Crazy Pavements

by Beverley Nichols

  He walked quickly backwards and forwards in the tiny room under the swinging light.

  He leant forward and picked up a mask, fondling it, and sneering at it too. With a sort of drunken insolence he flicked a saddened face on the nose, stared suddenly into a pair of smooth eyes, fondled a grotesque, held to mockery a swollen cheek, snarled at a mouth with a hypocrite’s twist.

  Brian regarded him in amazement. He was as one possessed. His words, too, were hardly the words of a sane man. . . .

  ‘It’s true. It’s all true. That’s the terribly amusing part of it. This is Lady Thane. This is Maurice. This is——’ and he named a dozen people, pointing a finger at them with trembling delight.

  Brian shuddered. He could think of nothing to say.

  ‘You’ll see. You’ll see. One day you’ll find them out. You won’t see their masks any more. You’ll see their faces. Their beastly faces and their abominable souls. And then perhaps you’ll think of this little room, and what I told you.’

  He glared at Brian; and gradually the glare turned into a smile. The smile was the urbane, insincere smile of the old Lord William. When he spoke again his voice was smooth and calm.

  ‘But, my young man, I forbid you to say anything about this in your horrible paper. Promise?’

  ‘Oh rather. I promise.’ He would have promised anything to get out of this room – this very sinister little chamber of horrors.

  They went downstairs.

  ‘By the way,’ said Motley, as Brian was pulling on his gloves, ‘couldn’t you come down and spend the next week-end at Hayseed?’

  Brian flushed slightly. A dinner and a lunch he had been able to manage, but a whole week-end, with fabulous tips and train journeys, and only two suits. . . .

  ‘You’re not engaged, are you?’

  ‘No – no – not exactly.’

  ‘Well, do come. They’ll all be there. And, of course, Julia.’

  At the mention of the last name he forgot all his fears.

  ‘Thanks awfully. I’d love to. It’d be . . .’ he hesi­tated, wondering if he could pronounce the adjective with conviction, and then, ‘divine.’

  ‘I should have much preferred you to say “ripping,”’ said his lordship.

  When the car had whirled his guest away, Lord Wil­liam ascended slowly to his long black room. He felt suddenly bored and old. Brian had been so enthusiastic about everything, had eaten his lunch with such relish, and taken away his walking-stick with such pride . . . young fool. . . . Oh dear, why was one always so tired? He took up the rough basis of a mask and held it in his hands, staring at the opposite wall. There was the sound of a cart passing in the street outside, the purr of a motor-car, the lisp of footsteps. He had nothing to do till dinner-time. Five terrible hours of nothing. His fingers tightened round the mask. Then, very quickly, he got up and walked to his work-table, digging his fingers into a pile of moist pinkish clay. Flutter, flutter went the fingers. The room was silent except for the patting and smoothing of the mask. He was utterly absorbed in his work, and the daylight faded until the windows showed blue outside and the lights of the street-lamps shed pale beams on the polished floor. Gradually the mask assumed shape and life. And when, finally, he laid it down, a clay face was staring from the table, a face of extraordinary charm, but the face of a fool, with loose lips and half-closed eyes – a face curi­ously like that of the hero of our story.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Brian stood in the most sumptuous bathroom he had ever seen, trembling with agitation.

  At every step, or fancied step, in the corridor outside he flushed, and took a quick step to the door. Then he drew back again, waiting till there was silence. Finally he sat down on the edge of the bath, wishing with all his heart that he had never come.

  As he sat there, subconsciously he noted the glories of this bathroom. The walls were composed of tiny bricks of gold and blue and silver and black, giving one the effect of a large expanse of jewelled brawn. Along the side of the wall were a dozen bottles of Venetian glass, some very large, some very small, containing enough liquids, crystals and powders to make a healthy skunk pass unnoticed beneath the nose of Mr. Coty himself.

  Upon the tessellated floor the figure of a highly-developed negress was worked in black mosaic, por­trayed with such realism that Brian hesitated to step on her for fear that she would squeak.

