No Laughing Matter

by Angus Wilson

  ‘I think they may any day now. Billy hasn’t been home for a week.’

  ‘Well, there you are. It’s not a real marriage. Best thing they could do. Anyway, you make up their income. That’s quite enough. It’s not as if they’d given you a family life.’

  They had left the firm stone terrace far behind and were walking on gravel. The trees seemed well arranged to give shade, but their leaves made a lot of litter. Now, turning a corner of the path, they arrived in what appeared to be a clearing in the bushes.

  ‘We’re getting off the beaten track,’ he said.

  So they began to retrace their steps. She saw now that the masses of colour they had passed earlier were beds of roses.

  Reminded, she said, ‘I like your buttonhole, Alfred. It’s kept very fresh….’

  ‘Yes, I told the girl at the shop, “I want something that’ll last over Sunday!” And she gave me this. A moss rose, she said it’s called. See all this mossy stuff on the stem. I had to put it into a glass of water last night. But she was quite right, it’s kept all day.’

  ‘Alfred! Mrs Livingstone’s on to me again. She wants me to put money into her typing agency.’

  ‘Mm. Well?’

  ‘I don’t know. I send ever so many girls there and she’s doubled her business in the last years. But … Oh, I should like your advice.’

  ‘Tell her to give you the books. I’ll look them over.’

  ‘Oh, I’ve done that. They’re all right. No, it’s her. I just don’t believe she’s steady. I think she may let the thing run down hill suddenly. I haven’t time for salvage operations, now that I’ve got the Clapham office as well. I wish you’d meet her. Say, just for a cocktail. I trust your judgement so much.’

  He stopped and, pausing, she had time to look round her – some of the trees were such a dark red, they seemed almost black. People said they had every plant and tree in existence at Kew.

  ‘I’m sorry, darling, I can’t. We’ve taken some calculated risks, but we did promise ourselves firmly that we wouldn’t meet other people together. No matter who or how much we wanted it.’

  ‘Yes, but that was friends and family. Mrs L doesn’t know anybody you could possibly know.’

  ‘I can’t take any risks with Doris’s ignorance. It’s not only that she’s an invalid. But, well, I’ve said it a hundred times, Marriage is marriage. And then I’ve all my past with her before she was ill. I owe her a lot for that. You’ve had such a dragging up, darling, that quite reasonably you don’t understand how the past can hold people.’

  From her grunt he knew what to expect. Already he was thinking of their return to her flat – of the upward curves each side of her firm white belly taking him on to the stiff upturned nipple stalks of the full pears of her breasts – and on up by the lines of her ample throat to kiss her upward-turning wide mouth set between her plump cheeks; but if he did not arrest her mood he would turn to find downward pouting lips, leading – it was always his superstitious fear – to sagging, hanging gourds and a swollen dropped belly.

  ‘The Colman thing’s going through. I was right in thinking that the shares would come on to the market. But you were right about Master Norton. He’s a wrong’un.’

  ‘I felt it as soon as you told me about him.’

  ‘Woman’s intuition!’

  ‘Well, you have intuitions, why shouldn’t I?’

  ‘Yes, but I trust my own.’

  She took his hand and swung it as she always did when she revealed that she had been teasing him.

  ‘Oh, but my intuition was based on information. One of my girls worked as a private secretary to him for over a year. And …’

  ‘You mean she told you his affairs?’

  ‘Oh no! Don’t be alarmed. Good secretaries are discreet. Or most of them. No, I read between the lines of what she said. He made advances to her. As she said, “Father of a family!’”

  ‘I’m not surprised,’ was Alfred’s comment.

  ‘Well perhaps you’ll believe a little more now in woman’s intuition.’

  She laughed and every curve was upward now. He could tell that just from her voice.

  ‘You’re a shocking leg-puller.’

  She immediately found herself thinking of the strength of his thighs, of the black curled hair on their flanks. Looking at him, she could guess his thoughts. But now the people they had been following had thinned to a line and ahead of them was the door to the great glasshouse.

  ‘Oh, Alfred, I don’t think we want to go in …’

  He looked back at the queue behind them.

  ‘We can’t turn back now, Gladys, not without a fuss.’

  ‘But we might meet …’

  ‘Nonsense. In point of fact it’s probably a short cut through,’ he said decisively.

