Devils' Spawn

by Charles Birkin

  On Mary’s right was a good-looking young man. He was smoking a cigar, and while the list of players occupied the attention of his companion he leaned across Mary, with what she considered a marked lack of courtesy, and addressed himself to the girl on her left; remarking that “Micky could have come after all. One can usually find a single seat even on the night itself.” He then arranged himself in greater comfort and prepared to enjoy Excelsior’s latest offering. Mary felt that she had no existence whatsoever, and registered the impression that the English were just as offhand as she had always imagined.

  And now the film had begun. For a time nothing untoward occurred. Gary Trent who played the hero, made his first appearance. Mary waited. A ballroom scene followed in which she had participated. She scanned the crowd of dancers but was unable to identify herself. And here was Sylvia, timing a beautifully planned entrance. But not alone as had been scheduled, for beside her, mimicking her gestures to burlesque, stepped and grimaced Mary Gordon. There was a moment of surprised silence followed by a roar of appreciative laughter. Everything that the star did—the silent shadow ridiculed. Trent, apparently unaware that his heroine was labouring under great dramatic difficulties, never batted an eyelid. Never had there been such a comedy team—never such direction! The audience was delighted and bellowed their appreciation. Sylvia Panson was horrified. She glanced at Boronoff, for an explanation of this outrage. She could hardly believe her eyes. What was this posturing impudent creature she saw on the screen?

  Boronoff, his face absolutely expressionless, was hypnotised by the extraordinary occurrence. Fingering the black pearls in the stiff expanse of his shirt front he did not dare to look at Sylvia. He must have gone nuts, he thought despairingly. And still the audience laughed; laughed until they cried, until they were exhausted and could laugh no more.

  Before the end of the performance Sylvia and Alex left without speaking a word to anyone. Like sleepwalkers they found their car; oblivious of the crowd of patient admirers; forgetful of the minor Royalty who wished them to be presented, of the high representatives of Excelsior Films—of everyone and of everything.

  “We must not refer to this thing—even to each other,” they told themselves. “That is the only way to preserve our sanity.”

  The morning papers were ecstatic. The Mills of God instead of occupying the film section of the Dailies concerned, sprang on to the front pages. Not a single voice was raised in disagreement that Excelsior had given birth to the greatest laugh provoker that had yet been made.

  Boronoff blinked in amazement at the heap of newspapers stacked on the table in his sitting-room at the Ritz-Splendide. His hair was tousled. He had not troubled to change his clothes from the night before. His shirt was crumpled and soiled—his tie a draggled memory of the dapper white bow of the previous evening. Gingerly he sorted the pile of newsprint.

  CHARLIE CHAPLIN MUST LOOK TO HIS LAURELS was how the Sun headed its notice.

  GREATEST COMEDIENNE THE SCREEN HAS YET GIVEN TO US enthused the Planet.

  ANONYMOUS STAR STEALS PICTURE announced the Londoner.

  BORONOFF FOOLS THE PUBLIC—AND THE PUBLIC LIKES IT! was how the News reacted.

  EXCELSIOR’S NEW DISCOVERY A GENIUS said the Rocket.

  On no previous occasion had a première caused such a stir—never before had a film received such an ovation!

  As a man in a trance Boronoff let the papers fall to the carpet. He looked at his watch. It was nearly eight o’clock. He turned, and for a long time he studied his face in the mirror of the door.

  The telephone shrilled but he paid no attention. It continued to ring throughout the day. Reporters, competitors, friends—calls from Paris—New York—Hollywood. Telegrams, cables, notes by messenger boys. At nine o’clock, Hilby, Alex’s secretary, arrived to deal with them. He, too, had been at the performance. One look at his employer and he asked no questions. The great director was a broken man!

  Mary Gordon once again stood before the Golden Gates. As at their first meeting the old gentleman was there to greet her.

  “Well, my dear?”

  Mary smiled at him, her eyes shining with gratitude. “And to think,” she said, “I never thought of comedy!”

  Saint Peter stood aside to let her pass through into the promised land.

