by Julian Gloag
Jordan looked at the fat white telephone. “What does it do—shave you while you talk?”
“It lights up. Neverrings, no vulgar noise. Just lights. Look here.” He took Jordan’s arm and dragged him round the desk. “Twelve of ’em, see? Three whites for outside lines. The green chappie’s a direct line to Clotard’s. The others are interoffice—different colour for each. The red light’s for the chairman of course—Sward, the old whore himself.” He burst out laughing.
“And can you tell which light is for who?”
“Not really, but it doesn’t matter. I just pick up the phone and say ‘Quite’ three or four times in a pensive voice, then hang up. I’m thought to be rather profound.”
Suddenly the pink light flashed, and Frank grabbed the receiver.
“What? No. I’m not Mr. Fillmore. You are Mr. Fillmore. Well, you’re a pink light, aren’t you? Fillmore’s pink, you’re on pink. Ergo, you are Fillmore. If you don’t know who you are, what’s the point in my talking to you?” He dropped the receiver back into its cradle, and smiled sheepishly at Jordan. “Well, it works for Sheila,” he said.
“You’re in good form today.”
“Ellen’s away. That always helps. Father had another stroke or something.” He grimaced. “Come on, let’s have lunch. The club?”
“Yes.” Jordan stared out of the broad window onto the park. “I like it here.”
“Ah, but if you worked here, you wouldn’t have the time to watch them snogging in the park, you know.”
Jordan half-closed his eyes till the sunlight shimmered. “I never get any sun in my place.”
Frank pulled on his overcoat clumsily, as he always did. “You don’t come up here for the sun, we all know that.”
“Why do I then?”
“To pinch the secretaries’ bottoms, what else?”
He reached over and straightened Frank’s grotesquely twisted collar. As he did so, he thought vaguely, guiltily, of the little dark box June Singer shared with Miss Lawley.
“By the way,” Frank said, as they walked through the outer office, “what do you think of my latest?”
“Your latest what?”
“Christ. Secretary.”
“Is she new?”
“I’ve only had her a couple of weeks. Bit long in the tooth for me—all of thirty. But toothsome all the same, don’t you think?”
“Is she American or something?”
“That’s shrewd of you. No, but she worked in the States for three years.”
The club was within easy walking distance, but they took a cab. Frank had long ago lost the use of his legs.
Jordan ordered a Manzanilla. Frank drank neat whiskey with three cubes of ice. “The difficult thing in advertising, you know, is to get the right mixture of integrity and—bezazz. You know what I mean, Geordie?”
“Aye—I do that,” Jordan said broadly—an ancient jest—and smiled.
“Seriously. You’ve got to take it seriously—no good thinking it’s a hell of a lark. Integrity, principle—you’ve always got to bear the principle of the thing in mind.”
“Sell more soap.”
“Don’t be naive. Advertising is informative. That’s its nature, its function. Informing—it’s got to be accurate information, but never stuffy. Part of informing, what I call essential public enlightenment, is to attract. You can convey all the info you want, but if nobody’s going to listen, you’re a dead duck. That’s where the attraction element comes into it. After all, who’d ever have got the message of the Gospels if it hadn’t been for all that rich full-blooded stuff in the O.T. first? Bait.”
“Balls.”
“Aha! There you are. That’s it! You protest—you want to register disagreement. Now you could easily say ‘Nonsense,’ but you don’t. Why? Because it won’t get attention. So what do you do? You introduce an attraction element—in this case a genital one—to get notice. Your message is the same, but now it’s got through. But that’s method. What I’m talking about is principle. There’s a tendency for admen to be faintly shy about their profession. Oh, not on the surface, but in their heart of hearts. As if they were doing something the head wouldn’t quite approve of, instead of, well, instead of seeing themselves as the spearhead of free enterprise.” He finished his whiskey, set the glass down hard, and said, “Small,” without looking at William. The glass came back refilled at once. Frank lifted the glass and examined the contents thoughtfully.