  Inside it was difficult to walk comfortably for the press of people and the plants that swung above them, to the side of them, all around them.

  ‘They haven’t planted these things with much thought for the public, have they?’ she said.

  Even high above she could only faintly see the glass roof for the tangle of great leaves and for a sort of rope plant that hung from tree to tree with ferns and even sometimes flowers growing on it.

  ‘Exotic plants,’ he explained.

  But the heat was stifling.

  ‘The heat, Alfred!’

  ‘It’s a glasshouse, darling.’

  ‘I know that. Granny had a conservatory. But it wasn’t like this.’

  ‘Well I daresay it’s a bit up with today’s sun.’

  A plant with great pink trumpet flowers and long yellow spikes hit Alfred on the nose. Gladys read the label.

  ‘Hibiscus rosa sinensis – what a name to go to bed with.’

  Above them towered the endless spiral of an iron staircase. The noise of people clattering up the stairs was deafening. They looked up and saw some girls, frillies, suspenders and all.

  ‘Ere! Eyes front. We’d better get you out of ere, my lad, before you’re in trouble.’

  Her cockney as usual set him laughing. Perhaps it was the heat, perhaps it was happiness, but soon they were in convulsions of laughter. Seeing a path to the side, they turned to get out of the queue’s pressure.

  And there straight ahead of them was this awful sweet-smiling hag’s dial.

  ‘Good heavens! Alfred Pritchard, of all people.’

  Gladys tried to turn back, but the way was too narrow, and the people behind who had followed their example, too many. When she looked round again, Alfred said, ‘Miss Matthews’ and immediately the sweet toothy smile froze to a ‘what’s that the cat’s brought in’ disdain.

  ‘Please don’t insult me Alfred,’ she said, then red in the face, she turned to Gladys, ‘I’m an old friend of Doris Pritchard. Everyone who knows her loves her. It’s women like you who make one disgusted with one’s own sex.’

  ‘That’s quite enough of that, Mrs Armytage. You seem …’

  ‘It is indeed.’

  Pushing her way through the crowd with the ferrule of her parasol, the awful female left them.

  With sweat pouring down her neck, her cheeks dryly burning, Gladys followed behind Alfred’s broad grey tweed back as he bore down upon the crowd in front of them and clove a way out. She longed to call to him to take her into his arms, on his knee, to kiss and to fondle her, to tell her she was forgiven, to ask her forgiveness, to make up a bawdy song about the hag or, best of all, some phrase from, a serial she’d read in the Daily Mail, ‘It’s all as if it had never happened’ – why couldn’t he say that? By the time they had got out of the glass inferno tears had begun to ooze up under her eyelids. Fat tears from a fat girl. That’s what she’d have said in the old days at home – laughed it all away. But she wasn’t a fat girl now; she was a well-turned out, fine young woman who couldn’t be taken into the arms of the well groomed, florid, big man in front of her. Not in public. People of their kind shouldn’t need such things at such times. What price, then, diet and Marcel w
aves and always the best stockings and gloves? She felt ashamed of her own bitter egotism. It was he who was hurt, despite the firm, strong set of his shoulders ahead of her. She hurried after him and took his hand.

  ‘It doesn’t matter a bit, old boy. We’ve always got them beat.’

  But the comfort didn’t appear to reach him. He walked on disregarding. Suddenly, if not fat, she felt completely whacked. She sat down on a bench.

  ‘Collapse of stout party,’ she said.

  *

  Up stage left at the writing desk, young Freddie Manningtree begins to write a letter, then tears it in two and throws the pieces on to the desk. Begins a second letter, this time rolls it into a ball and throws it on the floor. Begins third letter, then unrolls second letter, and pieces together the first, compares all three. Finally rejects all three. Sits facing light pouring in through French window – man in attitude of dejection. Takes cigarette case and matches from dressing gown pockets, lights a cigarette. Mother’s voice from garden, ‘Getting along all right, Freddie?’ [Some laughter as usual from the audience here, but quickly suppressed when with bitter, angry gesture he batters out his cigarette in the ashtray and with fierce jerky gestures writes and completes a new letter.]

  Enter LADY MANNINGTREE through the French windows, carrying a flat raffia basket containing freshly cut roses and delphiniums. She goes to down right, places basket on table.

