The Wrong Set and Other Stories

by Angus Wilson

  ‘Was it just a dream

  That joy supreme that came to us in the gloom?’

  And Prue answered with mock drama

  ‘No, no it wasn’t a dream

  It was love in bloom.’

  They arrived in the little port just in time for the fireworks and stood with their arms round each other to watch the dark water with its reflections of coloured lights – green, red, blue, orange – break into a thousand golden ripples as the Roman candles and Catherine wheels scattered and revolved above it. Then they craned their heads until their necks were stiff watching the rockets explode their green and red meteors against the star-clustered sky. Finally there was the set piece with a great Bastille outlined in amber burning to the ground and then the singing of the Marseillaise. After that they joined in the dancing on the hard concrete square, packed closely, jogging up and down to the quick foxes, swaying to the slow. Sometimes Prue would dance with her arms hanging at her side, feeling Jeremy’s movement with her body, at others she would hold him closely, her thighs pressed against his. Soon they were changing partners; a constantly varied blur of faces passed in front of Jeremy, so that with the pernods and the cointreaus he took at the little café, the babble of voices and the heat of human bodies, he began to feel queasy and the concrete floor threatened to come up and strike him. He took refuge at a little table with the mistress of a Russian painter they had met during their stay. She was a young cockney girl and her homely sophistication made him feel sentimental for London. Prue was dancing somewhat erotically with a very young French workman, and every so often Jeremy could hear her voice and her high hysterical laugh pitched rather above the general din; her fair hair was falling in wisps and her head was surmounted by a red cardboard crown. Now and again as she passed near she would throw a streamer or some coloured balls at him. Jeremy could see that she was growing jealous, but he was not in the mood to care and he talked animatedly to the cockney girl. Nevertheless, when Prue came up to their table he thought it kinder to placate her. ‘Thank God you’ve come, darling’ he said. A French sailor’s been bullying me to dance with him.’ He had gauged rightly, for all Prue’s anger vanished in her excitement as she replied ‘Poor sweet they can’t leave you alone, can they? Though you do look madly tapette when you’re drunk, you know.

  Jeremy laid his head back on the pillow and tried to think of something to say that would mend the situation, but it was useless. He felt angry with himself for not having given her a final ‘good time’, since she set such store by these things. Circumstances had been so against him. Despite all Prue’s teaching, he was still inexpert and drink only made him more clumsy; whilst she seemed to lose all restraint when drunk, and abandon that would have been attractive in a young girl only underlined her age and brought out all his suppressed prudery. This time, particularly, his mind had refused to act in coordination with his body, his thoughts leaped forward all the time to the future, to his freedom – he would visit Aigues Mortes and Montpellier, wander up through Arles and Nîmes, perhaps see the Burgundian tombs at Auxerre, he would read the new Montherlant he had bought in Paris, he might even write some poems again. He could hear her voice now behind his thoughts, complaining, scolding. Suddenly it came to him loudly, almost in a scream.

  ‘You bloody little cad’ she said. ‘Can’t you even have the courtesy to listen to me?’

  ‘I am listening, Prue, only I’m very tired, darling. You were saying that it wasn’t a very happy ending to our relationship, but does the ending matter so very much?’

