said, was very English; but at this moment it was neither conscious virtue nor a feeling of physical well-being that was keeping his mind aglow. It was his success at preventing the girl from disappearing again that made him happy. True, she was leaving for Paris, probably soon afterwards for Cherbourg to embark for America, early in the morning; but then he himself was returning to London within the next two days, his little holiday over; and meanwhile there was to-night, and a table for two, and a good chance that he might know all about her before they parted. Now he was wondering—though he was still happy about it—what there was to know. There might be nothing; he had met people like that before, mysterious tantalising façades covering a blank; a girl might easily achieve such an appearance, especially a girl having nothing else to achieve. Yet even as he told himself this, he did not believe it.

  Clearly he was doing a very silly thing; he was falling in love with the girl. He had not the least desire to fall in love with her or with anyone else; he was not looking for romance, but for further commissions to design schools, large or small, churches of any size, villas, bungalows, mansions, castles, and for a few good games of tennis between jobs. To prove that he was really heart-free, instead of dressing he read several chapters of a detective story, one of those bright new tales in which the characters made funny remarks across each fresh mangled corpse; then, in a panic, hurled on his clothes like a quick-change performer, and arrived breathless fully fifteen minutes too early. This gave him plenty of time to ask himself what he was doing, for of course Miss Andrea Baker arrived fifteen minutes late. He had decided to be cool, off-hand, a trifle contemptuous, but the moment she sailed in, looking like a Western princess, he became the young man she had left three hours before.

  The head waiter, an artful fat Gascon, treated them as if they were not only a superbly handsome young couple, which indeed they were, but also as if they were fabulously rich and fastidious gourmets, to Malcolm’s secret dismay. He confided to them, rather than merely handed to them, an immense menu bewilderingly covered with a spidery writing in pale-blue ink. They were led to order the special cocktail of the restaurant, which cost more than any other cocktail in the world simply because it contained a little tangerine orange-juice. It was, Malcolm realised fearfully, that kind of restaurant. Gazing across at the exquisite being who now shared his table, he could not help hoping that she was not the sort of rich American girl who demands a large helping of the very best grey caviare and then drops cigarette ash into it and decides that she prefers cantaloup. He was far from rich himself, and he knew that his bill at the hotel would be stiff, inevitably much stiffer than he could possibly anticipate, and that there would be added to it fantastic, inexplicable taxes de séjour and luxe, which represented nothing but the disapproval of the frugal French, who saw no sense in the spendthrift antics of visiting foreigners. He noticed there were no French citizens entertaining their families or business associates in this restaurant. They would be all tucking in economically at some sensible place in the town. The bill here would be monstrous. He looked anxiously across at Andrea, and was much relieved when she ignored the vast menu and firmly ordered consommé, chicken and a salad.

  Throughout the first part of the dinner they chatted about the tournament, comparing notes as partners; all of which was pleasant enough, but was only a slight extension of the impersonal relationship they had had already. He discovered—though he had guessed most of it before—that she had been coached for some years by one or two good professionals, at first in or near New York and later in California; had played a great deal in private; but for some reason not mentioned had not had much tournament play. She had seen a good many first-class matches, however, and they compared their impressions and opinions of
the outstanding players. In the end, Malcolm confessed that though he still enjoyed the game, and hoped to go on playing it until he could no longer totter up to the net, he was now rather bored with tennis society and talk, and had indeed deliberately withdrawn himself from it. This, she said, she could understand, and asked him to tell her about himself.

  This was better, much better, and took him happily to the coffee and cigarettes. He told her all about it, his professional ambitions, admitting he was no genius nor even superlatively clever, but assuring her earnestly that he was keen and had no nonsense about him. He told her a little about his home, his parents and sister, his three years at Oxford, and hinted at such plans as he had, which included designing and building a little house for himself, somewhere on the North Downs.

  “I ought to be able to manage it during the next three years, unless we have a war or something equally damnable,” he babbled on, happily. “I’ve some ideas for the place now—jolly good ideas, too—saving expense and making it more convenient. Look, what do you think of this?” He began sketching on the table-cloth. “Just imagine that perched up, about five hundred feet, on top of a great green hill, miles from anywhere.”

  “Miles from anywhere,” she repeated, with a not too unpleasant touch of scorn. “In England! You ought to see—no, go on. Sorry!”