Crazy Pavements

by Beverley Nichols

  ‘So I always imagined.’

  ‘Oh, do come down to brass tacks.’

  There was acute irritation and impatience in Anne’s voice.

  ‘Very well, then. I don’t want the things.’

  There was a forced note of challenge in Julia’s voice which did not deceive Anne.

  ‘You mean – you don’t care who sees them?’

  ‘No.’ She was frowning, and her hands were tightly pressed against the mantelpiece.

  ‘You mean – I may show them to whom I like?’

  ‘If you are sufficiently contemptible.’

  ‘Even to . . .’ Anne paused, to give greater effect to her remark.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘Even to Brian?’

  Julia turned round quickly. ‘Oh – you beast. You utter beast. Give me those letters.’

  ‘Ah!’ Anne was smiling again now.

  ‘Give them to me. I’ll get them somehow. . . . I’ll . . .’ She had raised her arms over her head; they fell down hopelessly. ‘Oh, God. What do I care? What does it matter?’

  ‘I see.’ Anne was almost purring again. ‘So you wouldn’t like him to see them.’ Julia was silent. ‘It almost sounds as if you were still in love with him.’

  Julia forced a smile. ‘You needn’t worry yourself about that.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Quite,’ she answered.

  ‘I asked the question,’ Anne said coldly, ‘because the word “eternity” is so frequent in this correspondence. But since you assure me that you aren’t, I presume you want to get rid of him.’

  ‘He’ll be easy enough to get rid of.’

  ‘On the contrary, nothing would be more difficult if he had once read those letters. He’d stick to you like a leech for the rest of his life. Any man would. After all these purple passages. . . .’ She began to read . . . ‘I may fail, I may falter, there may be months, even years, in which we shall drift apart, but always, darling, even though my every word and my every action may seem to tell you that I have forgotten, I shall remember, and I shall still belong to you.’

  She folded away the letter again with a smile and dabbed her lips with a small pink handkerchief. ‘Really, Julia, your epistolatory smile makes one feel quite warm.’

  Julia was not looking at her. ‘I wonder if that sort of thing would really encourage him to go on,’ she said, almost to herself.

  Anne drummed on the table irritably. ‘You don’t wonder at all. You know. Brian’s a ridiculous senti­mentalist. He believes that if one loves once one never loves again. Why people ever get such ideas into their heads, I don’t know. Still, they do. And if he sees that you’ve ever felt for him like that, even if it was only for a minute, or for a second, nothing would ever stop him thinking it. . . .’

  Julia was silent. Anne studied her face closely. She read in it no longer anger, but a deep distress, the sort of distress which comes to those who are forced to give pain to a child. She saw that she was gaining her point. Her voice softened. When she spoke again she almost crooned.

  ‘It would be a pity,’ she said, ‘for such a very charm­ing boy to remain permanently attached, don’t you think? Permanently – er – sterile? After all, he is charming, even if you no longer particularly want him. And one would hate to see him hoping and hoping for years to come just because of these letters.’ She closed her eyes and repeated by heart the phrase from the letter which she had read before. . . . ‘There may be months, even years, in which we shall drift apart, but always, darling . . .’

  Julia interrupted her. ‘You needn’t go on. Please stop talking for a minute, I want to think.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Anne’s last argument had moved her more than all the rest put together. The ridicule of her friends she felt she could bear. After all, it would be something quite new – a nine days’ wonder. Disagreeable, of course. She could see the sneers which would greet her – the sort of sneers which greet all apostates from any faith. And she, after all, had shown herself an apostate from the faith of infidelity. True, it was a brief secession, but a tell-tale one.

  However, she might have borne that. What she felt she could not bear was the effect that the reading of these letters would have upon Brian. She no longer loved him; of that she was convinced. But deep in her heart there was an instinctive reverence for this one episode which, in her own strange way, she had kept beautiful. The memory of the many hours when, late at night, alone in her bedroom, she had sat down and allowed herself, for the first time in her life, to be a real woman, even if her reality was only a dream – that memory must never be taken from her. She clung to it feverishly, passionately. The thought of its sur­render, its effacement, was as bitter as the sacrifice of a child.

