The Man Whose Dream Came True

by Julian Symons

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘I’ll show it to you one day. I’m honest, you know, I told him all this when I married him. Four years ago.’

  ‘Soon after he came back from Africa?’

  ‘How did you know?’

  ‘He told me.’

  ‘Oh yes. I was an actress in rep on and off, but it’s a hell of a life, often you don’t know where the next week’s rent is coming from. I daresay I was no good. I can’t express my feelings.’ He laughed and she dug nails into his arm. ‘On the stage, I mean. People say what fun it is, living in boarding houses, not having enough to eat, but I never thought so. That’s why I married Eversley. I didn’t know he had this heart trouble, or that he’d want to moulder away here. Topographical history.’ She spoke as if it were something indecent. ‘If we were married, would you want to work on topographical history?’

  There was only one answer to that, and he made it. Later she stared at him with her flint grey eyes.

  ‘It’s always the wrong people who have the money. You haven’t got any?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Tell me about yourself.’

  He gave her an edited version of his life. She listened attentively.

  ‘I didn’t think anybody could be called Bain-Truscott. What’s your name?’

  He said with an effort, ‘Jones.’

  ‘What’s wrong with that.’ She got off the bed, began to put on her clothes. ‘You’d better do some typing.’

  He was surprised. ‘Oh. All right.’

  ‘My woman comes in the afternoon. I don’t want you here then. If you’ve done nothing Eversley will notice. He may be a fool but he’s not stupid.’

  This alternation of passion and coldness fascinated him. He left in a ferment of pleasure with which some anxiety was blended. He knew that for the first time in his life he had met a woman with whom he was emotionally involved. At one o’clock she saw him out as though he were a stranger. When he moved to kiss her goodbye she said nothing, but stepped back and away from him.

  Chapter Seven

  On the following morning Foster opened the door to him and they went straight into the study. Jenny was nowhere to be seen. Foster had brought back new material from London, and began to dictate at once. At half past eleven he looked at his watch.

  ‘Can you get along on your own for the rest of the morning? Some of these afforestation details are not very clear and I shall have to check on them at the local library.’

  ‘Shall I check them for you? This afternoon I mean.’

  ‘I prefer to do it myself.’ Tony looked up and intercepted a glance that startled him, because it appeared to be one of pure dislike. It must have been a trick of the light, however, for now Foster smiled. ‘You’ll think I’m fussy, but this sort of thing involves checking twenty different accounts against each other, and I’d sooner make my own mistakes.’

  ‘Are you satisfied with my work? Tell me anything I’m doing that’s wrong.’

  ‘It’s fine. I’m getting along faster than I have done for a long time.’ Foster gestured at the pile of cards, then pulled out his wallet. ‘We’ll make the payments weekly, unless you object.’

  Tony said he didn’t object. When he heard the front door close he came out of the study, looked in the drawing-room and the kitchen, then started up the stairs. Jenny appeared at the top of them.

  ‘He’s gone round to the library.’ Why did he speak in a whisper?

  She said nothing, but took his hand and led him to the bedroom. Later they came down and drank sherry from the elegant glasses. She was silent.

  ‘What is it, Jenny? What’s the matter?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘There is something. Tell me.’

  ‘We suit each other. Don’t we?’ He placed a hand on her arm.

  ‘I don’t believe you’ve told me everything.’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

  ‘Those references. You forged them, didn’t you?’ He had quite forgotten this, but now his silence was a betrayal. ‘I don’t mind. You’re clever, they’re good letters. I just wanted to know.’

  He said boldly, with a sense of trusting her as he had trusted nobody since he was a child, ‘Yes.’

  ‘What was the trouble with your General. Or didn’t he exist?’ At this he rebelled. It seemed to him that she wanted to probe the details of everything in his life that was most painful. ‘We had an argument.’

  She moved off, as it seemed, at a tangent. ‘Eversley goes away on trips sometimes. On his own. For two or three weeks. He goes abroad and just wanders around. I think he’s building up to one now.’

  He said uncertainly, ‘You mean he wouldn’t want me any more?’

  ‘Oh, he’d leave work for you. The sacred task must go on. He doesn’t leave an address, just sends cards.’

