Crazy Pavements

by Beverley Nichols

  All these things Walter noted and loved. But most of all he loved Brian’s courage – the courage which kept his dreams alive in the most sordid occupation known to man.

  Enough of these analyses of character. They bore me as much as they bore you. We will leave the young men together – Walter smoking his pipe, Brian trying to play Debussy on a piano designed only for the sim­pler marches of Sousa, while the gas-fire filled the room with fumes so potent that less healthy lungs would soon have shown signs of asphyxiation.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Ten days later the singular proclivities of the English peerage, as proclaimed in Brian’s column of The Lady’s Mail, were made public to the world. In all corners of the British Isles, tired housewives were sitting in corners of semi-detached residences, learning of the Dowager Lady Macrael’s bagpipes, following the adventures of the son of the ‘vivacious’ Lady Monk. For Brian, the day of publication was always a trial. Each time that the telephone rang he visualized some outraged dowager ringing up to contradict the legend he had affixed to her. However, experience had convinced him that, even if the dowagers read The Lady’s Mail, which was improbable, they never troubled to deny its assertions.

  He therefore sat down at his desk in the office with a fairly light heart, to concoct further revelations. The next number of the paper would be a ‘baby’ number. That meant that the usual picture of a half-witted infant’s face would beam from the cover in three colours, and numberless ‘hints’ to mothers, ranging from diet to layettes, would fill the paper. (Why, by the way, do mothers need so many ‘hints’?) Brian him­self would be expected to narrate the doings of the proudest babies in the kingdom, a task which he found comparatively easy. No baby would be likely to resent any talents he attributed to it, and, provided that he made all the babies models of wisdom, brightness, and beauty, not even the most exalted mother would say him nay.

  The first baby he chose was the offspring of a certain Lady Porthaven, who had recently presented her hus­band with a son. Brian was unaware that the presenta­tion had been something of a shock to Lord Porthaven, who had, indeed, been inclined to regard the child with grave suspicion. He therefore proceeded to weave a delicate romance round the innocent’s head.

  ‘Amazing, isn’t it, how cute the modern child is becom­ing? Little Edward (whose coming was recently the signal for such wonderful rejoicing in the Porthaven family; in fact, they tell me that Lord Porthaven brought out three bottles of the famous Porthaven brandy) has already . . .’

  But the activities of little Edward will have to remain for ever wrapt in mystery. For at this moment Mrs. Gossett’s bell rang – three crisp, commanding rings, and Brian rose to his feet to obey the sum­mons.

  He knocked at the door.

  ‘Come in.’

  The voice was no longer pitched on a descending third. Instead it ascended sharply. Brian sighed. Mrs. Gossett was worried.

  He entered.

  ‘Good morning, Mr. Elme.’

  Brian looked at her in surprise. There was an icy chill in her voice. She was sitting up very straight in her chair, glaring straight in front of her. Perhaps she wasn’t feeling well.

  ‘Good morning. How are you?’ he asked sympatheti­cally.

  ‘I am very well, thank you. As well as can be expected.’ She delivered herself of a theatrical sigh.

  ‘Why? Is anything wrong?’

  ‘Wrong? Oh no!’ – She lowered her eyelids, keeping her neck still very erect. She had the appearance of smelling something unpleasant. Then the eyelids swooped up again, the nostrils curved in disdain, and looking him straight in the face, she pushed a letter across the desk towards him.

  Brian took the letter, but for a moment he did not read it. He was so puzzled by Mrs. Gossett. She had suddenly assumed a fierce cheerfulness, and, in the pre­tence of ignoring his existence, was busying herself with a pile of papers. She hummed, with a voice trembling either from anger or some other emotion, snatches from her favourite tune, Annie Laurie.

  All at once the humming ceased. She became once more a human refrigerator. Putting her hand under her chin, she turned to gaze out of the window. ‘Perhaps,’ she said, in tones of ironic courtesy, ‘you would be good enough to read that letter?’

  ‘Of course. I’m awfully sorry.’