  Prue’s eyes narrowed. ‘You think you’ve got rid of me very easily don’t you?’ she said through half-closed teeth. ‘Did you really imagine that I was going tomorrow?’ she said with a hysterical laugh. ‘Just because you’ve had all you want out of me, I’m to get out.’ Jeremy saw the scene breaking upon him that he had dreaded all day and he felt no energy to withstand it. ‘Don’t talk so, darling’ he said ‘We’ve been so happy. And there will be other times too in the future’ he added weakly. Prue laughed again wildly ‘Oh yes’ she cried ‘there’ll be other times all right. Tomorrow, and the next day and the day after, because you see, you’re not going to leave me’ Jeremy’s patience seemed to snap. ‘No, Prue, that’s where you’re wrong. You’ve got Kuno, and I’ve got something more important in life.’ Prue’s face became contorted with fury, losing all control, she began hitting him wildly, pummelling his chest, biting his fingers and his chest, pulling his hair. Jeremy, however, knew his superior strength, holding her wrists tightly, he forced her head back on to the pillow. He felt a mounting desire to hurt her, bending over her he kissed her mouth savagely. ‘I’m kissing you because you’re attractive’ he laughed bitterly ‘but I’m going to leave you because you’re such a bitch.’ Springing away from the bed, he began hurriedly to put on his dressing gown; but Prue was after him in a second, clawing and tearing at his hands with her long fingers. ‘You’re not going to leave me. Oh! no. Oh! no.’ Her voice was like that of a sarcastic schoolmistress. She was playing her last card with the threat of a public scene, but Jeremy’s anger made him able to counter this move. With his left hand he smacked her across the face methodically and hard, with his right hand he twisted the arm that was clawing at him until the pain made her relax her grip and she sank, sobbing, on to the floor. As she looked up at him she saw that his mouth was bleeding. ‘My God I’ve hurt you’ she cried. ‘Don’t come near me, leave me alone. My God! how could I do it?’ Jeremy knew this succeeding mood well also. Reassuring and pacifying her, he got her at last to bed. ‘We can’t let this happen again, it’s too degrading’ she was still sobbing as she laid her head back ‘I must leave early tomorrow. We must not see each other again.’ But Jeremy felt no security in her moods any more. He saw clearly that to get free he must run away. ‘Here drink this off, duckie’ he said, as he crushed up an extra luminal tablet. It was essential for his get-away that she should sleep late the next morning.

  It was still only ten o’clock when Jeremy descended the imposing steps of Marseille station and passed down the dusty sidepath between the stunted plane trees that flank the top end of the Canebière. He had over an hour to wait before the autobus which was to take him to Aigues Mortes, so, leaving his suitcase at the bus office, he bought some figs and peaches from a nearby stall, manoeuvred a complicated crossing of the tramway and sat at a table in one of the cafés at the lower end of the great street. Despite the alka seltzers he had taken that morning, his legs still wobbled beneath him and his head became confused when he bent down. He decided on a plain melon water ice, but then, overcome by greed, added a praline cream ice to the order. In his jade green linen shirt, white silk scarf with green spots and olive green daks, he looked very English intellectual, very Pirates of Penzance.

  He took out the Montherlant and began to read, but his attention wandered. The day was still cool and there was a light breeze, but there were already signs of the approaching heat in the hazy atmosphere rising from the pavements and in sudden warm gusts of wind. His heart was full of happiness at his new found freedom and his thoughts, as on the night before, were bent towards the future, but his nerves were still jarred at the tension of his last scene with Prue, he could not free his mind from the sense of imprisonment, which seemed almost stronger now that it was at an end, he still dreaded hearing her voice raised in pursuit of him, he was still turning their relationship over and over in his mind imagining her future life, coping with her problems, extricating himself from them, though his reason told him they no longer concerned him. Above all he was still filled with shame as he thought of her huddled on the floor tearing and clawing at him. He must have relaxation before he could concentrate on the future, must be released from the superstitious fear that her moods could effect him now that he had left her.

