Crazy Pavements

by Beverley Nichols

  ‘Don! He encourages me in everything. If he sees me doing something I ought to cut out, he encourages me, just for his own amusement. If I wear absurd clothes, he approves of them. If I drink too much he persuades me to drink more. He knows I’m a freak. He loves it. It’s only freaks he does love. Until you came along, with a better trick. A much better trick. And now he hates you, too. Oh – I wish I could die.’

  He fell on to the sofa and buried his head in the cushion. Brian sat on the edge, placing his hand on his shoulder, trying to think. The accumulated traditions of his sturdy upbringing were impelling him to con­demn this youth who had just spread before him the tattered garments of a tortured spirit. Yet his own sympathy urged him to tolerate even so grotesque a fantasy of nature as Maurice. It was typical of him that at this moment he should recall the old-fashioned remedies for cases of mental stress. A long walk, a cup of steaming milk and cinnamon, and to bed with the windows open wide. But for this product of 1926 such treatments seemed feebly inadequate. Maurice was suffering from a malady which had twisted him in his very cradle, a malady, moreover, which the entire resources of modern Society seemed designed to intensify.

  ‘If only . . .’ he began.

  Maurice paid no heed to him. ‘The worst part of it is that I’m so terribly fond of him.’

  ‘Don?’

  ‘Yes. I can’t help it. One day he’ll get tired of me. And then –’

  ‘It’d be a damned good thing if he did. . . .’

  ‘Oh, you fool! You fool!’ Maurice shook his shoul­der irritably from the contact of Brian’s hand. ‘Don’t you see?’

  ‘No.’

  Maurice looked at him curiously. ‘Well, it’s no use trying to explain that. I might try to explain something else, though. You think I’m mean and grasping, don’t you?’

  ‘If you must know – yes.’

  ‘Well, you’re right. But why am I like that?’

  ‘I suppose it’s constitutional.’

  ‘Well, you suppose wrong. I’m mean because I’m saving up for my old age. I shall want every penny. Every penny, I tell you. I’m young now, and people still like me. But one day they won’t like me any more. They’ll leave me alone in this room, with the lights on and the gramophone playing. And if I hadn’t any money I should stay in it, lonelier and lonelier, till I went mad. . . .’

  He suddenly swept out of the room. The door slammed and Brian was left alone.

  Oh, this crazy merry-go-round of fools! What was it all about? Why was everybody gesticulating so wildly for nothing? Why were they torturing them­selves when there was no need to be tortured, cursing when there was no need to curse, making a sorrow even of youth itself? The whole thing was beyond him; he could not hope to grapple with it. He would rather starve on the Embankment, pick stones in the road, sleep in a doss-house, than take even a small part in so distorted a problem-play as this.

  Maurice’s Italian servant appeared in the doorway, bearing a note. Brian opened it. He read:

  ‘Please go away now. I don’t think we’d better meet again for some time.’

  So Maurice too had departed from his life. Once more he felt a sense of overwhelming relief. He crumpled up the piece of paper, took his hat and walked from the studio, whistling with an energy which he had not displayed for many months.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Two or three days had passed by, but it was still too early for Brian to discover the results of his breach with Lord William and Maurice. However, Julia was back in London, he was to see her that very evening, and if there were any awkward questions he would stifle them with a kiss. In any case the atmosphere seemed to him to be much clearer. It usually is, when thunder is in the air.

  So light-hearted did he feel that his gossip page almost wrote itself. Sir Thomas and Lady Turf-Moore were still obligingly exploring the Amazon, and as long as they remained well out of the way of the newspapers he determined to regale the readers of The Lady’s Mail with an account of their heroic exploits.

  ‘Wonderful, isn’t it, the way that the British character asserts itself under the most trying conditions? A friend who has just returned from the Amazon tells me that Sir Thomas and Lady Turf-Moore, the intrepid explorers, insisted on dressing for dinner even when they were hundreds of miles from civilization, with nothing to eat but a little corned beef, and some coarse native wine. Sir Thomas, indeed, declared that he was more perturbed by having to wear a grimy dress-shirt than by having to sleep without a mosquito net.’