  And then there was Brian himself. She had never minded hurting anybody before; it had usually amused her. But Brian was different. He would have to be hurt in any case – terribly hurt. That was going to be painful enough – boring enough, one might almost say. But if he too were allowed to share her secret – her secret that was past, yet still living – his agony would be indefinitely prolonged. Had she not averred a hun­dred times in those letters that he must not believe her if she told him that her love was dead? Were there not a hundred passages in which she swore the per­petuity of her passion? Had she deliberately designed the letters for Anne’s purpose, had she racked her brains to set a trap for herself – a trap that no hands could ever set free – she could not better have done it. She thought of the beginning of the letter which she had written at Hayseed, when the tempest had been at its height . . .

  ‘Darling, I am frightened. Not of the storm, but of all that the storm seems to typify in my life. Outside, the whole world seems as though it would be blown away. Leaves flying against my window, clouds being swirled over the greeny moon, even the big oak tree bending. So bitterly cold. And I feel it is like my life – so much storm, so great an unrest, so little warmth.

  ‘But here, in this room, I feel as though I were with you. I feel sheltered and secure. I can stand aside and watch the turmoil and not be frightened by it, and listen to the racket and not be deafened by it. Isn’t it strange that you should have that effect on me? Nobody else has ever had. Nobody will ever have it again.

  ‘I kiss your photograph. You will never know that, Brian darling. I never want you to know it, because I am so poor a lover than even when I long to be possessed I cannot utterly surrender. If I were a great lover I should surrender everything and come to you. But I’m not a great lover. Only in dreams, Brian. Somehow, I have lived too intensely, have been selfish for too long, have built my life on too false a theory of values. But in my dreams I am as great a lover as Heloise. If you knew how happy that made me . . .’

  In a flood the memories came back to her, poignant, alluring. She must keep those memories. What did it matter if her love were now dead? What did it matter if Brian were now merely a bore – something to be placed gently on one side and forgotten? The memories remained – not so much memories of him, but memories of herself, of a unique emotional beauty through which she had passed – an experience which at all costs she must keep intact.

  ‘Well?’

  She started. She had forgotten Anne. How absurd she looked, standing there with her plump figure and her sewn-up face and her great antelope eyes. The sight of this actress in the drama which was playing itself out made the whole thing seem more fantastic than ever.

  But not disgusting. It had ceased to be disgusting. Brian had become so unreal to her that she could no longer visualize all that Anne’s proposition implied. He was merely a pawn in the game – to be treated with more reverence than most – but still a pawn. For now Julia realized that she herself was fighting for a memory only. That was all that mattered.

  And so one had better surrender with a certain amount of chic.

  She achieved a smile. ‘Anne, you should really have been a Borgia.’

  Anne sighed with relief. ‘I knew you wouldn’
t force one to be tiresome. Julia, darling, do have some Cointreau.’

  ‘No, thanks. I’d rather have the letters.’

  ‘But, angel – I think, first . . .’

  Julia saw what she meant. ‘I understand.’ There was an awkward pause. ‘Then the arrangement is that we both come down to Hardcastle on Saturday week.’

  ‘Yes. That will be divine. I’ll send the car.’ She spoke eagerly, like a child that has been promised a trip to the seaside.

  ‘Is there anybody else you’d like?’ she said. ‘William, for instance?’

  Julia laughed, very coldly. ‘You think he’d prevent me from being lonely?’

  ‘Don’t be so ridiculous, darling.’ She was porten­tously girlish. ‘I was only thinking of bridge. Or should we have Maurice?’

  ‘Oh, anybody. I do know a few other people, Anne.’

  ‘But, my dear, you know everybody in London. That’s why it’s so difficult to find anybody new.’