“That’s a hell of a large small,” Jordan said.
“Haha! You’re very observant today. It’s a neat little trick. Whatever I may say, William’s got standing orders to disregard it and give me triples.” He laughed. “I got that one from old Sward. I used to notice at these client get-togethers old Sward got remarkably well oiled in a very short time. Yet he’s got a head of teak and he kept exactly level with the rest of us, drink for drink. And he’d always be very insistent about having a small one. He let me in on it eventually—triples, he was knocking back three to our one. Damn useful with clients—they think you’re a pretty sound, sober chap, but it doesn’t interfere with your drinking.”
“You don’t surely bring clients here though?”
“Oh no—it’s just a habit. But to get back to the point. It’s fatally easy to compensate for this feeling that one’s engaged in something not quite-quite, a bit frivolous, by being solemn, oversolemn. I catch myself at it sometimes. But if you overdo the solemnity bit, you wind up with solemn advertising. And that’s no good at all—unless you’ve got the Royal Family account, of course.”
Jordan laughed. “Sometimes I think you’re insane.”
“Not a bit of it. I don’t think solemnity and integrity are the same thing. I get a lot of fun out of advertising.” He smiled into his whiskey, then looked up at Jordan. “I expect it’s rather the same sort of thing for you, isn’t it? After all, there can’t be much joy in reading about lower intestinal tracts and ingrowing toenails all day.”
Jordan ordered another Manzanilla. “There’s a bit more to it than that. We do publish a nonmedical title here and there.”
“What?”
“Well, there’s rather an interesting manuscript I’ve got in on village idiocy in East Anglia since—”
“Jordan, you’re priceless. Village idiocy—that’s almost as good as the campaign we’re doing for Clotard’s. Lavatory-paper limericks. I remember at Cambridge when you were all on fire to publish … oh well.”
Jordan took a sip of his sherry. “It seems a long time ago.”
“It is a long time ago. I shouldn’t worry. After all, I was going to be a big hit at the bar.”
They both looked down at the oak-topped counter and burst out laughing together.
“Let’s have some lunch.”
He didn’t get back to Sutlif & Maddox till after three-thirty. It had begun to rain. As he walked through the office shared by Miss Lawley and June, he didn’t allow the Law’s statuesque disapproval or June’s anxious smile to perish his elastic mood of benevolence. Frank was a stimulant. Whenever he saw Frank he was touched by a world so strange that he did not really believe in its existence. He felt like a boy listening to a tale of the conquistadors—its charm was its distance, its excitement was its improbability. If ever he felt a little guilty, it was because he realised that Frank did actually live in that peculiar macabre place of rationale without reason, philosophising without philosophy. The very word campaign suggested an endless war, without distinction of cause or possibility of peace.
A dream related at breakfast—interesting, curious, rich perhaps, but always meaningless. It was only when Frank, eyes down and then suddenly looking at you with great simplicity, tried to probe at something beneath the fantasy that Jordan became uneasy. Soothed with sherry now, Jordan thought about this. It did not happen often, but there would be the hint or, worse, the straight-out statement of aimless lust or agonized emptiness. And Jordan knew instinctively that he was supposed to offer some answering terror of his
own. But he had none, and he felt uncomfortably a traitor to the placidity of his own life even in listening to Frank.
Yet Frank was good for him. Perhaps that was why Willy disliked Frank. No, he had phrased it wrong—it was the foreignness in Frank, beneath the right noises, which she sensed and feared. And of course there was the Lymbridge business—but her adamant outrage at that had been almost an excuse to dismiss Frank once and for all. Not because he had made a pass at her, but because he was subversive of the whole structure of decency and normality.
She had not forgotten. He knew the cold “Oh?” with which she would greet the news that he had lunched with Frank Wade. And she would accurately estimate how much he’d had to drink and treat him with just that touch of disdain which she always managed to convey to erring children and the lower classes.
He didn’t really mind; his benevolence could encompass that all right.