  Hurriedly he lifted it from the desk, and read:

  ‘Dear Madam, –

  Lady Julia Cressey’s attention has been drawn to a paragraph in the last issue of The Lady’s Mail, suggest­ing that she is engaged to be married to Lord William Motley. Since this is an unfounded, and presumably malicious invention, her ladyship demands a public and unconditional apology at the earliest moment. Her ladyship also wishes me to state that she is making a personal complaint to Lord Southpoint, to whom, she understands, The Lady’s Mail belongs.

  I am, Yours faithfully,

  P. Smith,

  Secretary.’

  I-am-yours-faithfully-P-S-Smith. I-am-yours-faithfully-P-Smith. Brian closed his eyes. God! Oh, God! What had he done?

  ‘I’m afraid,’ she said, ‘I shall have no alternative but to terminate your engagement here.’

  ‘I see.’

  He was not looking at Mrs. Gossett. She seemed, somehow, nothing. He was thinking of the hurrying streets. Already, in imagination, he was tramping them in search of a job.

  Mrs. Gossett cleared her throat. She was about to deliver a crushing rebuke. Brian turned to her in a sudden fury.

  ‘Oh – it’s all right. I know I’m wrong. I know I’m sacked. Let’s leave it at that.’

  He turned away and walked to the fireplace. Irrit­ably he kicked a piece of coal.

  ‘Really, Mr. Elme. I think you’re being a little unreasonable.’

  ‘Do you?’ He looked at her with all the cruelty of youth for middle-age. For a moment he forgot that he was a sacked journalist, and that he was speaking to somebody whom at all costs he must conciliate. He merely saw a tousled, worn, ridiculous, inky woman.

  And, instinctively, she understood. Something in her quailed before that cruel glance. She felt naked and forlorn. Yet she said:

  ‘We might avoid it, you see.’

  The remark brought them both back to the normal. Brian was again the reporter, she was again the editress.

  ‘Might we?’

  She played with her pencil. ‘You see’ – she bit her lip – ‘you get on very well here, don’t you, Mr. Elme?’

  He looked away. This was dreadful.

  ‘And it isn’t as if this had ever happened before.’

  ‘No. That’s true.’ Why it had never happened before, Brian could not at the moment understand. All the peeresses about whom he had written such astonish­ing fictions during the past two years seemed to rise before him in a hissing, accusing crowd.

  ‘Of course if Lord Southpoint did get to hear of it . . . I mean . . . You see I can’t help myself.’

  ‘No. I understand. I’m sorry I was so rude just now.’

  Her eyelids fluttered at him in a return to coquetry.

  ‘You thought it was true, didn’t you?’

  ‘Yes,’ he lied.

  ‘Well, listen.’ She leant forward with the breathless air of a conspirator. ‘I think you ought to go and see Lady Julia yourself, and . . . and apol – ’

  She was going to say ‘apologize,’ but seeing the look on Brian’s face she turned it to ‘explain.’

  ‘Oh I couldn’t possibly do that.’

  ‘But you must.’

  ‘I should feel such a cad.’

  ‘It’s your only chance. We can’t publish such an abject denial. You might be able to persuade her.’

  ‘I? She’d kick me out of the house.’

  Mrs. Gossett’s eyes rolled the complete circle. ‘Oh no, she wouldn’t. You see, you might appeal to her.’

  Brian smiled a little grimly.

  ‘Oh – what have I said?’

  He smiled openly now. This was like the old Mrs. Gossett.

 
‘Even at a moment like this you . . . Really. I mean . . .’ She was all artificial confusion. But there were real tears in her eyes. Brian said to himself that she was not such a bad sort after all.

  ‘Do let me help you,’ she continued. ‘I’ve been in this business much longer than you. And I know how much the personal touch counts.’ She paused, unde­cided whether she should again be timorous at having said something she ought not to have said. Then, slowly, ‘I was too hasty just now. It was just the shock. Now please will you do what I say?’

  He had been walking round Berkeley Square for nearly half an hour. His wrist-watch told him that it now needed only five minutes to twelve, the hour at which Lady Julia had consented to see him. He moist­ened his lips, and blew his nose. Then, with a final tug to his tie, he crossed the road and rang the bell.