  LADY MANNINGTREE: I’ve never known the delphiniums so heavenly as this year, Freddie. The soft blues and mauves. No wonder the dear Queen … [Moves up right to collect in turn a small can ofwater and two vases.] Now if you want something lovely to paint! The subtlety of these colours [begins to arrange the flowers in the vases.] Well, have you finished? [He waves the completed note towards her.]

  FREDDIE: Here! You’ve got what you want.

  LADY MANNINGTREE: My dear boy! Have you quite lost your manners? [After hesitation walks upstage to him.] I’m not surprised. You can’t touch pitch … [Takes the note and reads it.] ‘I’ve always known that if I was to be serious as an artist I couldn’t let myself fall in love for many years to come. That’s why I’m writing to you now …’ Serious as an artist? You have the most ingenious way of putting things.

  FREDDIE: It happens to be true.

  [LADY MANNINGTREE shrugs her shoulders.]

  LADY MANNINGTREE: My dear boy, we’re all delighted that you enjoy painting, but the vital point was that she was quite impossible. A provincial dancing school teacher. Thank goodness, we saw her in time. Even your father …

  FREDDIE: Father’s manners with Violet were perfect.

  LADY MANNINGTREE: As if that helped. Anyhow, you’ve done the sensible thing. And you’re looking very handsome, too. That scarlet dressing gown suits you. It’s the greatest absurdity to think that scarlet should only be worn by dark people. [She puts her hand on his shoulder.] Dear Boy!

  FREDDIE [shaking her hand off him]: Oh for God’s sake Mother. I’m your son, not your lover.

  [From the audience, as usual, a shocked intake of breath, while Lady MANNINGTREE walks deliberately and with great dignity to her flower arranging. As often, one or two bursts of applause from Alma Grayson devotees.]

  LADY MANNINGTREE [in casual, conversational tones]: I’ve got a fascinating party for this week-end, Freddie – the Cantripps, Lady Celia, the Wickendens, Francis Morell, Sybil Stutterford …

  FREDDIE: Francis Morell?

  LADY MANNINGTREE: Yes. You admire him so much.

  FREDDIE: He’s only our greatest painter. How did. you manage to persuade him?

  LADY MANNINGTREE: Oh, I have my little methods. I haven’t been a hostess for twenty years …

  FREDDIE: You’re wonderful.

  LADY MANNINGTREE [beaming]: They seem like daubs to me. However … I wanted it to be a surprise. You deserve a reward for doing what I asked you.

  [FREDDIE scowls.]

  LADY MANNINGTREE: Oh, and I’ve asked the Carnaby girl. [She looks to see the effect of this. He shows no interest.] She’s very pretty, Freddie.

  FREDDIE: And the Carnabys are the right sort of family to marry into. That’s it, isn’t it?

  LADY MANNINGTREE: Who said anything about marriage? Really, you young people today sound more like Victorians sometimes. Flirt with her, my dear boy, amuse yourself. Why at your age I broke a different young man’s heart at every houseparty. But then we were civilized … before that dreadful war.

  FREDDIE: And Douggie Lord? Is he coming?

  LADY MANNINGTREE: Oh, I expect so. I really hardly notice him.

  FREDDIE: Then you won’t notice his not being there.

  LADY MANNINGTREE: What do you mean? [She stands with a vase of roses in her hand.]

  FREDDIE: Simply this. [He takes out of his wallet and waves a sheet of a letter at her. She gives a little scream and drops the vase of roses.]

  FREDDIE: Only this, Mother. An eye for an eye. Violet for Douggie Lord. I can’t stop you seeing him. But if you ask him here again, I shall show this to father.

  LADY MANNINGTREE: Your Father! What’s he got to do with you? How dare you? [She rushes forward to seize the letter, but something in his expression stops her.]

  FREDDIE: I’ll ring for the maid to clear that mess away. [He walks to bell left and rings.]

  LADY MANNINGTREE [stares silently across at him then speaks slowly]: I believe you hate me, Freddie. Oh, my God, I believe you hate me.

  [As she speaks and during his answer to her he shows his disregard for her emotions by quietly clearing the rejected letters from his desk and putting them in the wastepaper basket which he moves into its original position at the side of the desk.]

  FREDDIE: No. Shall we say only that you’ve destroyed every atom of love I had for you?