He took a pencil from his desk and began to write. “The Panther,” he began. It was always at these times that he could compose the best animal verse for Georgia. It was going to be a good one.
He had just finished when June came in with his afternoon tea.
“There we are, Mr. Maddox.”
“Thanks.” He smiled up at her.
“I brought you some biscuits. I thought you might like …”
“Ladyfingers. My favourite. You shouldn’t spoil me, June.”
“But I thought Nice biscuits were your favourite.”
“Oh yes. These too, though.” She didn’t look well, he thought. Or was it just that she was ill at ease? That would be unlike June.
“Do you want to do those letters now, Mr. Maddox?”
“Hang the letters. They can wait till the morning. There’s nothing urgent, is there?”
“No,” she said. “Well, I’ll do a bit of filing then.”
He didn’t want her to go. He suddenly had a sharp impulse of generosity. She was pathetic somehow, poor thing.… “Why don’t you sit down for a moment, June.”
“Shall I get my tea?”
“Yes, you get your tea. We’ll have a party.”
Obviously she was depressed. It was a depressing time of year. And then, of course, her mother. That’s not something you get over quickly. Perhaps it was a good thing she was taking her holidays early this year. She ought to get away for a bit. That was the thing. Or … The idea came to him. It would do her the world of good, change her outlook, and, well, if it meant he’d have to make a bit of a sacrifice, what did it matter?
She came back and sat down. “Is it sweet enough for you, Mr. Maddox?”
“Oh yes. Just right.” He smiled. “Depressing weather, isn’t it?”
“It is a bit. Not that I mind really.”
Jordan stirred his tea. “It doesn’t help much though, does it? Particularly when you’re not feeling up to much.”
“No, it doesn’t.”
He was surprised by her agreement. She really was upset. “I know you’re going through a rather trying time just now. I don’t want to intrude, but I know what this sort of, er, trouble—”
“You do?”
“Well, let’s put it this way. I can guess. It’s not easy, I know, and sometimes you think—well, you begin to think rather lugubrious thoughts. Not that they aren’t real enough at the time, I don’t mean to say that.”
“Oh Mr. Maddox.”
For a horrible moment he thought she was going to cry. But he resisted his impulse to shy away. “Yes. You see—” he drew a breath—“I’ve been through something of the same thing myself.”
She looked at him so intently that he felt stupidly inarticulate.
“Yes,” he said. “Yes. Of course it wasn’t so bad, I’m sure. I had other people—someone to share, you know. And then … it was my uncle.” He turned to the window. He hadn’t expected that to come out. He hadn’t meant to raise … ghosts. The light drizzle had formed three or four drops of water which moved jerkily in little darts and sallies down the window pane. “But it isn’t the end of the world. The best thing to do—” he was pulling himself back to the lunchtime benignity—“the best thing to do is to get away. Oh, I don’t mean for good. But a change of atmosphere. A new place, new people—so that you have to, well, respond to them. A new job even. Take America … He turned back to June. The anxious expression was still on her face—anxious and puzzled. Perhaps he wasn’t making himself very clear. “Have you ever thought of taking a job in America? For a year or two, I mean.”
She opened her mouth. “America?” she whispered.
“New York, say. A tremendously stimulating place. Quite different, exciting. It wakes us English up. Gets you out of yourself—despite yourself, so to speak.”
“You mean me go to America?”
Jordan felt a touch of impatience. “Well, why not? There’s nothing like living in a foreign country for a year or two to broaden your horizons.” He had a quick, guilty thought of Willy’s two years in Bordeaux.
June shook her head. “No, I never had thought of it,” she said, but as though she were thinking of something else.
“Why don’t you then? It would be easy for someone with your qualifications to—”
“You mean leave Sutlif and Maddox?”
“You could hardly get a job in New York and stay here too, could you? Why don’t you think about it? A year, say. And if you wanted to come back, well there’d always be a job here.”
June took a sip of tea. “I will think about it. Thank you, Mr. Maddox.”