  The door was flung wide.

  ‘I believe Lady Julia is expecting me,’ he said. ‘Mr. Elme.’

  The butler looked at him in disdain.

  ‘Is it The Lady’s Mail?’

  Is ‘it’ The Lady’s Mail? At any other moment Brian would have damned the man for his impertinence. ‘It!’ However, he only gulped and said ‘Yes.’

  ‘Have you a card?’

  Brian produced one – a hideous thing in Gothic letters, that looked as though it belonged to a romantic piano-tuner. It seemed almost to bark at him. The butler took it, glanced at it, and said:

  ‘If you’ll wait here, I’ll ask if her ladyship can see you.’

  Brian sat down, wondering why everybody was so nasty to reporters. Why didn’t they show him to the tradesmen’s entrance, and have done with it? Perhaps, after the interview was over, they would. He told him­self he deserved nothing better.

  Then the butler reappeared. ‘Her ladyship will see you. This way, please.’

  He scrambled to his feet, and followed upstairs.

  A door was thrown open, and instantly on Brian’s mind a picture was indelibly stamped – one of those pictures which no hand can ever tear from the galleries of memory. He saw a green room with sunlight stream­ing through it, and a mass of yellow roses. It seemed to him a very superb and lovely room, typical of the splendour of the ancient house which it represented. As a matter of fact, it was nothing more nor less than a shop, for Julia’s mother, the excellent Countess of Thane, in common with many equally distinguished Englishwomen, had learnt that there was a great deal of money to be made out of the antique business. This business she conducted by asking defenceless Ameri­cans to lunch, filling them with old brandy, leading them artlessly up to a piece of Chippendale (?) pur­chased the week before, and telling the first ‘family’ story about it that came into her mind. The next day the Chippendale would be removed by hairy men who smelt of beer, and another piece would take its place. Julia slightly resented these proceedings, because she never knew what her room would look like from one day to another. But she put up with it all on account of the extra pocket-money that it provided.

  Brian, however, had no eyes for the room. He was looking at a figure which seemed to be wrought of light, so tenuous as to be a mere spangle, a floating bead. A trick of the imagination, of course. Lady Julia was merely standing by the window. As soon as she moved to meet him, she became a living being. She was en­dowed with a white skin and lips so scarlet that they glistened. She was seen to possess blue-black hair and eyebrows with a Beardsley twist. And – though Brian was unaware of this – she was dressed in a frock that proclaimed its maker a genius – so delicately did it underline her personality.

  They drifted together, these two, in this sunlit room – she, bored, entirely self-confident, a little aggressive – he, humble, frightened, yet inclined to worship.

  ‘Have you come about that ridiculous paragraph?’

  ‘Yes.’ He was blushing tragically. ‘I’m afraid I have.’

  ‘Don’t you think it’s monstrous, yourself?’

  ‘Yes. I do.’

  ‘I suppose some silly woman sent it in. Anyway, I’m sick of being engaged without my knowledge. They’ve got to apologize. Listen . . .’

  She went to a little writing-desk. While she was turning over a bunch of papers she said, ‘Do help your­self to a cigarette.’ Brian did so. A fat cigarette with a big woolly end. He lit it as though he were incarcerat­ing a caterpillar. His fingers were shaking.

  She stood with her hand on her hip – gold-rimmed against the window.

  ‘I’ve written this, and they’ve got to put it in.’

  ‘The paragraph appearing in our last week’s issue con­cerning the rumoured engagement of Lady Julia Cressey and Lord William Motley is without any foundation what­ever. We deeply apologize for this unwarranted assump­tion. At Lady Julia’s express wish, “The Lady’s Mail” will, in its future issues, refrain from any mention of Lady Julia’s activities.’

  She handed him the paper. ‘There. What d’you think of that?’

  ‘I think it’s quite right. Absolutely right.’

