Crazy Pavements

by Beverley Nichols

  Scene four of this drama was brief, but superb. It was laid in the Conference Room at 10, Downing Street, where all the Cabinet ministers (whom Brian provided with beards and white hair to heighten the contrast) were assembled, waiting in an agony of suspense for his return.

  Brian entered the room humming a tune. A man with a particularly long beard – probably the Chancellor of the Exchequer – rushed forward.

  ‘Sir – your Excellency – Prime Minister – tell us – what has happened?’

  With marvellous detachment Brian looked at him. ‘Your meaning, Chancellor?’

  ‘The strike?’

  ‘Oh – that.’ (Here came a phantom laugh.) ‘That’s all over. I just suggested to the men that they should go back to work. And they went.’

  Collapse of the old men, leaving Brian standing alone and triumphant above a sea of beards.

  Brian sleepily opened his eyes. No Julia yet? No Julia? He made a motion to get up, but fell back again. God! How tired he was. She would not be in yet. He would make a few more dreams.

  This time, inevitably, his thoughts turned to cats.

  He pictured a long empty street, down which, in superb and adorable procession, twenty black cats stalked, tails erect, eyes gleaming in the moonlight. From over the roofs of the city came the sound of music, and the cats started to sway, kept step, and finally danced. How they danced! Tails waved in the wind, soft paws were daintily pointed, satiny backs arched, pink tongues protruded in excitement. Through street after street they danced, swifter and swifter, till the streets were left behind and the moonlight had faded. Out into the open country they fled, the ghostly music following after them, up into a bare and desolate land of mountains where their black backs gleamed against the grey rocks. Suddenly the black cats all leapt, in one straight line, over an inky precipice, and he awoke.

  Julia was standing before him. Across her forehead was a thick band of diamonds that glittered in the shadows. One hand was on her hip, trailing an immense feather fan that shaded from the palest pink to a bright crimson. He drew in his breath at her beauty.

  ‘Darling,’ she said coolly, ‘it’s nearly two o’clock.’

  ‘Is it?’ He was not in the least ashamed. Had he not possessed her? Was she not entirely his? The rela­tionship was no longer that of the Princess and the Peasant. She belonged to him. Boldly he took her hand and kissed it.

  ‘Come and sit down.’

  She raised her eyebrows and smiled. ‘You’re very sure of yourself to-night, aren’t you?’

  He nodded. ‘Completely.’

  ‘I’m so glad. All the same, I think it’s a little odd of you to come and call at this time of night.’

  He frowned, puzzled. ‘Darling, don’t make fun of me.’

  She moved impatiently. ‘I’m not making fun of you. I’m merely saying what I’d say to anybody.’

  ‘Am I – anybody – then?’

  She turned away. Oh – it was abominable to be pestered like this. She would like to have said, ‘Yes. You are anybody. You bore me to tears.’ But she was silent.

  Brian’s lip was trembling. What had he done? All his exaltation, his excitement, had suddenly died down.

  ‘You asked me to come,’ he said sullenly.

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous.’

  ‘You did.’

  ‘I said you might come in for a moment after dinner, that’s all. I didn’t ask you to wait here till the small hours of the morning.’

  He bit his lip and tried to fumble in his pocket for a cigarette. At all costs he must not show her how deeply she was hurting him.

  ‘Sorry, Julia.’ He tried to smile. ‘I was tired, I expect. I fell asleep.’

  ‘So I observed.’

  He looked at her curiously, then with a quick move­ment he stepped forward, put his arm roughly round her shoulder and kissed her mouth.

  She said nothing.

  ‘I had to do that,’ he said breathlessly.

  Still she said nothing.

  ‘I had to do that,’ he went on. ‘I don’t know what’s the matter with you. I haven’t seen you for a whole month. But you seem all cold and hateful. Why? I’ve done nothing, have I? I haven’t changed, have I? So why should you?’

  She was not even looking at him.