  The bath itself was sunk deep into the floor, and apparently quarried from a single block of marble. A fascinating bath. He would have liked to pour all the things from the bottles into it and steam in a soup of scent. Tentatively he put out his hand and turned one of the taps, ever so gently. A fierce snort and gurgle answered him, and a hiss of steam. Quickly he turned the tap back and wiped his forehead, which was sweat­ing profusely.

  What was all the agitation about? Well, it had hap­pened like this. Arrived at Beaconsfield, he had jumped very quickly from his third-class carriage, concealed his ignominious green railway-ticket in his hand, and de­livered his suit-case to a very smart and supercilious assistant chauffeur, who had said ‘Is this all, sir?’ as though he had expected a load of cabin-trunks in the guard’s van.

  That was bad enough. As he whirled through the country lanes, from which the miserly daylight was already fast fading, Brian drew the sable rug round his knees, pondering that sinister question: ‘Is this all?’ Well, he had his dinner-jacket, his tails, a Norfolk jacket and flannel trousers, pyjamas and a sponge bag, and the usual extras. What else could he want? Did they expect him to change his suit every minute?

  But that was not what really disturbed him. While they were driving up the broad sweep of the drive, he prepared a smile and a casual remark about the journey to deliver to his host and the rest of the party, whom he naturally imagined would be assembled to meet him. After all, one always did assemble to meet people who came to stay. He remembered how, in the dim days of his childhood, the whole household was dragged into the hall to greet an itinerant aunt. Brian himself was usually sent to the top of the drive to wave, the house­maid was couched expectantly behind the kitchen door, ready to leap at the visitor and transport her baggage to the ‘spare’ room, while his mother had always remained, for at least twenty minutes before the arrival of the cab, poised in the centre of the hall, with one hand outstretched and the other gripped tightly round the shilling which she invariably gave as a tip to the cab­man.

  He had expected something like this, though, of course, on a far grander scale. But nothing of the sort had happened. Nothing. He had emerged from the car and had been greeted by a butler in an empty hall. ‘His lordship and the other ladies and gentlemen are out at the moment, sir.’

  ‘Out?’

  ‘Yes, sir. I’ll show you your room.’

  And that was all that had happened. It does not sound very terrifying, but to Brian it was terrifying in the extreme. Here he was in a strange house, sur­rounded by quantities of doubtless hostile servants, entirely alone. There seemed no reason why he should be there at all. They did not want him. He did not know any of their friends. He would only make himself ridiculous. He did not know the way about the house, and if he attempted to go downstairs, through all those corridors, he would probably wander into the servants’ hall, and then what would he say? ‘Good evening – I’ve come to stay?’ Or – ‘Oh – I thought this was the draw­ing-room?’ Or – just ‘Hallo!’? Life had never seemed more treacherous, more full of pitfalls.

  And so he remained in his room. He had gone out once, only to come to a cul de sac, from which he rapidly retreated. He had occasionally peeped his head outside the door, but the last time he had done that a footman had been passing down the corridor, and he had hastily drawn in his head again. What would the footman think of him, popping his head in and out like a rabbit? What, indeed?

  How long he stayed there he did not know. It was probably not more than twenty minutes, but it felt like an eternity. He would have liked a clean handkerchief, but to obtain it he would have to unpack his s
uit-case. And that, as he constantly had to remind himself, was the footman’s job, and it would be too ghastly if the footman were to come in and find him unstrapping his case. He would be sure to think that he (Brian) had been intending to unpack his own things, and then what would they have said in the servants’ hall?

  However, his troubles were almost at an end, for there was the sound of voices in the hall, shrill, chatter­ing, staccato, like a flock of noisy birds blown by the wind through the open doorway.

  ‘Where is he?’ He could distinguish Lord William’s shout.

  The chattering grew louder. Brian clicked his fingers nervously together. They mustn’t find him standing here in the middle of the room, almost in the dark. What could he pretend to be doing? He rushed into the bathroom, turned on the light, and the tap at almost the same time, and began to wash his hands.

  He was only just in time. For the door burst open and in frolicked Motley, followed by Lady Jane (Julia’s sister), Maurice and Tanagra Guest. For the moment it suffices to say that Tanagra was tall and red-haired, and of American extraction, and that she was one of those parasites of modern London who make an excellent but precarious livelihood by flattering and entertaining their friends. As for Lady Jane, to say that she was un­feminine would hardly meet the case. She was about as feminine as General Pershing when young, to whom, indeed, she bore a certain resemblance. But Brian had no time to stare at this flat-chested, monocled creature, for Lord William said:

  ‘Brian – will you ever forgive me – we’ve been buy­ing up the village.’