“It’d get you out of yourself. Now I have a practical suggestion. Why don’t I write to Jack Timberley—you remember Mr. Timberley—and see whether he has anything to suggest?”
“Thank you. It would be exciting, I suppose,” she said tentatively.
“There you are, you see. You’re already beginning to catch on to it.”
June smiled. “Perhaps I am.”
“Of course you are. I’ll drop a line to Jack Timberley, then. It can’t do any harm.”
June nodded.
“Good. Even if it comes to nothing, the great thing is to feel you’re doing something—prospecting, as it were. Well.”
June got up. “Thank you, Mr. Maddox. You’re very thoughtful.”
Jordan watched her as she left the room. She was a sensible girl. He noticed she’d forgotten to take her cup out. He was about to call her back but thought better of it.
He’d do the letter to Jack right away. He fetched the portable from the cupboard.
Yet, as he started to type, he could not quite recapture the warmth he’d felt earlier. He stopped. He disapproved of drinking in the middle of the afternoon, but this time …
He got out the authors’ sherry and poured himself a glass. A distinct improvement. He began to type again, smiling now—as he always did when he caught himself doing a good deed for the day.
27
He had denied himself dreams. All night long he had sat on the bed, his back against its black iron bars. He had dozed; dozed and woken, and dozed again. The head sagging and then snapping up, wide awake in the dimness of the little room. Punishment: a small boy slowly painting iodine on a cut finger; pressing a hand hard onto the hot pipe, the elation of pain, the secret pride of the blistered stigmata.
But it was far more than those simple penances for unknown crimes. Lying down, he would have been overwhelmed. If he had let go the helm and allowed the ship to broach and wallow broadside, the waves would have sunk her. It would be so easy to founder and drown. But he could not permit that, for he had to reach a destination, wherever it was. Then, perhaps, surrender.
Now, sitting hard and upright in the dock, he could maintain himself. He was not in the least tired. He had never been so alive. His mind moved at a great speed, so that all that went on in the court was in slow motion. Bartlett was having a difficult time cross-examining Symington. The inspector gave a remarkable performance of earnestness and touching modesty, so that Bartlett was forced to abandon outright assau
lt and attempt, instead, to swamp the policeman with monotony. The juror in the green shirt had discarded it today in favour of a greyish-white one. His colourlessness reflected the obvious boredom of the jury.
Jordan felt a momentary sympathy for the barrister, who would know by now of the prisoner’s recalcitrance.
Willy knew. When he had seen her this morning, she had been white-faced and calm, her secret anxiety drawing the blood from her lips. There had been very little to say. Their marriage policy of avoidance unblinkingly revealed now, when the only thing that mattered could not be mentioned, the poverty of their intercourse. Jordan was at once grateful and impatient.
Shortly before she’d left she’d said, “We’re longing to have you home and safe.”
“Are you?”
A faint moment of colour touched her cheeks. “Of course we are. Georgia …”
“How are you getting on with the animal stories?”
“I’ve—I’ve given them up. I’m so absolutely useless at it and—”
“I bet she misses them.”
“Oh yes. Yes she does. Very much.”
He knew she was lying.
“Jordan, I hope you don’t mind, but I’ve asked Frank Wade to come and see you tomorrow.”
“You what?”
“I’ve asked Frank Wade—”
He interrupted her with laughter. “Frank Wade. My God!”
“Just because I don’t happen to care for Frank Wade doesn’t mean that I don’t realise his—his value to you as a friend.”
“To cheer me up, that’s it, isn’t it? To stiffen the Maddox spine?” His mirth wounded her blanched stoicism.
“Jordan, I …”
“Yes?”
“Nothing.” She gave a quick bird shake of her head.
He felt a stab of vindictiveness. “Nothing,” he repeated. “Well, I expect Frank will have plenty to tell me about his latest. It’s his secretary, you know.” He laughed again. “Sheila something or other.” And then it was no longer funny. “Frank’s the last person on God’s earth I want to see. Just tell him not to bother, will you?”