  ‘There’s one thing, Anne.’ Julia looked her straight in the face. ‘I have not the faintest intention of allowing myself to be bullied. I’ll do what you want because I choose to do it. It doesn’t hurt me, and it seems the simplest way out of the situation. But please don’t – don’t forget yourself in front of me.’

  ‘Darling, as if I could!’

  ‘Very well, then. That’s all.’

  Anne rang the bell. The two women stood looking at each other in silence. A strange look came over Anne’s face.

  ‘You’re sure that – that you don’t love him any more?’ Her voice was almost affectionate.

  ‘Quite, thank you. You needn’t waste any sympathy in that direction. I’m in love with – with something else.’

  ‘Oh, I’m so glad.’

  The door opened and Julia went out. As she walked down the stairs she noticed the decorative profile of the footman who preceded her. She remembered that there had been rumours about that footman.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  At eleven o’clock that same night Brian walked into Julia’s sitting-room in Berkeley Square, to be told by the maid Grist that her ladyship was expected to return at any moment.

  ‘I’ll wait,’ he said, and sank into a chair with a little sigh, for his limbs were weary. Through the open door he watched the black, impersonal figure of Grist.

  She was bending over the bed, arranging and re­arranging a heap of dresses that shone gold and rose and purple under the lamplight. They were far more alive than she, those dresses. They were smiling and colourful, whereas she was blank and expressionless. They rustled and whispered as she folded them away, but she was silent always. They suggested grace and pride, while she suggested nothing but a machine.

  ‘Grist,’ called out Brian in a sudden curiosity, ‘don’t you ever want to wear any of those pretty things yourself?’

  The figure paused, quite motionless – strange carica­ture of humanity, with stiff sombre arms and a face etched in harsh shadows.

  ‘You called me, sir?’ (How could she speak like that without moving her lips? How could so monotonous a sound come from any living throat?)

  Brian repeated his question, blushing a little. It was as though he were speaking to himself, or addressing a waxwork.

  ‘I have never thought of it, sir.’

  ‘That’s funny, isn’t it?’

  His voice echoed away into silence, the inane remark repeating itself and repeating itself through his drowsy brain. Still, it was funny that God should create so radiant and wonderful a thing as Julia with one hand and so purposeless and dried-up a creature as Grist with the other. In fancy he set himself wondering what sort of life Grist led: if she ever ate, if her wooden head was capable of such a thing as an ache, if she ever was tired, what appearance she presented in her bath – even more intimate details, in this sensuous, shadowed state between sleeping and waking, suggested them­selves.

  Grist in bed, Grist out walking, Grist’s parents – what on earth could they be like? Out of what stony womb could she silently have emerged? From what iron breasts could her first impersonal nourishment have been taken? With what grave toys could her mechanical fingers have played? And what fruitless prayers could her thin, childish treble have delivered to the Deity who in irony had created her?

  Whether or no he dozed during these reflections, he could not tell, but he suddenly found himself very much awake again, with Grist standing in front of him. She stood there, her arms extended ever so slightly, like some clockwork thing that is about to move. So odd, so unexpected, did she appear that Brian, for an instant, felt that he must laugh, until he saw her face. That was tragic – with the tragedy of a mask, the pathos of a dumb thing, or, even worse, of something that is dead and is called to life again by extreme peril or agony.

  There was no mistaking Grist’s humanity now. Fire burned in her eyes, like embers blown to warmth in a long-deserted grate – fire that spread until it brought a faint flush to the emaciated cheeks; and the smooth surface of her forehead was suddenly wrinkled with suffering, and from the white lips there came, in no uncertain voice, these words:

  ‘Sir. Her ladyship will be back now at any minute. I ask you to go before she comes.’

  Brian gazed at her almost in alarm. At first he did not realize the meaning of her words. He only knew that she had suddenly melted into flesh, and that she had spoken with a voice of human feeling. But when the first shock was over he rose quickly to his feet.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I can’t say.’

  ‘Why should I go?’

  ‘Don’t ask me.’

  ‘Are you mad?’

  ‘Perhaps I am.’