  For a time he sat watching the populous street, the evanescent patterns of colours and shapes. At first he noticed only the orange and white of a young girl’s dress, the butcher blue of a workman’
s trousers, the scarlet pompom on a sailor’s cap. Then he saw more directly the shape and figures of the people passing, the children with their graceful forms and their shy oncoming eyes, the developed figures of the young, their insolent sex-conscious walk and their bold eyes, the fat, the flabbiness of the middle-aged, the bent bodies and gnarled, wrinkled skins of the old – the pattern of Mediterranean life began to emerge. Now he could take in particular groups – the policeman’s argument with a tram driver that grew into a crowd of gesticulating, shouting onlookers, the occasional Anglo Indian returning to England stopped by the Arab carpet merchant or the straw-hatted, over-toothed tout, the jostling group of bourgeoises buying from the outside stalls of the Bon Marché. He decided to give himself a new tie and walked over to the stalls. It was while he was examining a tie of white crêpe-de-chine with scarlet spots that suddenly he felt a sharp nip in the fleshy part of his thigh. He turned quickly to see what had happened, but whoever was taking such a liberty – and he laughed to himself as the phrase came to his mind – had vanished in the throng of shoppers. The tie was altogether too chichi, he decided, and put it down. A moment later he felt a sharp pinch on the other thigh. As he turned round quickly he thought he saw a pair of laughing dark eyes disappear behind a stout peroxide-haired woman in an open work blouse. He moved rapidly towards the spot where his assailant had appeared, but only succeeded in jabbing the stout woman’s breast with his elbow, and she began to expostulate violently. He decided to walk up the street towards his bus. By this time the Canebière was filled with people and he had considerable difficulty in moving rapidly through the crowd. He had only proceeded a few steps when the pinching began again, but now it was not only his thighs that were pinched, there were unmistakable and very painful nips in his fleshy buttocks. He dodged hastily round a tall Negro soldier, almost knocking him over and being cursed as he made his getaway. Looking back, he now saw his assailant clearly, indeed he or she, for it was impossible to be sure of the sex, made no effort at concealment. It was a little child of about eleven years, dressed in a ragged shirt or blouse, and a pair of torn khaki cotton shorts; the child was indescribably dirty, with bare scabbed legs, the head was almost shaven, and the little face was strangely yellow and flat, but the eyes were dark and intensely alive, mischievous, almost, Jeremy thought, sexy. It began to sing in a high voice a gay little song, laughing and pointing at Jeremy, who felt certain that the words were personal if not obscene from the smiles of some passersby, though no one actually interfered. He began to walk more quickly, but the song still sounded in his ears, and soon the painful pinching was renewed. He turned sharply once or twice attempting to catch hold of the child or at least to hit it, but it was always too quick for him. Soon Jeremy found himself breaking into a run, the blood mounting to his cheeks with shame, as he dodged the ubiquitous child. The whole spectacle must seem incredibly absurd, like some ridiculous game of tig. The singing persisted, broken by occasional derisive shouts, could it be in Arabic? he thought, but, no, it must be some Marseille argot. At last he reached the bus office and took refuge in its cool depths for a few minutes. When he emerged the child had vanished, but as soon as he was seated in the bus he heard the infuriating song again – there, outside on the pavement was the beastly creature dancing up and down, pointing and laughing. He pretended to be buried in the Montherlant, but as the bus filled up with passengers he became more and more self-conscious. One or two people looked at him curiously, but no one said anything. The window was half open and he rested his hand for a moment on the ledge, only to receive a sharp tap on the knuckles from the creature outside who broke into cartwheels with pleasure. A girl in the bus laughed openly, but her mother checked her with a ‘Tais-toi, Ernestine’ and she subsided into handkerchief-suppressed giggles. At last the bus moved off and Jeremy buried his crimson face in his book, but as they sped along, the tension, the embarrassment, the shame of the incident left him and he became absorbed in the new scenery through which he was passing. With this immediate crushing misery and embarrassment the whole burden of his life with Prue seemed to pass from him, leaving him ready and eager for a new life.

  Dinner at the George had been a great success and all four of them were feeling in gay but sentimental mood when they returned to Jeremy’s rooms. He dispensed liberal glasses of port and then sat with one leg tucked under him in the window seat. The others were laughing and talking and playing Tino Rossi and Mae West records, but he felt curiously silent and thoughtful. He was pleased with the appearance of his room, the low bookcases around the walls were a great improvement on those provided by the college, the great green-white chrysanthemums looked very chaste, the hard jade green coarse woven cushions gave the required note of colour. He would dearly have loved to strike a more modern note with some of the Regency furniture he had seen in London, but it was beyond his means. The glory of the room, however, lay in the genuine Toulouse Lautrec coloured l thograph of the Folies-Bergère which had been his summer extravagance. He looked out over the Fellows’ garden to Christ Church meadow and the river where the October mists were already rising, everything seemed supremely peaceful and happy. He felt really interested in Vaughan and Herbert, his tutor was inspiring, he was College Secretary for Aid to Spain, he had been promised a good part in the one act plays at the end of term, he had even written some poems. The beginning of the Second Year was a good time.