  Now, there the matter might have ended. This his­tory might never have been written. The colours might have faded from that room, and Julia have dissolved into the mists from which she came – to which we shall all eventually depart. But as Brian stepped forward, the sunlight shone on him. And, in the sunlight, Lady Julia suddenly saw him for the first time. She saw that his hair was flaming gold, that he was young, that he had a hunted look in his eyes, and that his hand was trembling. For a fraction of a second she looked him up and down. He saw the look and read into it the contempt of a lovely woman for a blundering fool. He said:

  ‘I’ll take this back to the office now.’

  ‘Don’t go for a moment.’ Her voice was softer now. ‘Sit down and have a cocktail. You look rather fagged.’ She rang the bell.

  ‘I’m not keeping you?’

  ‘No, of course not.’

  A footman entered.

  ‘Bring two sidecars, please.’

  She glided to the window. ‘Do they work you ter­ribly hard at your office?’

  ‘Well – it’s not that. It’s . . .’ Brian felt the room going round him. Oh, God! He must tell her. ‘Lady Julia. You don’t understand. I wrote that paragraph myself.’

  ‘You wrote it?’

  He nodded.

  ‘But – I don’t understand. I thought you were the sub-editor or something.’

  ‘No such luck.’

  ‘I see.’ She screwed up her eyes and looked at him. This was really intriguing. To have a very decorative young man sitting before one in a state of abject servi­lity is an emotion which would appeal to any woman – even to women who were not as versed as Lady Julia in the works of the late Marquis de Sade.

  ‘Why did you write it?’

  ‘I don’t know. I thought it might be true.’

  ‘Why did you think that?’

  ‘Well – I’d seen you together – lots of times.’

  ‘That doesn’t constitute an engagement, does it?’

  Brian could bear it no longer. He suddenly rose to his feet. ‘I oughtn’t to be here at all. I’m sorry. But I can’t’ – he became heroic – ‘I can’t drink your wine after this.’

  ‘A cocktail isn’t wine.’

  Her voice was again cool and soft, for the footman was advancing across the room with a tray containing two green glasses and a little bowl of olives.

  Silently they took their glasses. The footman with­drew. And Lady Julia leant against the mantelpiece and laughed. Laughed again and again. Brian was silent.

  ‘Oh, dear! You look the very last sort of young man who would ever do anything like that.’

  He still said nothing.

  ‘Now listen. Let’s talk this out. Sit down.’

  He sat down.

  ‘Do you make a living out of this job?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What do you have to do?’

  He turned his glass slowly. ‘I have to – to write interesting stuff about well-known people.’

  She suppressed a
smile. ‘It sounds awfully rude – but – you look so young. Do you know many well-known people?’

  ‘No. I don’t know any.’

  ‘Then how do you write about them?’

  Brian paused before he answered. ‘I have to – to use my imagination.’

  ‘I see. Do explain.’

  ‘You’ll think me such a brute.’

  ‘I shall never forgive you unless you explain.’

  He was suffering the tortures of the damned. Still, he told himself, he deserved it.

  ‘Well,’ he said, ‘I read the newspapers and I see if anybody is going abroad.’

  ‘That seems innocent enough.’

  ‘Then, if they are well known, I look them up in the cuttings.’

  ‘What cuttings?’

  ‘Oh – we have a whole stock of them in the office.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘And if there is anything interesting I – well, I re­write it.’

  ‘And if there isn’t?’

  ‘I make it up.’

  Her eyes were glistening with delight. ‘Do tell me who you’ve made up things about. Have you said any­thing about mother?’

  ‘Lady Thane?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘This is delicious. What did you say?’

  Brian cleared his throat. ‘Well . . .’

  ‘Come on. The truth.’

  ‘Well, I gave her a parrot.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘A parrot,’ repeated Brian gravely.

  ‘Go on. Go on. It’s too superb.’

  Brian began to be infected by her own enthusiasm.

  ‘I made it sing hymns,’ said Brian, ‘but Mrs. Gossett cut that out.’

  ‘Who is Mrs. Gossett?’

  ‘My editress.’

  ‘Why did she cut out the hymns?’

  ‘She thought it would offend the Nonconformists.’

  Lady Julia fluttered her hands above her head. ‘This is the most fascinating thing,’ she cried. ‘Go on. So what did you make the parrot do?’