  That was enough about the Turf-Moores. He turned his attention to Lord Agincourt, who was un­likely to cause any trouble since he was permanently exiled at Monte Carlo, owing to a misunderstanding with his creditors.

  ‘In gambling there are systems and systems,’ he con­tinued, ‘but surely that which Lord Agincourt (who, for reasons of health, is obliged to remain at Monte Carlo for the season) has invented must be the most ingenuous. He tells me that he counts the number of people gambling at a table, multiplies them by three, divides by two, and then backs the dozen into which the number falls. There was quite a friendly little squabble the other day when, having calculated that he should back the first dozen, the pretty Folly Sisters suddenly arrived at the table, making him change his stakes to the second dozen. And the FIRST won! However, as Lord Agincourt gallantly remarked, the pres­ence of two such charming beauties at any table more than compensated for the loss of fifty pounds.’

  Faster than his pen could transcribe these revelations, he went on: ‘Unless I am very much mistaken, there will be quite a vogue for Indian music in London next winter when the popular Lady Gallstone brings back her collection of Indian native songs, which she has collected at considerable risk to herself. On one occasion, the story runs, Lady Gall­stone was wandering on the outskirts of the jungle in the heat of the afternoon – (a time when most Anglo-Indians are sound asleep). Suddenly she heard the wail of an exquisitely mournful melody. Stepping forward, that she might catch it more clearly, she observed in her path a poisonous asp. Most women would have flown screaming, but Lady Gall­stone, passionately determined to capture the melody, seized a stick and with a single blow broke the reptile’s back. She then proceeded on her way, and found an ancient native, who played the tune to her over and over again until it was for ever registered in her mind. Lady Gallstone has whim­sically christened it “the Song of the Asp.” ’

  There is no excuse for lingering longer over these frivolities. Brian must be taken from the stage, the curtain must descend, and after a decent interval it must rise again, on the same day, in the early after­noon, at the house of Lady Hardcastle in Mount Street.

  Anne – as we will continue to call her – had not been idle during the few weeks which had ensued after her fruitless lunch with Brian. Many things had been pass­ing in her mind, many plans had been laid, counter­manded, re-set, scrapped. She had considered the open appeal, the indirect approach, the powers of money, greed, pride and shame.

  And then – fate had shown her a way. There had been a chance encounter with Grist – Lady Julia’s maid. A few words had suggested a plan of campaign. One morning Anne had gone to the bank and cashed a cheque for a hundred pounds. On the same evening, in her exotic boudoir, she had received Grist, and had accepted from her, in return for the hundred pounds, a certain package. It may sound crude and mysterious, but that is only because there is no particular interest in describing the mixture of coincidence, intrigue and bribery by which there came into the possession of Lady Hardcastle certain letters which . . . But it is best to allow the characters to speak for themselves.

  Anne was wearing a green Lanvin frock, which was in itself one of the most cynical commentaries upon womanhood which even a French modiste has deliv­ered. Julia was dressed in black.

  ‘I expect you know, darling, why I have asked you here.’

  It was after lunch, and Julia was sitting, slightly bored, in Anne’s music room. Even music, where Anne was concerned, seemed to be given an amatory si
gnifi­cance, for the lid of the piano was decorated with Cupids and across the ceiling were painted the wings of an immense swan, poised in the act of descending upon a Leda, who bore a singular resemblance to Anne herself.

  ‘No, Anne, I haven’t the faintest idea.’

  Anne raised her eyebrows. ‘Really? Well, it’s ter­ribly simple. I only want you to bring your nice Mr. Elme down to Hardcastle next week-end.’

  Julia repressed a smile. ‘Why don’t you ask him yourself?’

  ‘I wanted to be quite sure.’

  ‘I see.’ This time she smiled openly. ‘Well, darling, I’m afraid it’s no use.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because he wouldn’t come.’

  Anne flushed slightly. ‘You seem very sure of that.’

  ‘Positive.’ Julia stretched out her hand for a cigar­ette. ‘Match, darling.’

  ‘Don’t smoke for a minute.’ Anne’s voice was sud­denly harsh. ‘I hate to appear insistent, but . . .’

  ‘Oh, Anne, really! Is this quite dignified?’

