Love in Our Time

by Norman Collins

  “Come along, Commodore Biddle,” the Sea Lord commanded. “The Fleet is waiting.”

  At the words Mr. Biddle felt a great lump come into his throat. He took the Sea Lord’s proffered hand and shook it desperately.

  “Thank you,” he said.

  The actual ceremony of handing over the Commodore’s hat band and receiving the pink silk sash of office passed off smoothly enough. Then the Sea Lord thrust a little slip of printed paper into Mr. Biddle’s hand and he found himself taking a new oath.

  “I swear,” the words ran, “by this my Commodore’s cap of authority “—he had not put the band on very well; it had a make-shift, bulging appearance “and by this my sash of office, and above all by my original and binding oath as a Mariner in the Venerable Order of Mariners that I will uphold the honour of this, the East Finchley Fleet, and will so command it in obedience to my supreme officers that never will I allow myself to come before the Fleet, that never will I use my high rank for my own profit and that always will I preserve and cherish those ideals for which our Order was founded.”

  The Sea Lord turned and saluted him. Mr. Biddle saluted back and everyone in the room cheered. It was the kind of atmosphere in which if there had been a cannon they certainly would have fired it.

  Mr. Biddle was aware that the Sea Lord was whispering in his ear.

  “It’s usual to say a few words,” he was saying. “Something to show that you mean business. Give them a few practical ideals to live up to.”

  Mr. Biddle wanted to refuse; but he couldn’t. For the next twelve months he wouldn’t be able to refuse anything that the Order asked of him. They had elected him; and he was now their property to do what they liked with. Until next March he was theirs to consult and worry and harass and annoy to their hearts’ content. When he looked down from the platform at the faces of his friends and saw them applauding he knew that he was helpless.

  “Brother Mariners,” he suddenly blurted out. “You have done me a signal honour and I’m very grateful. I shall try hard to justify your faith. I’m not a speaker and I can’t say what this means to me. But it does mean a lot, believe me. It’s because it means a lot that I want to do something as a small token. And I’d like you to do something too. I know there isn’t the same reason for you because you haven’t just been elected; but all the same I reckon you might just put it to yourselves and see if you can’t do something. It’s the widows and children I’m thinking of. And my first duty as Commodore is to say that I propose to start the collection with a personal cheque for twenty-five pounds.”

  He sat down abruptly before the clapping began again. Now that he had said it he wondered what on earth had made him do it. He couldn’t afford twenty-five pounds any more than the rest of them could: he saw the little grey stone house with the white shutters in Dorset disappearing before his eyes. In a single gesture he had given half the roof away.

  But already the Sea Lord was speaking again.

  “Don’t let your Commodore’s splendid action pass for nothing,” he was declaring. “Remembering that it might be your own wives and your own children who are gathered round a death bed looking out wide-eyed into the future. Remember that and follow your Commodore’s example.”

  There was a rustle in the body of the hall and wallets were pulled out. Handfuls of notes were being gathered together by stewards and passed up to Mr. Biddle. He took them automatically and just sat there—with nearly thirty pounds’ worth of money in his fists, looking at his friends giving their wives’ house-keeping money away. They were good fellows these; they didn’t just pass by on the other side. A widow or an orphan cried out in the wilderness and they answered. It was men like these who kept the world a decent place to live in. He only wished that Mrs. Biddle could have been spared to see this day; it would have shown her what brotherly love properly organised and directed really meant.

  She, for her part, had always been rather scornful of the Mariners.

  Chapter Five

  It was Celia who rang up Gerald.

  He had determined on the night of the party that he would do nothing about seeing her; she was a portion of yesterday that refused to detach itself from to-day. Even her new phone number was forgotten. He had felt that he owed it to Alice to tear up the little scrap of paper that Celia had given to him.

  But here she was on the phone.

  “Gerald Sneyd speaking,” he said dubiously. “Who is it?”

  He knew perfectly well who it was—there was only one voice as melting and caressing as that—but he was trying hard to keep his distance; and not to recognise her put him at an immediate advantage. Also, he was seeking to keep the conversation within the possible bounds of a business talk.

  “It’s Celia,” she said. “I was afraid you’d forgotten all about me.”

  “Oh, no,” he answered helplessly. “I hadn’t forgotten you.”

  There was a moment’s silence. “Well, you hadn’t done much about it, had you?” she said. “I was afraid things really were different.”

  “That’s silly,” he assured her. “Why should they be?”

  He wondered as he spoke if he should suddenly put his hand down hard upon the receiver and pretend that they had been cut off in the middle of a sentence; but he reflected that it would be no use. Celia wasn’t the sort of girl to be put off as easily as that, and he knew that he would be jittery every time the phone rang for the rest of the afternoon.

  “Then why don’t you come and see me?” he heard her ask.

  “You mean both of us?” he said.

  “Oh, yes, I’d love to have Alice; you know I would,” Celia answered. “I think she’s sweet. But I wasn’t thinking of a proper party. I meant just you. Why don’t you come in for a drink on the way home?”