  ‘Rather. I’ve only just come. Hallo, Maurice.’

  Thank God, Julia wasn’t there.

  ‘Have you had tea?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘They really are scandalous. Maurice, that butler must go. Brian’s starving. Nobody meets him. No­body gives him tea. Nobody does anything. He must go.’

  ‘Give me a kiss, darling.’ The voice was Tanagra’s, very crooning and soft.

  Brian looked at Lord William in agony. Was this part of the game, too?

  Lord William puffed with delight. ‘Go on. Tanagra offers you a kiss.’

  Very well, if she wanted a kiss she should damned well have one. He reached up, put his arms round her, and kissed her on the lips, pressing her face to his until she gave a little high scream. She detached herself breathlessly.

  ‘Really. These boys.’

  ‘You asked for it, darling,’ gurgled Maurice.

  Brian felt giddy. They were mad. He was mad. Everybody was mad.

  She raised her eyebrows. ‘And I shall certainly ask again.’ At which she airily took one of the bottles from a shelf and poured its contents into the bath, where it quickly ran away. ‘Just to show you,’ she added, with a glance at Lord William, ‘that I feel at home.’

  Brian had a fleeting thought that if that were all one had to do to show that one was at home, life would be very easy. He would go out and empty bottles of brandy in the garden, or throw a few boxes of cigars into the fire.

  Tanagra strolled towards the door. ‘He makes me feel so motherly,’ she said.

  ‘How very unnatural, dear,’ gurgled Motley.

  Jane’s base voice broke in:

  ‘Personally, I’ve never felt motherly. If I did I should go and see a doctor.’

  Maurice piroutted up to him.

  ‘Aren’t they abominable? Let’s go away and play by ourselves.’

  But Lord William intervened:

  ‘You can’t take him off yet. He hasn’t chosen his bath salts.’

  More bath salts! A horrible doubt seized Brian. They surely weren’t going to give him a bath now?

  He blushed crimson. ‘I really don’t want any more.’

  ‘But, Angel. . . .’ Tanagra was standing in front of him. ‘You must. These’ – and she indicated the row of bottles – ‘are just ordinary bath salts. You’re going to be given a special sort.’

  Brian became still more alarmed. What on earth were they going to give him? He felt certain that there must be something shady about them. Could they by any chance be drugged?

  ‘You needn’t use them if you don’t want to,’ whis­pered Maurice. ‘But do pretend.’

  Brian nodded gratefully. ‘Of course,’ he said, ‘I’d love just to smell them. . . .’

  Lord William beamed.

  ‘This is quite my favourite game,’ he crooned. ‘Come on, everybody.’

  Out of the room they went, and up another staircase, he leading the way, with Tanagra panting on his arm. Lady Jane, with a shrug of her shoulders, turned on her flat heels and disappeared.

  At the end of a long corridor they halted in front of a cupboard. Lord William took a key from his pocket.

  ‘I have to lock up all these things because of the servants,’ he explained. ‘I once had a housemaid who had such a passion for Chypre that we all swooned when she walked down the corridor.’ He flung open the door.

  ‘Ooh!’

  Three noses, two male and one female, were stretched forward.

  ‘Everything at once,’ said Tanagra. ‘I don’t feel in the least motherly now.’

  Lord William was taking down bottle after bottle.

  ‘This is delicious,’ he was saying. ‘Tabac Blonde By Caron. Caron’s scents are full of double meanings.

  ‘What’s this one that smells just like death?’

  ‘Tanagra, you’re too revolting.’

  ‘I shall cover myself with it to-night.’

  She seized the slim black bottle and held it to her breast.

  ‘I think he ought to be fed on an exclusive diet of eau-de-Cologne,’ said Maurice, who had been filling his pockets with Coty’s ‘Paris.’

  Brian felt on firm ground here. He could remember having eau-de-Cologne dabbed on his forehead by cool hands when he was a small boy.