  His guests had reached the stage of recounting their erotic experiences. Alastair MacDougal said nothing, he lay back in an armchair his long dark face sneering slightly. For him there had been yachting in the Mediterranean and shooting in Scotland. He was engaged to be married to a Tatler beauty, there would be a Hanover Square wedding, that was all there was to it. The antics of the others were middle class, amusing, to be tolerated if you like, but always rather absurd. Jeremy wondered how long he would be tolerated after he had gone down, not long he imagined.

  David looked so very Nordic as he reclined on the couch, resting in Valhalla, only his weak chin and petulant mouth spoiled the illusion. He was strumming on a mandoline and as they talked he would sing snatches of Schubertlieder in a rich if tremulous tenor. His story was one of seduction and he told it with a combination of sentiment and vanity that was most revealing – the doctor’s elder daughter in love with him, her passion used as a cloak to seduce the more attractive, virginal younger sister. Jeremy remembered the bounderish rather pathetic major, David’s father, cashiered for gambling, and as he listened he thought he knew what was in store for David.

  In little Gerald Prescott, looking so very extra in his blue velvet tie and his West End stage haircut, it was easy to see the future touring actor. Gerald went depressingly according to type.

  ‘Well, my dear, that’s what they told me. Ask Jeremy he’ll know. Didn’t Tiberius do the most frightful things with children? Well anyhow Capri was heaven. And I met Bobbie Trundle. He’s madly influential and knows everyone and everything. Of course I’d met him before but at Capri we got to know each other really well. He’s awfully charming, not frightfully young, of course, but madly distinguished looking. And, my dear, does he know his way about? We went down to Pompey when the fleet was in …’

  Yes, thought Jeremy, Gerald’s future was all too clear. But what about himself? The future seemed to hold so many possibilities, so much that he might achieve, and of course so many dangers. He felt his chances were greater than those of the others, for at least he had fought one major battle and the victory had been his; and his mind turned to those blue, rough-edged, thick-papered letters from Paris, the first of which he had answered kindly but firmly, the last of which had remained unanswered and now they had ceased to arrive. How easy it was to feel certain that one had been right to act caddishly for once. Not the drifting caddishness of Gerald and David, but a constructive caddishness that made him feel justified in thinking that he was more interesting than the rest of his circle, less obvious and bourgeois.

  ‘Jeremy’s silence is most portent
ous’ said David. ‘You haven’t got married, have you?’

  ‘Oh my dear, no’ said Gerald. ‘He’d look much, more miserable if that was the case. Jeremy’ he added, crouching on the floor and pointing his cigarette in its long holder at his host ‘You’re no longer a virgin.’

  ‘Tell us all about her, dear boy’ said David. ‘If it was a she’ said Gerald.

  ‘I believe something really interesting may have happened to one of you at last’ said Alastair, leaning forward in his chair.

  Jeremy hesitated before telling them about Prue, for all their sophistication they seemed very young, they might so easily fail to see the point.

  So ‘I did have rather a curious experience in Marseille’ he said. He always enjoyed bewildering them and this time it was all quite true.

  ‘Marseille, my dear’ said Gerald ‘It couldn’t be more danger-eux.’

  ‘Beware the pox, Jeremy, beware the pox’ said David with weary wisdom.

  ‘I think we might hear more about it’ said Alastair, if he was prepared to sit with the mummers, he was not prepared to wait about for the performance to begin.

  ‘It all happened with quite a young child’ said Jeremy ‘with Murillo eyes.’

  ‘Really, dear boy’ said David, all his prudery awakened.

  ‘What sex of child may I ask?’ said Gerald.

  ‘You may ask’ said Jeremy ‘but I can’t answer.’

  ‘Was it a pleasant experience?’ asked Alastair.

  ‘Most painful while it lasted’ said Jeremy ‘but the sense of relief when it was over was tremendous.’

  ‘I think all this mystification is in rather bad form’ said David ‘You’re a bit old, Jeremy, to try to épater les bourgeois in this way.’