  Crowds besieged the Majestic Cinema after papers had made their appearance. In some inexplicable way the news of a mystery had become common knowledge. The theatre was packed, and long queues stretched for a mile outside the doors. Mounted policemen assisted their pedestrian comrades to control the traffic and to keep the peace.

  The extraordinary occurrence was never solved—for after that first performance, the film was shown exactly as it had been made. No silent comedienne convulsed packed houses with her antics.

  But the Press became very unpopular. The public does not like being hoaxed.

  ANGELA

  She was very slim and tall in her blue working overall, her hands covered in thick gloves of greenish rubber. The evening of the late June day flooded the studio with colour catching the glints of the acid-filled pans, purple and malachite, and the pure flame of sun on clear water. She arranged the prints that she carried to dry—the last of the batch—and picked up the list that lay on the small workmanlike desk. This was a formidable one marked “urgent.” She checked the names that scaled the long ruled page.

  “For Wednesday—without fail.” James Hudson. Mrs. Charles Halkin. Sir Harold Keen. The Onyx Car Company. Lady Bridgett Roads. Professor Nicoskoff. “Thursday.” Joan Rawlings. Xandra Milton . . . and so through that week and the two that followed.

  “Photographs by ‘Jera.’ ”

  Her individualist style, love of beauty and talent for the dramatic, had won her a front place in the ranks of fashionable photographers, so that at the age of twenty-eight her annual income was in the region of three thousand a year.

  The telephone started its dual summons. Jill picked up the receiver. “Yes? This is the studio. What name do you say? No. I’m afraid Friday is the earliest possible moment.”

  She went to speak to the two young men who worked in the developing-room, untidy and expert, with chemical-stained fingers.­

  “Coventry, I’m afraid I shall want you and Hamblen to work overtime for the next few days. I’m sorry, but things may begin to slacken off next month.”

  “That’s quite all right, Miss Grey.”

  Later in the evening the effects of her work began to tell on Jill. She was glad that she was not dining out, and that John was coming to dine in the flat with Angela and herself. She sat on the soft chintz-covered stool before the triple looking-glass and studied her face. Large grey eyes set a little obliquely in her head, a wide mouth, short nose and pale skin peppered with freckles. Her friends had likened her to a faun with her tiny pointed ears and wind-blown hair. A face that arrested attention first, and fascinated later. She was looking tired, Jill thought, and almost automatically began to rub a little colour into her cheeks to distract attention from the bruised shadows under her eyes. Her expression, which until now had been intent on the matter in hand, altered. Life seemed to die. What difference could it make to John if she looked tired or not. It was her voice she must keep fresh. He was quick to notice changes in her voice and in her step. She supposed that blindness sharpened one’s other faculties, at least so she had always been told. She considered the photograph on her dressing-table and remembered the struggle she had had with John at the sitting. He had laughed at her ideas and would not be serious; had burlesqued the attitudes which she had suggested, and at length had become angry and had said that she must take him as he was and no poodle-faking cinema stuff. She had taken his photograph at that moment, and the handsome petulant face was the more vital for the spontaneous drama. Still holding the rouge she studied the print with its strong black and white lighting, the head half-turned over the broad shoulder. She heard a knock at the door and Mrs. Walters, the feminine half of the married couple that ran
the flat, came in. Mrs. Walters was that uncommon being, a “treasure.” The daughter of a butler whose family had for generations been in service, she had married, just after the War, an ex-batman, to whom she was devoted. While not approaching her in efficiency, nevertheless he carried out his duties adequately, and the flat, as far as Jill was concerned, ran itself; despite the well-meaning if ineffectual efforts of Angela to fill in her day with attempted supervision.

  “Mr. Lang is here, miss.”

  “Tell him I’ll be ready in a minute—oh, and Mrs. Walters, give him a drink.”

  She hadn’t realised that it was so late; and John hated to be kept waiting.

  He was standing by the fire when Jill entered, holding a whisky and soda.

  “I’m sorry not to have been ready when you arrived, darling, but there is so much to do in the studio just now, and I hurried as much as I could.”

  “Still minting money! Selfishly, Jill, I hate to think of your working so hard when there is so little I can do to help.”