  ‘Not in the least. I never have been dignified, and I never wish to be. All I want, at the moment, is that you should bring your charming young man down for the week-end. You tell me it’s impossible. I fail to see why. He’d do anything that you told him.’

  Julia was genuinely surprised. Hints she had ex­pected, and possibly an overt request, but not this determined onslaught.

  ‘But why should I tell him?’ she said calmly.

  ‘Oh, I see. You’re still in love. . . .’

  ‘Darling!’ Julia’s light laugh echoed through the room. ‘I’ve never been in love.’

  ‘Never?’

  ‘Certainly not. I like people to be in love with me – in fact, it’s rather necessary to me. But love. . . . Really, I think we’d better talk about something else.’

  ‘Not yet.’

  Julia moved impatiently. ‘I tell you, Anne, I shall not do it. You’re being a perfect fool. Besides, even if you did get him down to Hardcastle, it wouldn’t be the faintest use.’

  ‘Oh yes, it would – with your help.’

  Julia was bewildered. Did Anne seriously imagine that she was going to help her, for no conceivable rea­son, to give Brian away, to throw him into her arms?

  ‘I’m completely astounded,’ she said to her. ‘It’s the most extraordinary proposition I’ve ever heard. Would you mind saying quite clearly what you do want?’

  ‘I want Brian Elme. I’ve fallen in love with him.’ Her voice sounded a little thick but entirely sincere.

  Julia tapped her foot on the floor. ‘Do let’s keep this discussion on its proper level,’ she said.

  ‘I am doing so. I have fallen in love with him; and I’m quite determined to get him.’

  ‘Don’t be childish. He’s in love with me. It’s a bore, but he is.’

  ‘Therefore he’d do anything you wanted.’

  ‘Anne! You horrible old woman!’ Even Julia was shocked.

  ‘It’s my turn to tell you not to be childish.’

  ‘Childish! I’ve got some sort of decency left.’

  ‘All the same – you’re going to help me.’

  ‘On the contrary, I’m leaving you.’

  ‘Just a minute.’ There was something in Anne’s tone that made her pause. ‘I have a little thing to tell you first.’

  ‘I’m tired of your little things.’

  ‘It’s only a short recitation.’

  ‘Oh, Anne – you’re insufferable!’ Julia hurried to­wards the door. Anne was standing with her back to the wall, her head tilted back, her eyes half-closed. She began to intone . . .

  ‘Darling, I can’t help myself. I’ve been such a rotter all my life, and foolishly, I had tried to persuade myself that I did not wish to be anything else. But you have stirred me as nothing else has stirred me. You have made me want to begin again. Darling, will you always be by my side? Will you always . . .’

  The voice stopped abruptly.

  ‘My letter! My own letter!’

  Julia’s hand was on Anne’s wrist. She was breathing quickly, passionately, staring into Anne’s face.

  ‘Yes, darling.’

  ‘How dare you? How dare you?’

  ‘It’s a beautiful letter.’

  ‘How dare you? Where did you get it?’

  ‘If you would leave my wrists alone . . .’

  Julia dropped them. Anne walked to the fireplace. ‘I have them all,’ she said.

  ‘Oh, God!’

  Julia felt sick and faint. She did not doubt Anne’s word. How Anne had obtained her letters, what she was going to do with them, to whom she had already shown them – those were minor questions. The fearful fact was that she herself was revealed, naked, stripped. Her whole heart had been bared before this vulgar, sen­sual woman. The one beautiful thing in her life had been made cheap and obscene. Fool that she had been. Fool! To imagine that one could ever keep anything beautiful; to imagine that there were any corners of one’s heart which might always remain uncorrupt. Almost, had she not been so angry, she might have laughed.

  Anne interrupted her meditations. ‘I shall never tell you how I got your letters, darling.’

  Julia was silent. She was thinking furiously. Already she suspected Grist. Still – what did it matter?

  Anne went on: ‘The point is that I have got them. All of them. They are written on your notepaper, in your own extremely individual hand. They are pri­vately locked up in the bank, with the exception of a few of the more highly-flavoured ones, which are in my own safe in this house.’

  ‘I see. So it’s blackmail.’

  ‘Yes. Isn’t it fun?’