  ‘I’m not going to let you change,’ he went on, his voice almost breaking. ‘You can’t ignore love like mine. Life isn’t big enough to let you. The whole world isn’t big enough for you to escape from my love. I don’t care whether you want it or not. No. That’s a lie.’ His voice trailed off hopelessly. ‘You do want it, don’t you, Julia?’

  While he had been speaking, she had suddenly remembered Anne and her promise. She frowned. The whole situation was maddening. Still, she had to go through with it; and till she had gone through with it there could be no open breach. Brian must be conciliated in some way or other.

  She threw down her fan, went over to him, and put her cool lips on his hot forehead. ‘Darling, I’m sorry. I’ve got a terrible headache.’

  He swallowed something in his throat and looked down at the carpet.

  ‘It’s the weather I think.’ She went to the window. ‘So hot and peculiar. I’m sure it’s going to thunder.’ She looked at him over her shoulder. ‘That’s why I felt I couldn’t stand anything very emotioné to-night. Do you understand, darling?’

  He smiled at her bravely. ‘Of course.’ Oh yes! He understood. Women, he supposed, were like that. It was hell, absolutely hell, but it couldn’t be helped. He’d have to wait till her mood had altered. As if there could be any moods in love!

  ‘Would you like me to go?’

  ‘Darling! Please don’t. I’m terribly happy now you’ve come. But I just want to be – calm, that’s all. D’you see?’

  He kissed her hand very gently and placed it back on her lap. Then he got up and stood by the mantel­piece.

  ‘Right you are. I’ll have a cigarette, and then I’ll be wandering.’

  ‘Give me one, please.’

  ‘You oughtn’t to smoke so late at night.’

  She smiled again. ‘That means I shall have two.’

  He shook his fist at her. ‘Aren’t you a devil?’

  ‘Yes.’

  She pursed her lips and puffed out the smoke in a thin blue stream. She had better broach this wretched subject now.

  As she glanced at him she felt an urgent desire to turn aside from the whole business; not because it was distasteful to her, but because some deeply possessive instinct rebelled at the self-imposed sacrifice. Brian was hers, in soul and body, and she was about to throw him away. To-day he meant little in her life. But to-morrow, having lost him, what might he not again mean? She was an example of the eternal truth that the secession of but a single lover leaves an ache in the heart of even the most worshipped goddess.

  Then she hardened her heart.

  ‘I saw Anne Hardcastle this afternoon.’

  ‘That sweet thing.’

  ‘I think we’re all a little hard on poor Anne.’

  ‘Darling! Are you feeling quite yourself?’

  ‘Oh, don’t be silly. You’re so credulous. You believe everything you hear about her.’

  ‘I believe you, at any rate.’

  ‘But my stories about Anne were fearfully exagger­ated.’

  ‘Even if they’d been a hundredth part true . . .’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘There’d still be enough left to produce twelve quite hearty nymphomaniacs.’

  She walked to the window and leant her head against the curtain. ‘I’m rather trying to see people in a kinder light nowadays.’ (God! How hard this atti­tude was!)

  ‘Well, I should let the darkness close about Anne. She works marvels then. As soon as the electricity failed at Tanagra’s party the other day she leapt over two hundred chairs and was almost sitting in my lap in fifteen seconds.’

  She raised her eyebrows and looked at him a little contemptuously. ‘I suppose it’s only a rumour that you�
��re getting impossibly conceited?’

  ‘I should find it extraordinarily difficult to be made conceited by Anne Hardcastle.’

  ‘Why are you always harping on sex?’

  ‘Sex! Mention Anne, and all the other motives of human conduct wilt away.’

  ‘I think you’re being dreadfully hard.’

  ‘Julia darling, what is the matter?’

  ‘You never used to say such foul things about people.’

  ‘I’m sorry. Oh, damn it all, why are we talking about Anne at all?’

  She fingered the beads round her neck. With low­ered eyes she said:

  ‘She’s asked us both down for the week-end together.’

  Brian stared at her for a moment, and then laughed out loud. ‘Phew! what cheek!’

  ‘Cheek?’

  ‘Well, isn’t it?’

  ‘I fail to see why. . . .’