  ‘I’d love some eau-de-Cologne,’ he said.

  Lord William snorted. ‘I never heard such nonsense. If you want that you’ll have to go to the village shop.’ He suddenly jumped. ‘Here’s a perfect one. Au fil de l’eau.’

  Tanagra was quivering all over.

  ‘This one is better than death,’ she said.

  Brian looked at her. She had taken the stopper from her black bottle and, with eyes closed and parted lips, was inhaling the scent that drifted up, cloying and sweet. She seemed about to drift into a trance. The whole body was relaxed.

  And then, a hand seized the bottle roughly from her. Her eyes opened suddenly.

  ‘Now then, Tanagra’ – Lord William’s voice had a sudden harsh quality in it which amazed Brian. She flushed slightly and for an instant looked sulky. Then again she smiled.

  ‘Well, and what shall we give him?’

  He still looked at her, with something of a sneer. Then he too smiled. But the brief incident had regis­tered itself permanently on Brian’s memory. He was filled with a strange excitement.

  ‘I think it should be “Nuit de Noël,”’ said Lord Wil­liam. ‘It’s always used by the best Argentine co-re­spondents.’ He rubbed some on Brian’s hand. ‘Isn’t it divine?’

  ‘Lovely,’ said Brian. ‘Like toffee.’

  They all screamed shrilly. ‘Perfect,’ ‘Delicious,’ ‘Isn’t he marvellous?’

  ‘Ooh!’ Another bottle was taken down – a delicate thing of frosted yellow glass. ‘This is guaranteed to make one forget everything that one’s father taught one.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘It hasn’t got a name. It was created for me on my twenty-first birthday.’

  ‘Let me smell.’

  Maurice took the bottle and undid the stopper. ‘Pure chloroform.’

  ‘I’ve never heard anything so monstrous. You smell.’

  The bottle was put under Brian’s nose. The scent had a bitter tang in it that made him feel inclined to sneeze.

  ‘It’s rather strong,’ he said.

  ‘It’s yours.’

  ‘Thanks most awfully.’ Gingerly he took the bottle.
They were all looking at him to see what he would do. Having no ideas, he said:

  ‘Can I have some bath salts to match?’

  ‘I knew you had it in you,’ cried Lord William.

  Maurice sniffed with disdain.

  ‘I still hold to the eau-de-Cologne theory.’

  ‘Shut up.’ Lord William was unscrewing an immense bottle of green bath salts. ‘There’s nothing that really goes with your scent, but this might do. Try it.’

  Brian felt that if he smelt any more he would be quite sick, but he dutifully bent his head.

  ‘Don’t snuffle them so,’ said Tanagra. ‘Let me see.’ She too sniffed. ‘No. It’s quite terribly obvious.’

  Lord William, who was only too anxious to have an excuse for continuing these experiments, put the bottle back.

  ‘I think,’ said Tanagra, ‘that it should be something sweet and subtle. Lilac, for example.’

  Brian nodded eagerly. ‘I adore lilac. It’s my favour­ite flower.’

  ‘I didn’t know anybody but actresses had favourite flowers,’ giggled Maurice.

  ‘Well, I can’t help that.’ Brian’s tone was a trifle curt.

  Tears sprang into Maurice’s eyes. ‘I haven’t offended you, have I?’

  ‘No. Don’t talk rot.’

  Lord William was still rummaging in the cupboard. Slightly out of breath he dragged down a purple bottle.

  ‘Here we are. Le Temps des Lilas.’ He began to unscrew it. Tanagra leant against the wall. She sang:

  ‘Le Temps des lilas

  Et le temps des roses

  Ne reviendra plus. . . .’

  The voice was pure, strangely childish and sweet.

  Brian looked at her in sudden admiration. ‘I say, I didn’t know you sang like that.’

  She smiled at him. She seemed suddenly simple.

  ‘There are lots of things you don’t know.’

  The bottle was again under his nose. But this time he drank in the scent eagerly – that most delicate and gracious essence that seems to hold in it the lights and shades of early spring. He remembered how he and Walter had once saved up to go to Cambridge for a week-end – how they had slept all night in a punt at Grantchester, under the purple sprays of an immense lilac that had hung the night with its lingering perfume.