  “Thanks,” said Gerald; “I’d like to sometime.”

  “Then why not to-night?”

  He tried to invent an excuse; but Celia had always been able to see through his excuses. She would only laugh at him and think that he was afraid to come. That was the last thing he wanted; and, in any case, perhaps the sensible thing would be to drop in quite casually and show by his attitude that everything was over between them. All that it required was a rather elaborate display of deliberately offensive good manners.

  “Will you come?” Celia persisted.

  “O.K.,” he said.

  Her voice sounded even smoother than ever. “You get off just past the Russell,” she said, “and it’s the first turning on the left. Woburn Gardens. Number twelve. You can’t miss it. Mine’s the top flat.”

  “O.K.,” he said again.

  “About six.”

  “Just about.”

  “So long, then.”

  He rang off and passed his hand across his forehead. Someone told him that Mr. Hubbard was asking for him and he got up hurriedly. He walked with the guilty and unnaturally rapid tread of someone whose private business has abruptly been interrupted by the firm’s.

  He found Woburn Gardens without difficulty. The houses were tall, grey and identical; they looked more like a theatrical back-cloth than a row of real houses. As a product of the pre-concrete age they were a miracle of commercial standardisation. But, within them, there blossomed a wild and astonishing variety. The tenants ranged from ecclesiastical charities and coloured students’ clubs to dubious little publishers and cheap actresses.

  As Gerald reached number twelve and went in through the fine, imposing front door, which required only a push to open it, he began to regret more than ever that he had come. There is something strangely irrevocable about a top flat. In his bachelor days he had been friendly with several sporting and agreeable girls who occupied top flats. It had been like storming heaven to get to them; and almost as difficult to get away again afterwards. He mounted the last flight of stairs—they were maid’s stairs by now: high, steep and narrow—and came to Celia’s door. He was just a little out of breath and strangely apprehensive. As he rang, he told himself that his top flat days
were over.

  Celia opened the door herself. She looked very smart and fashionable in a new coat and skirt. Her pale gold hair was brushed in waves almost to her shoulders. He was grateful, that at least she wasn’t wearing a kimono or a pair of beach pyjamas; she usually did when she was alone.

  The inside of the flat impressed itself as soon as you entered. It was at once luxurious and feminine. There were two lots of bright colours and shaded lamps and large, unnecessary cushions. Most of the living-room was taken up by a wide divan that led a spacious, vaguely sinful existence by the wall. It dominated everything that divan—so that anyone who stood about or sat upright appeared to be doing it as a kind of gesture.

  Celia took Gerald’s hat and coat and put them somewhere obscure in what seemed to be the bedroom. Then she threw herself down on the divan.

  “Pour yourself out a drink,” she said. “You’ll find it over there by the radio.”

  He walked across with the slow, deliberate tread of a man who is making himself appear perfectly at ease.

  “What’ll you have?” he asked. “Gin or whisky?”

  “Gin,” she said. “Only a drop.”

  “O.K.,” he said.

  When he had got the drinks, he came and stood over her like a waiter. He made no attempt to share the wide, yielding meadows of the divan.

  “You’re looking well,” he said.

  “Thanks,” she answered. “I’m feeling lousy.”

  “How are you getting on? Still at de Vere’s?”

  De Vere’s was a shop window in Bond Street with a series of small cubicles attached to it. In the centre of the cubicles was a square of expensive carpet about the size of a workman’s dwelling. On this tiny enclosure the mannequins paraded. There were usually five of them. And to be among their number was to have been admitted to the highest circles of that exclusive profession.

  “Good Lord, no, I left there ages ago.”

  “What are you doing?”

  “I’m on my own now.”

  “Oh,” said Gerald. And then because he realised that he was not leading the conversation quite as he had intended he assumed a kind of detached interest.

  “Finding much to do?” he asked.

  “Oh, yes, there’s plenty to do free-lancing,” she said. “I do quite a bit for advertisements.”

  “Do you?” he said. “What sort?”

  He had seen one or two of them: it had given him a sudden pang each time he opened a paper and found that he was looking at Celia. But he wanted to retain his attitude of remote indifference.

  “It was corsets last time,” she answered. “It’s bath salts on Monday.”

  “Do you like it?”

  “It’s well paid.”

  “Why don’t you go on the films?” he suggested. “You wanted to.”

  “I’ve tried it,” she answered. “I’m the Society crowd type. Two guineas a day and find your own clothes. But the films are dead now. Have another drink?”

  “Thanks. Will you?”

  “Just a small one.”

  He mixed it carefully and brought it back to her as though she were a stranger.

  When she had taken the glass from him she reached up and pulled him down on the divan beside her. He sat there stiffly and awkwardly like a schoolboy invited to sit down in the presence of his headmaster. But once he was sitting beside her Celia just ignored him. She lay back trying to blow smoke rings from her cigarette.

  “It was funny seeing Rex the other night,” she said at last. “I hadn’t seen him since we broke.”

  “What did you think of his wife?” Gerald asked.

  “Poor old Rex,” said Celia. “I always knew he’d get a raw deal.”