  What was she driving at? ‘I’d be able to see you more often?’

  She said coldly, ‘It doesn’t matter. You ought to go now.’

  ‘I shan’t see you until Monday?’

  ‘Of course not. For God’s sake don’t start hanging about or come paying social calls.’ The white intensity of her face could never be said to soften, but the cool lips touched his cheek. ‘Until Monday.’

  What was he to do with the hours until then? On the way back to the Seven Seas he bought some vividly striped wallpaper and announced to Widgey his intention of repapering his room. He started on Saturday morning but wallpapering proved more difficult than he had expected. The paper showed a tendency to crease and even to tear, and after doing half the room he could not pretend that the result was satisfactory. He was sitting on the bed contemplating what he had done when Widgey came up and stood in the doorway, hands on hips.

  ‘I’m afraid it’s a mess.’ He had got paste on his trousers, and even though they were old this distressed him.

  ‘You’re not cut out for it,’ she agreed. ‘Something on your mind?’

  ‘No. Why should there be?’

  ‘I don’t know. Phone call for you.’

  He almost ran down the stairs, thinking of Jenny. When he heard Bradbury’s voice he was irritated, and it was only because the rest of the day yawned ahead like an endless cavern that he accepted the invitation to have a drink with a couple of fellows and spend an hour or two on the town.

  They met in the cocktail bar of the Grand. Bradbury’s companions were a South African named Pickett and a Dutchman who was apparently connected with the European side of South Eastern Export. Pickett was lean as a greyhound, the Dutchman was thick necked and square. Both wore horn-rimmed spectacles. They drank three cocktails quickly and then went into the grill room and ate steaks. Bradbury was in great form. He winked at mention of his wife.

  ‘Saturday’s my night off. Evelyn knows that. All in the way of business, mind.’

  ‘I like a woman who knows her place,’ Pickett said.

  ‘I am going to see swinging England.’ That was the Dutchman.

  ‘Let’s hope it doesn’t swing you off balance.’ Bradbury roared with laughter. ‘Evelyn knows a man needs a bit of relaxation. And you might not think so but you can relax in this little old town, if you know where to go.’ Blood oozed from the steak.

  Pickett speared two chips and began to tell a story about a man who had thought he was getting a lift from Cape Town to Durban and had ended up in Pretoria. The whole thing was connected, in some way Tony did not understand, with arms that failed to reach the Congo. Then the Dutchman, whose name was Van something, told an interminable tale about a man suspected of smuggling diamonds into Holland, who had turned out to be smuggling blue films. He was heavily fined. The joke was that he really had been smuggling diamonds too, and the films were only a cover. Bradbury shook his head over this.

  ‘I don’t know if you ought to tell such tales in front of Tony.’

  He smiled. Supposing he told them about the General and the cheque, would they be shocked?

  Bradbury, sitting next to him, squeezed his
knee. ‘Our Tony’s a dark horse. You know you made quite an impression on Evelyn, she thought you might be a good influence on me.’

  ‘What is your business?’ Van something asked.

  ‘I’m independent.’

  ‘One of the lucky boys.’ That was Pickett.

  ‘Tony’s my old school friend. He’s always looked out for number one.’ Bradbury ordered large brandies. When they left the Grand they were all a little drunk. They got into Bradbury’s car, drove half a mile, got out, and Bradbury rang the bell of a house next to a greengrocer’s shop. There was a muttered conversation and then they all went up a flight of stairs and into a room where chairs were set out in rows as though for a lecture. Was it some kind of political meeting? Half a dozen other men were in the room, most of them middle-aged. He did not realise what was going to happen until the man who had let them in, tidy and precise as a bank clerk, unrolled a screen at one end of the room and began fiddling with a projector at the other. Then he turned out the light.

  Tony had never seen blue films before and now found himself unmoved by the images that flickered shakily on the screen. The men and women entwined acrobatically. He thought of Jenny and himself and the blue medallion eye watching them. Had they looked as grotesque as these figures, was the involvement he felt merely a matter of these routine embraces and postures? The actions were the same, and they were those he had performed with other women. Why did he feel that in their case it was all entirely different?