  [Knock, and enter MAID down left.]

  FREDDIE [smiling]: Ah, Lady Manningtree has dropped a vase, Parsons. Will you clean up, please? What a shame, Mother. You’d arranged them so beautifully.

  [As the curtain descends LADY MANNINGTREE still stares at him in horror.]

  The applause, as every night, was tremendous. Alma Grayson took four curtain calls on her own, one with the whole cast, and one with Rupert.

  Eating his usual chicken sandwiches, drinking his regulation whisky and soda in Alma’s suite after the performance that night, Rupert wanted as always to burst into laughter at the absurd lavishness of the management’s idea of Louis XV – all these mirrors and satin ovals and little gilt tables and china bowls of rose petals. Such laughter was only relaxed nerves, of course. And the object it attached to varied from place to place. Here in Liverpool from the very first night his hilarity had fixed upon Alma’s excessively Pompadour setting. He had learnt by now not to release his laughter until he knew her mood; and to this, even after three months he never had the smallest reliable clue. ‘They’ve certainly put you in a profusion of Pompadour. It’s like a bad setting for Monsieur Beaucaire.’ And he called her Lady Mary Carlisle, the Beauty of Bath. She had taken the joke up and nursed it with her strange cooing laugh, even saying when she came back from the lavatory, ‘My dear, the noise of that cistern. It must date from Pompadour’s days. Après moi le déluge.’ This with one of her rare coarse chuckles that so delighted by their contrast to her ethereal, lilylike grace.

  But on another evening she had cut him off quickly with, ‘It’s the principal suite in the hotel. Everyone one’s ever heard of has stayed here at some time or other. But, of course, I oughtn’t to expect you to know that at your age.’ And yet again, she had revived the joke herself when they came back on the Wednesday night. ‘Are you reboff by Meestaire Nash, Monsieur Beaucaire?’ she asked. ‘I am no Beaucaire, Lady Mary. I am a French gentleman. The hotel insult me with imitation French fashions. ‘But then swiftly turning against him, ’They’ve done their best. Look at these lovely sweet peas they’ve put in here for me, and this delicious fruit. It is never in very good taste to sneer when people have tried to be civil.’ Sometimes Hope Merriman gave him a little
comradely smile to help keep up his spirits under Grayson snubbing, but she never said anything aloud and Ronald Rice always made a noise in his throat somehow indicative of support for Alma, it was only one of the many sounds that Rupert had christened his gentleman player noises. Not that she needed support, for every one – cast, management, stagehands, hotel staff – all united to line a cheering route for her, not a puddle uncloaked where she walked.

  This evening, at full length of elegance with her feet up on the chaise longue, she said, ‘Heavens, how glad I shall be when Sunday comes along and we leave this grey, sad town.’ She smiled up at Rice who was pouring out her usual glass of Graves. ‘Dear Ronnie,’ she said. ‘Tho’ it isn’t the same. Now at the Cavendish at Eastbourne they give me white wine and oysters.’

  ‘Not, I hope,’ said Rupert, giving a teasing smile, for there was still time to charm her out of her mood, ‘in July.’

  ‘And why not in July? Oh, we are West End, aren’t we?’ She had put on what she called her knut’s voice. ‘“No oysters, dear boy, when the R’s in the month.” If you swallow much harder, to sound grand, Rupert, you’ll swallow your tonsils. Anyway I really can’t be expected to spend my time remembering what month it is. In good hotels they do that for me. Here I doubt if they know what season it is. Chicken mayonnaise on a chilly night like this. Even a bowl of soup would have … however, Liverpool’s the home of early closing and all those terrible bolshie things. But, I’m forgetting that Rupert loves it here. He finds all this heavy French furniture killingly funny for some reason. I never find ugliness funny. I wish I could. Cities like this must be one long laugh to him.’

  ‘I often think,’ Hope said, ‘that the great warm heart of the North of England is overrated.’

  ‘Do you, Hope dear, really? I’ve always found the greatest kindness in the North. But then people are what you make of them, aren’t they? North, South, East and West you’ll find that. Even Liverpool, tho’ it’s not my favourite town to play. After all, we’re all reflections of the Divine Mind. What you give out, you receive back. And we’ve been giving them this horrid, ugly play.’