  ‘Only a half-crazy woman like you could think of anything so disgustingly fantastic.’

  Anne purred. ‘Disgusting, yes. And fantastic too. But perfectly plausible. I want you to help me to get something that I want. You don’t want it any more. You can easily say that if he’s – er – amenable he will be saving you from a terrible scandal.’

  ‘There’s nothing scandalous in those letters.’

  ‘That’s the whole point, darling. That’s why they’re so valuable. They’re everything that you would hate to be thought. They’re sincere, and true, and unaffected, and deeply, tremendously passionate.’

  ‘D’you think that my friends would even condescend to look at them?’ said Julia contemptuously.

  Anne laughed, her hot deep laugh.

  ‘You really are delicious. This sudden defence of human nature. Oh no, your friends wouldn’t look at them. Not at all. Lord William would hate the idea. Maurice would run away if I began to talk about it. And as for Tanagra! She’d faint, my dear, at the very thought of it. She’s such a good friend of yours, isn’t she?’

  Julia felt trapped. Anne was perfectly right. They would all gloat over them; they would repeat her phrases to each other behind her back. They would shout them out in chorus at parties. They would set them to music. They would even make covert allusions to them before her face. Oh – it would be insufferable, insufferable!

  ‘Your sarcasm is a little heavy, Anne.’

  ‘But, darling, so is your style. That’s what makes it so interesting. If you’d written nice, witty, cynical things nobody would be in the least amused at you. But these are – really – well – is it Ethel M. Dell who does it so well? They’re the sort of things that a really nice plain schoolgirl would write – a sweet, whole­hearted schoolgirl who plays hockey and worships the German instructress.’

  ‘And what of it?’ said Julia angrily. ‘I’ve only to say that I wrote them with my tongue in my cheek. . . .’

  ‘But, darling – to keep one’s tongue in one’s cheek so brilliantly for over twenty thousand words. . . .’

  ‘I don’t care,’ Julia answered.

  ‘Oh yes, you do. Bitterly. It’s the only thing you do care about. It’s the only thing that anybody like you would care about.’

  There was unconcealed hostility in her voice.

/>   ‘Anybody like me?’

  ‘Yes.’ Anne rose to her feet. ‘Anybody like you. Anybody who’s terrified of people finding out that one has a heart. Anybody who’s posed and posed as bitter and hard and unsentimental. Anybody whose whole life is made up of little smart things. Anybody who boasts before a dinner table that she never intends to have a baby because it’s too much of a bore, that the only pos­sible reason for marrying is for money, and that love is merely a chemical illusion. You’ve got to say those things, you’ve got to go on saying them; you’ve got to continue in this attitude because any other attitude would be ridiculous, and because the humiliation of becoming a real person in front of your rotten friends would be more than you could bear . . .’

  She paused breathlessly, her face deeply flushed at her sudden outburst.

  ‘You! To say those things to me!’ Julia’s face was contorted with anger. ‘You – who have an affair with every single man you meet, from lift-boys to Italian jugglers . . .’

  ‘Oh yes.’ Anne held up her hand. ‘I know. I have affairs and affairs and affairs. But then I’ve never pre­tended not to have a heart. It’s a very large heart, and a very practised one. I can’t help that.

  ‘But at least,’ she went on, her voice rising shrilly, ‘when I have an affair I feel it. I believe I’m in love. I don’t go about behind my lover’s back saying that it’s all a pose simply because I’m afraid of looking ridicu­lous. I don’t mind looking ridiculous because I know I am ridiculous. So is everybody who loves.’

  ‘Love!’

  ‘Yes. But even if I didn’t, even if it was only physical (and in nine of my cases out of ten I know it is) it’s genuine. That’s the difference between you and me. You think that my friends are rotten because they’re more actively immoral than yours, but they’re nothing to William and Tanagra and Maurice and all those precious fools. They’re sterile, sterile! A lot of barren, poisonous sticks. A lot of . . .’

  She paused. She was going too far. She checked herself and fumbled nervously for a cigarette. ‘I don’t know why I’m getting so excited.’

  ‘No?’

  She lit her cigarette with trembling fingers. ‘After all, it doesn’t do any good to lose one’s temper.’