  Beside him Bradbury breathed noisily. Beyond him Pickett leaned forward, lips pressed tightly together. On the other side the Dutchman sat, brawny arms folded across his chest, head sunk in his shoulders almost as though he was asleep. Bradbury’s thigh pressed warmly against Tony’s, and he moved his leg away. He thought of walking out, but was not sure if he could find the door. He sat through the four films, listening to the whirring of the projector and thinking about Jenny. At one point the projectionist said sharply to a man sitting in front of them, ‘None of that, please, you’re watching a film show,’ rather as if they were in the local Odeon. Then the screen went dark, the whirring stopped, the lights were switched on again, the men filed out down the stairs.

  The Dutchman said, ‘What about an introduction to some of these ladies?’

  The bank clerk shook his head. ‘Just the film show.’

  In the street Van something was critical. ‘In Amsterdam we will have a house attached to such a place, a house with girls.’

  ‘Not here, old man.’ Bradbury was firm. ‘I can give you an address later if you want it. Just now we’re going across to Pete’s Place. It’s new, only been open a week.’

  He disliked them all, why did he not say goodbye and go back to the Seven Seas? He could not have answered that question, but it seemed to him afterwards that if he had left at that point everything that happened later would have been different.

  Had he known what Pete’s Place would be? As he entered and saw the green tables under their cut-off pools of light, the counters being pushed back and forwards, the dice clattering against the sides of the board, the cards turned to show colour and picture, he blinked his eyes. Bradbury was signing them in. Tony tapped his shoulder.

  ‘I’ve only got a couple of pounds with me.’

  The Dutchman was taking out a wad of notes. Bradbury did not answer Tony, but handed him a pile of chips. ‘Pay me back any time. Your credit’s good.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘How did you like the show? Really something, the way they got down to it.’ The grinning face was close to his own. ‘Old Van’s randy as a goat.’

  As always he played roulette. Once he was at the table he forgot Bradbury and the show and even Jenny. He had thirty pounds’ worth of chips and that was not much to play with, it gave you little scope for manoeuvre, but he might make a small profit playing the Rational System. Or he could go in for a doubling-up game on the transversals. He decided on the Rational and played with some success for half an hour. The Dutchman and Pickett were playing blackjack, Bradbury was moving between two or three of the games. When Tony felt the hand on his shoulder he shrugged it off. The damned man would interfere with his game when he was trying to concentrate.

  A voice whispered ‘Mr Scott-Williams. Here.’

  The man had a boxer’s bruised face and hands like pieces of raw meat. Tony had never seen him before. He was about to say so when he saw the croupier at the blackjack table watching with a malicious smile. The man was from the Golden Sovereign. He must have been reported.

  ‘We don’t want any trouble.’ The man was not whispering he simply had a hoarse voice. He decided to make whatever apologies were necessary. They went upstairs. The boxer tapped on a door, opened it, pushed Tony inside and stood with his back to the door.

  The room was large and dimly lighted. A monkey-faced man in a lounge suit sat watching a closed circuit television which showed the room below. Tony could see Bradbury talking to Pickett. Were they asking where he had gone? The monkey-faced man turned off the set and looked at Tony. ‘You can sit down.’

  He sat in an armchair and put his hands on his knees. ‘I can explain. I was with friends.’

  ‘I’ll do the talking. I’m Carlos Cotton.’ A thin layer of gentility overlay the harsh Cockney voice.

  Carlos Cotton? Then he remembered. This was the man Armitage had called Number One.

  ‘I don’t go looking for trouble, I was good to you. But I put a black on you, right?’ In the monkey face two eyes like beads considered him.

  ‘I told you, a friend brought me.’

  ‘It’s a new place. Why I’m down here, see, I always come down to a new place. Just to see everything’s right. How many of my places you been to since I put the black on?’

  ‘None. I told you, it’s an accident, a mistake.’

  ‘You owe me money.’

  ‘But you said it was cancelled.’

  ‘Now I’m saying different.’

  The boxer said in his whisper ‘He’s got some chips.’

  ‘Let’s have them, Lefty.’

  The boxer stepped forward, Tony gave the chips to him and he counted them. ‘Thirty-five.’