  ‘You don’t mean to say you weren’t furious?’

  ‘I told her we’d be delighted.’

  Brian’s brain was in a whirl. . . .

  ‘Look here, Julia. You’re not pulling my leg?’

  ‘Not to my knowledge.’

  ‘But . . . But . . .’

  She got up and stood in front of him in sudden anger.

  ‘Oh, I’m tired of this virtue – this very easy virtue. Anybody would think you were made of cotton-wool – a little plaster saint. Aren’t you capable of taking care of yourself?’

  ‘It isn’t a question of that.’ His voice was very cold. ‘It’s the fact that I don’t care for the rôle of Joseph with such a particularly powerful Potiphar’s wife.’

  ‘It wouldn’t kill you, would it?’

  ‘No. It would only make me feel sick.’

  ‘You seem very sure of your attractions.’

  ‘Well, perhaps I am. In this case, at any rate.’ He too got up, and they stood facing one another. ‘If you’d seen some of the letters that woman wrote to me you’d understand. She’s entirely unscrupulous, and she’s determined to get me. There. Have I said enough now?’

  ‘I fail to see that it much matters.’

  ‘Julia!’

  She was frightened. She had gone too far. She put her hand on his arm. ‘Silly Brian. Brian darling, look at me.’

  He turned his head away, not answering.

  ‘I didn’t mean anything like that. I meant . . .’

  He still did not answer. But he took her hand.

  She went on: ‘You see. Oh, I don’t know. But I love you so much that I forget what I’m saying sometimes.’

  He pressed her hand.

  ‘I forget, and then I hurt you.’

  He turned and kissed her impulsively. ‘You could never hurt me for long.’

  ‘I think we’re both nervy.’

  ‘You’re certainly right there.’

  ‘That made me angry. And it made you silly about Anne, too.’

  Trying to control himself, he said, ‘Darling, must we talk about that woman all night?’

  Instantly she flared up again. ‘Oh, really. This is the height of conciliation.’

  ‘You can’t have conciliation with that type.’

  ‘That type? What type? What do you know about her?’

  ‘I’ve told you what I know.’

  ‘Nothing. A silly love-letter. If you can’t cope with that . . .’

  ‘No, I can’t.’

  ‘And haven’t any intention of trying.’

  ‘Why should I try?’

  ‘Because I ask you to.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I do.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because . . .’ She turned away in angry confusion. ‘Why do you cross-examine me like this?’

  ‘There’s some other reason.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘How should I know?’

  ‘You’ve got to tell me.’ He took her by the arm. ‘I’ve got to know.’

  ‘Leave my arm alone.’

  ‘I will know. You pretend to love me, and then you throw me into the arms of a woman who’s notorious all over England. Why? Why? Why?’

  ‘Oh, God.’ She was very pale. He let her arm fall. ‘Please go away.’

  ‘I’m not going till I know what all this is about. She’s asked you to bring me down, has she? And you want to take me, do you? And why? Why? Is it blackmail. Is it money? Is it . . .’

  ‘Go away. Go away.’ Suddenly, without warning, her head fell back on the sofa, white as paper.

  In a second the flood of Brian’s anger was stemmed. He felt sick with an appalling fear. He knelt down by her side, rubbing her hands, kissing them, babbling broken words which she could not hear.

  ‘Julia – Julia – I didn’t mean . . .’

  He sprang to his feet. There was some brandy in a decanter on her desk. He poured out some, and cared not that as he gave it her it trickled on to her dress. Still she made no sign.

  ‘Julia! Julia!’

  He took her in his arms. She was as something dead. He pressed his face to hers, keeping his warm lips against her cold mouth, breathing quickly, as though his life were passing into her body. For an age he seemed to hold her thus, more and more tightly, with the sense that only by some physical incorporation could he bring her back to consciousness.

  Gradually he was rewarded. A touch of colour came back to her cheeks and the lips beneath his trembled. She made a movement to release herself.

  Still he held her.

  ‘Thank God! I thought you were dead.’

  She opened her eyes and looked at him.

  ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘You fainted.’

  ‘Oh yes.’ She closed her eyes again and sighed. ‘I’m so tired.’

  ‘Darling. Have some more brandy.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You must.’

  Mechanically she drank it. ‘We were angry, weren’t we?’

  ‘Yes. I was an absolute brute.’

  ‘Oh – I remember. Anne!’ She laughed, with the stormy feebleness of hysteria.

  ‘I know. It was all about nothing.’

  Her brain was working again keenly. This was a moment which might make or mar her plans. Instinct­ively she knew that she would conquer by a retreat.

  ‘I give in,’ she said. ‘I won’t ask you ever to see her again.’

  ‘I’m going to.’

  ‘No, Brian darling.’

  ‘I’m going down with you for the week-end.’

  He hardly knew what he was saying; he only felt an overwhelming desire to make up for the wrong he had done.

  She smiled and held out her arms. Once again they kissed, and once again the white arm was stretched above him.

  It was only when, an hour later, he stepped out into the empty square and made his way home in the falter­ing light that Brian began to realize the full implica­tions of his promise. To bring Anne Hardcastle so definitely into his life would mean yet another struggle. He told himself it was only a question of being rather rude, and that there was nothing in the least to worry about. But it was the sort of strife which he bitterly detested.

  However, as he walked up Park Lane the grey and ragged loveliness of London caught him by the heart, and he forgot all else. At this heavy-lidded hour of dawn the pavements were without stain or shadow. The long grey façade of houses stood steeped in quiet, nor was there any wandering wind to stir the trees from their stiff repose. There was a strange mingling of scents in the cool air – the scent of streets from the east, subtle and civilized, the scent of grass from the west, dew-drenched and sweet. And above all that scent which can only be called the scent of dawn, which flies when the curtains are drawn in silent rooms or when the sun scatters the lingering dusk of empty squares.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Well – here he was at Hardcastle. And at last he realized, as he had never realized before, that he was ‘up against it.’

  In the old days, when he had found himself
in a difficult position, he was in the habit of going away to a quiet room, where he would sit down, close his eyes, and face each problem one at a time, deciding on its solution and scribbling down an obscure plan of action on a sheet of notepaper. And now he was trying to do the same thing, but the problems seemed so vast that they were insoluble.

  Sitting at a tiny yellow escritoire in his absurdly luxurious bedroom, he played with the head of the inevitable Cupid which surmounted his inkpot, and tackled the first problem . . . Julia. She loves me, she loves me not, she loves me, she loves me not – not – not? And even if she loved him, where was he then? The idea of marriage was fantastic. He had been a crazy, drunken fool not to face it all before. A thousand problems seemed to flutter round him, filling the air with omens.

  What were his assets? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. He supposed that he could go on for a year or two, dining, and accepting cigarette cases from women like his hostess, being invited to week-ends – and then? When he began to show signs of wear? When a new generation of pink-faced young men appeared? He shuddered at the degradation of it all.

  He stared at the pouting Cupid. How he hated Cupids! They had the faces of babies and the paunches of old men. They were damnably intrusive and imper­tinent. Their arrows were tipped with poison. If he ever had any money he would bar anything that looked like a Cupid from his house.

  He went to his dressing-table to brush his hair before dinner. The sight of his face alarmed him; it had a deeper pallor than was warranted by the heat and the thunder which lay hiding in the stiff clouds outside. He tried to whistle, but the whistle died on his dry lips, for he felt hunted and ashamed. He was sickened with the same sort of distaste which had over­whelmed him when, at school, he had first heard, from casual lips, the revolting chronicle of sex. Once again, in the midst of this highly-developed eroticism which surged round him like a heavy perfume, he became a boy, timid and shrinking from a battle which he felt to be hopeless, his arms beating against the empty air.

  Pathetically he endeavoured to joke about it to him­self. ‘Nasty old woman,’ he muttered. ‘Ought to be turned up and spanked and sent back to her husband. Ought to have three weeks on an island with a few Bolsheviks. Ought to . . .’