  There was no complaint in his voice, only a drear acceptance of his infirmity. “Sometimes,” he continued, “I think I should learn to plait those wicker mats that can be sold at three times their value by charitable persons. I might even make a pound a week with which to help support my wife.”

  “Don’t, John. Stop it, please.”

  “I’m sorry, Jill. Don’t pay any attention to me. Self-pity is a luxury that few of us can afford.”

  They sat in silence for some minutes. The room was so quiet that the rustle of the logs as they settled in the ash whispered very distinctly. Angela bustled into the room, over-feminine in her dinner dress of frilled chiffon.

  “Hello, John.” She spoke with what seemed to the man as infuriating tenderness. “Dinner’s ready. Take my arm.”

  Jill winced for him, knowing well how he disliked needless assistance.

  “I can manage all right, Angela, thank you all the same.” He stood up, waiting for the two women to precede him to the dining-­room. During dinner Angela said that Romaine Deering, a great friend of hers, and an industrious, if ineffectual, novelist of the romantic school, was calling for her and that they were going to see a Russian film entitled “Avarice” at one of the highly selective cinemas in the region of the Adelphi. She had pseudo-intellectual interests. Oddly enough John was an enthusiastic filmgoer, and found it amusing to try and piece together the story from the dialogue and sound effects, afterwards checking up his ideas with Jill.

  They were both relieved to hear that Angela was going out that evening, and, as soon as the door had closed behind the backs of the two “fans,” for Romaine had arrived punctually to pick her up, the peaceful atmosphere with which Jill had so effortlessly imbued the flat, began to have a soothing effect on John’s dangerously raw nerves.

  “Poor Angela!” Jill said. “Fortunately she is oblivious of her powers of irritation. John, I’ve been wondering . . . do you think I could suggest that I should take a small flat for her after we’re married?”

  He did not reply. Jill glanced at him quickly. “John, do you?”

  “After we’re married?” He spoke with sudden vehemence. “Jill, you can’t tie yourself to me. In a few years I’ll be a neurotic wreck. I’ve not the stuff of heroes.”

  Jill stared into the fire. She sat on a tweed-covered tuffet, her head against his knee.

  “I see no point in waiting, darling. We’ll both be much happier, I know. Let’s be married next month.”

  John made no answer, but leant down and kissed her hungrily, in panic that he should lose all that he loved in his dark bewildering world.

  Angela was unable to sleep. All through the night she was in that unenviable state of semi-consciousness in which troubles seem insuperable and a burning feeling of injustice consumes the hapless victim. She lay now considering the question of Jill’s attitude towards John. She did not consider that her sister treated him with the thoughtfulness to which his affliction entitled him. How unfair it was that Jill did not appreciate the trust that had been given her. Why, at times she was even brusque with the poor boy . . . so helpless—and once so strong. Angela lay staring into the gloom considering the unfairness of the world. She had not got very much out of her forty years of life. Somewhere a clock muffled by the distance struck five times.

  It was after nine when she awoke, and, struggling into her dressing-gown, padded into Jill’s room. She found her dressed and about to start for her work. Mrs. Walters waited at her elbow. Jill handed a pad back to her. “Yes, that will do very nicely. I shall dine out to-night, but Miss Angela will be in . . . won’t you?” she added, turning to her sister.

  “Yes. I thought perhaps I would ask Romaine to dine if she is free.”

  “Of course. Mrs. Walters, is Beckwith ready?”

  “Yes, miss. The car was here five minutes ago.”

  Jill shut the door of the flat behind her and pressed the button of the lift. She stepped out into the sunny street, a feeling of well-being in her heart.

  Beckwith sprang forward.

  “Good morning, miss.”

  “Good morning.”

  The curves of strong leather on his burly calves flashed in the sunlight.

  “I’m a little late I think. Is it a quarter-past yet?”

  His hand fumbled underneath his coat. “Nearly twenty-past, miss.”

  “Go straight to the studio, please.”

  The car moved off. From her bedroom window Angela watched it go. Funny how servants adored Jill. She considered at times that Jill was a shade too familiar with him. Beckwith was good-looking. A pity that he was her sister’s chauffeur. . . .