  “Don’t you like her?”

  “Oh, I’m crazy about her.”

  It was then that Gerald played one of his bolder strokes.

  “I wonder what you really think of me for getting married,” he said. “I wonder what you think of me and Alice?”

  “I think you’re very lucky,” she said.

  “Do you really? You aren’t just saying it?”

  “You wanted to marry her, didn’t you?”

  “Of course I did.”

  “Well, there you are then.”

  She pressed her cigarette into the ash-tray.

  “It seems funny all the same,” she went on. “We went about a good bit together once.”

  “That was a long time ago,” Gerald reminded her.

  “Only three years,” she said.

  “Too late to do anything about it now,” he said.

  He tried to sound cavalier and care-free as he said it. But it did not ring true. He succeeded only in sounding hearty in a cheap, false sort of way.

  “Oh, it’s easy for you to joke about it,” she said. “You’ve got what you wanted. I haven’t. There’s nobody to fill my hot-water bottle for me. I’m just stuck here till someone thinks of ringing me up.”

  “I’m sorry, Celia,” Gerald answered. “I thought you were doing all right.” There was a pause. “You see quite a lot of Tony, don’t you?” he added.

  “Oh, yes, old Tony’s all right. He’s a good sort. He’s helped me quite a bit. I don’t know what I’d have done without him.” She stopped and began to trace patterns on the corner of the divan. “I know I’m a fool,” she said at last, “but I still miss you, Gerry, I wish to God I didn’t.”

  “I miss you too, Celia,” he said. And then before she could take him up he added: “But we’ve got to make our own lives now. There’s Alice, remember.”

  “You needn’t be afraid about Alice,” Celia answered. “I’m not poaching. It’s just that I’m lonely. I get fed up to the teeth being here alone all day.”

  He felt sorry for her as she said it, and because he felt sorry for her, he put his hand on her shoulder. As soon as she felt it there she put her cheek down to it.

  “That’s better,” she said. “I like feeling you again.”

  He did not attempt to remove his hand. Instead he began to stroke her hair with his other hand. He could feel her responding to it like a cat.

  “Poor old Celia,” he said. And then, because he could think of nothing else to add to it, he said again: “Poor old Celia.”

  She turned over towards him. “Put your arms round me once,” she said. “I shouldn’t mind so much if I’d been in your arms again.”

  While he was holding her she smiled up at him.

  “I reckon a girl’s in a hell of a fix if she feels this way about a man,” she said.

  Then, because her costume was a new one, she said that she was going to take it off. While she was gone, Gerald went over and stood moodily by the window. The lights were just coming on in the street below. There were people, oddly fore-shortened, hurrying along in the twilight, going home. He looked down on them rather enviously; at that moment he wished that he, too, were home.

  When Celia called to him from the bedroom the sound of her voice set him trembling all over. He left the window and went through to her.

  She had taken off more than her costume. She was lying back on the bed with only some sort of wrap around her. In the last streaks of light that came through the window she looked pale and lovely.

  “Gerry,” she said, “it’s been such ages.”

  He stood still where he was.

  “You’ve got me all wrong,” he told her. He could feel his heart hammering somewhere right up in his throat.

  But all she did was to hold out both arms towards him.

  “I’m waiting, Gerry,” she said.

  The room seemed to contract and draw in upon itself. Soon there was nothing in it but himself, and Celia lying there on the bed. It was very quiet, too; none of the noises from the street seemed to reach up as high as that. And the air was full of the scent she always used.

  “You … you don’t understand,” he said. “I’ve got Alice.”

  He was still trembling as he went down the stairs. He had simply snatched up his hat and coat a
nd run for it. As he got to the door he had heard Celia call out to him. But he hadn’t waited to hear what it was; he knew that if he heard her he wouldn’t be able to go at all. And he wanted to go. So he had just slammed the door and left her. Once outside he walked very rapidly, like a man who is anxious to escape from something. The whole neighbourhood seemed somehow sordid and nasty to him, and he wanted to wash himself clean of it. He hated Bloomsbury and Woburn Gardens and top flats, and everything that went with them. When he reached Tottenham Court Road and saw a 284 bus coming he greeted it almost as a friend; it was something at once clean and familiar, something that belonged to the other world of Alice and Boleyn Avenue and the future.

  Woburn Gardens was just something rather rackety left over from the past.

  Chapter Six

  The bathroom in the Sneyd home was the most opulently furnished room in the whole house.

  After the modest, distempered bedrooms with the cheap, deal cupboards, it was like coming upon a corner of Babylon to go into the bathroom. The brilliant chromium of the taps, the shaded mauve of the tiles and the glittering bevel-edge of the mirror combined to give an air of rather splendid luxury; it was as though within those four walls hygiene had suddenly become wasteful, even wanton. And there was the built-in bath. It was the latter that counted. To a man, one bath—even one bathroom—is very like another. But for a woman a built-in bath has a message all its own. You soap yourself and get clean in the ordinary kind. But in a built-in bath you lie full-length and feel like Cleopatra.