  Snap, snap, went this dialogue, like steel and rock striking sparks. Out of nothing at all a tense, terrifying moment had been born, and equally suddenly it died. And Brian, as he searched her face, saw it gradually fade back into insignificance, saw the light die from the eyes, the cheeks pale, the furrows fade from the forehead, the hands fall back to her sides. An uncanny metamorphosis.

  ‘I beg your pardon, sir.’

  Should he ask her what damnable impertinence had prompted her to make this extraordinary suggestion? The point was solved for him by Grist herself, who turned and left the room without a word.

  Brian remained staring at the door for a moment. Then with a shrug of his shoulders he sank back into the chair. What the devil did it matter what Grist thought now that he was here, and now that Julia was coming back to him? Julia! He found himself looking into the laughing eyes of the bronze Cupid by his side. He laughed too, happy – absurdly, utterly happy.

  But tired. Distinctly tired. Dare he doze for a few minutes? No. Certainly not. But there was no reason why he should not let his mind wander at random. What fun that was! He stretched his legs, closed his eyes, and gave himself up to making dreams. He always made the same dreams for himself, and they always vastly entertained him. Here are some of them:

  (1) Scene, Piccadilly, late at night. The Prince of Wales is returning from a ball, defying royal conven­tion by walking alone and on foot. By some lucky chance Brian happens to be walking behind him, for as the Prince passes a dark side street, a dozen anar­chists dart out, seize the Prince, and are about to throttle him. With a sudden leap Brian rushes forward, knocks down anarchist after anarchist, who fall with thuds on the pavement. He then bows to the aston­ished Prince, clicks his heels, turns and walks away.

  In this dream virtue had its reward. (Brian was most careful about that.) In fact, he sometimes hurried forward the first part of the dream in order to reach the reward, which consisted in knighthood, special interviews in all the morning newspapers, and apparent affluence – though how this latter blessing occurred he was not quite sure.

  Dream number One faded imperceptibly into Dream number Two. This featured as its main characters himself and Julia. The scene was usually set on a vast and gloomy mountain over which rose a sallow moon. Upon the peak of this mountain Julia was perishing in white satin
(white, because it showed up so well against the black rocks of his imagination, satin because it gleamed so deliciously in the moonlight). Somewhere in the background of his mind was the baying of wolves, somewhere in the foreground the clatter of hoofs – the hoofs of the horse which snortingly transported him to her rescue. A charming picture to dwell upon, which always ended in the same way – by his climbing to the perilous summit and dispersing the wolves by clouts with an immense stick. He usually made this part of the dream a little dim, because the wolves of his desire had a faintly kittenish appearance, and the idea of hitting them too hard was repulsive to him. However, the kiss was often prolonged indefinitely, and a very beautiful, satiny kiss it was.

  Brian turned in his chair with an entranced, though increasingly sleepy, smile, and allowed his mind to play with Dream number Three, which might be termed the Political Dream. In this he played the part of a very youthful Prime Minister suddenly called upon to save the nation from the clutches of a universal strike. This dream had for its first tableau Brian standing in front of a crackling fire in his study at Number 10, Downing Street, reading with a calm smile a scathing leading article in the Daily Mail commenting on the madness of the electorate in entrusting its destiny to a ‘callow schoolboy.’ This part of the dream was very delectable, giving him all the sensation of a William Pitt without any of the disadvantages of the eighteenth century (one of which was that there would then have been no Daily Mail to attack him).

  Scene two of the dream shifted to the north of England. Under ashen skies, and before an immense and hostile crowd, Brian poured his golden eloquence into the hearts of grim and brutish men. It must be admitted that the substance of his remarks, when analysed in cold daylight, always struck him as being somewhat thin and not altogether original; but in the dream they shone with uncanny brilliance, and always affected the miners so deeply that he was soon able to pass to:

  Scene three, which consisted in his being carried on the shoulders of the miners (no longer grim or brutish), who cheered him to the echo, and finally departed to their holes in the earth, fully satisfied that it was best for all and sundry that they should do so.