  Cotton nodded. ‘You still owe me ninety.’

  ‘But the money was only ninety–’ He heard his voice becoming shrill.

  ‘Interest.’

  There was another door in the room, a door behind Cotton. Now this opened. A tall girl in a green dress came in and hesitated. Cotton saw her in the glass in front of him and beckoned with a finger. She crossed the room, stood behind the chair, and began to stroke his forehead, then his neck.

  ‘You’ve got till Wednesday for the rest.’

  ‘But I haven’t got it.’

  ‘I said don’t play. You asked for trouble, you got it.’

  The girl’s hands rhythmically stroked Cotton’s neck. ‘How’s the headache?’

  For the first time Tony looked at the girl. She stared straight at him without recognition. It was Fiona Mallory, Mary Tracey.

  In a voice of ludicrous mock-gentility Cotton said, ‘It’s getting better all the time, honey.’

  He was still staring at the girl when Lefty half-pushed him out of the room. At the entrance to the gaming room the big man said, ‘You heard what the boss said. Wednesday.’

  ‘He had no right to take my money.’

  ‘What’s that about money?’ Bradbury, red faced and smiling, stood beside them.

  The big man said in his hoarse whisper ‘I’ll see you,’ and walked away.

  ‘I’ve lost the money you gave me,’ Tony said. ‘I can let you have it in a few days.’

  ‘All right.’ Bradbury seemed unconcerned. ‘No trouble with King Kong there?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Good. We’ve all had enough, I’m collecting up our party.’

  Half an hour later the Dutchman had gone off to one of the addresses Bradbury knew, Pickett to another. Bradbury seemed disappointed that Tony refused an invitation to get hims
elf fixed up, and drove him back to the Seven Seas.

  ‘I don’t fancy it myself as a matter of fact, but I wanted to show old Van the town.’ Tony thanked him for the evening, and repeated that he would pay back the money next week.

  ‘Don’t worry about it. It means a lot to me, talking to an old friend.’ He scrambled out of the car as Bradbury was saying ‘I’m not a happy man, Tony.’

  ‘Thank you for the evening,’ he said again from the pavement. It seemed a ludicrously inappropriate remark. Bradbury looked at him through the window, put the car into gear and suddenly accelerated away. Tony went up to room thirteen, took off his clothes, brushed his teeth, got into bed and was immediately asleep.

  On Sunday he woke with a headache and a bad taste in his mouth. He resolved not to have anything more to do with Bradbury. In the evening he attended one of Widgey’s table rapping sessions. The results were disappointing.

  Chapter Eight

  On Monday the weather changed. Rain spattered the pavements, a strong wind blew, people struggled along the front in plastic mackintoshes. He rode alone on the top of the bus until it turned off the promenade. Then he heard steps coming up the stairs. A body dropped into the seat beside him. He looked sideways and saw that the man was small, dark, nondescript in appearance. There was something vaguely familiar about him. What was it?

  ‘Message for you. From Mr Cotton.’ The man lighted a cigarette, blew a perfect smoke ring. ‘He wants his money.’

  Of course. The man had been standing at Tony’s table watching the play. He must have followed Bradbury’s car last night, but still he seemed harmless enough. Tony felt annoyed. ‘He’ll get it but he’ll have to wait.’

  ‘Till Wednesday. Just to remind you. Cheerio.’

  The man rose to leave the bus, pulled on his cigarette and then leaned over and pressed the burning stub on to the back of Tony’s hand. He cried out. The shock was so sudden, the momentary pain so intense, that he did not rise from his seat. The man swung along the bus, clattered down the stairs, dropped off at a traffic light. Tony looked at the red mark on his hand and found it hard to believe that the incident had really taken place. Was this the shape of violence, something done casually with a ‘Cheerio’ at the end of it? When he got off at the end of Byron Avenue he was still shaking slightly, and looking at the red and swollen hand he felt sick. Taking deep breaths, letting wind and rain blow in his face, he walked towards the Villa Majorca. When the door opened he received his second shock of the morning. The figure confronting him was neither Foster nor Jenny but a moustached female dragon, who barred the entrance.