  Jill came back early to change, as she was going to a play, and Angela talked to her while she was having her bath. Small criticisms and complaints, and pathetic, unimportant confidences. Jill, wrapped in a towel of thick fleece and of gigantic dimensions, interrupted her once to say:

  “John knows I’m dining out to-night—but should he forget and telephone, tell him I’ll be back before twelve if he wants to talk to me.”

  After she had gone, Angela settled herself with a book to await Romaine’s arrival. She was finishing the first chapter when the telephone shrilled.

  “Yes? . . . Yes, it’s Angela speaking . . . really, Romaine, I must say I think it’s most inconsiderate of you . . . no, I’m afraid not . . . but that’s quite all right.” Her lips were pursed into a tight bud of pique and disappointment. “No, dear, of course I don’t. . . . Yes, I quite understand. . . . I don’t exactly know. . . . I’m rather busy this week as a matter of fact. Good-bye, dear.” She replaced the receiver briskly. She crossed to the bell. While she waited she lit a cigarette.

  “Mrs. Walters . . . I shall be alone for dinner to-night.” Once again the telephone clamoured for attention. The housekeeper moved to answer it.

  “Hello . . . yes? . . .” She turned to Angela. “It’s Mr. John.”

  “Tell him I’ll speak to him.”

  “One moment, sir.”

  Angela hurried across the room.

  “Hello . . . John?”

  “That you, Angela? Jill out?”

  “Yes . . . didn’t she tell you she was going to the theatre?”

  “I believe she did . . . well, good-bye, Angela. What time will she be back?”

  “Before twelve, she said. One minute, John, why don’t you come and dine with me? There’s plenty of food, as Romaine had to cry off at the last minute.”

  There was a short pause. John thought, ‘Poor Angela—she’s lonely and unhappy.’

  “Yes—I’d like to dine.”

  The line went dead. Angela told Mrs. Walters of this re­arrangement of her plans and returned to her bedroom to change her dress for a suit of satin pyjamas—blue velvet with gold embroidery. She was ready as the doorbell rang. Snatching up her bag she was reclining gracefully on the sofa when John was shown in. It was only then that she realised how unnecessary these preparations had been. “Still,” she com
forted herself, “it makes me feel more assured, even if John can’t appreciate it.”

  “Angela—my eyes hurt a little to-night—it was the heat from the streets, I think. I wonder if you’d find me the eye lotion that Jill keeps for me. I think it’s in the cupboard in the bathroom.”

  Dinner was over and they were back in the drawing-room drinking coffee.

  “Of course.” Angela got up and went in search of the lotion, returning a minute later holding it in her hand with a swab of lint. He turned his face to her. She noticed the lids of his eyes seemed inflamed. Gently she bathed them with the soothing liquid.

  “That better, John?”

  “Yes . . . that’s . . . better.”

  The tension round his mouth relaxed. Angela’s eyes tear-dimmed as she rested her hand on his shoulder.

  “Poor old boy,” she whispered.

  “You’re kind, Angela . . . but please, please, don’t pity me.”

  After a while he asked, “What time is it?”

  “Half-past ten. Jill will be back in an hour.”

  “I want to talk to you, Angela . . . about Jill, I mean.”

  “Yes?” She waited for him to continue.

  “Do you think it would be fair to her to let her marry me? She’s so wonderful, so clever and so loyal.”

  “That’s rather for you to decide, isn’t it?”

  “Do you think she loves me?”

  Angela made no reply. Suddenly all the jealousy, the loneliness, the bitterness in her soul welled up in a spurt of vicious hatred. John had appeared to have liked being with her, Angela, this evening. She could make him as happy as Jill could, and there were other men who were, or would be, in love with her sister.

  “Angela . . . why don’t you answer?” He turned towards her inquiringly.

  “I don’t want you to ask me that question.”

  “You mean that she doesn’t?” He got to his feet and came towards her. In his haste he knocked against a chair. Usually, in a room that he knew, he remembered the exact positions of the furniture. An ashtray on the arm fell to the floor.