“Well, yes,” he said, “for some it may begin at forty. But you’ll seldom hear a homosexual tell you that.”
I pulled my arm away and turned up the collar of my sheepskin jacket. “Shall we head back?”
And if it’s really so terrible to be a homosexual, I thought, why have you done your damnedest to turn me into one? Again, I recalled that just a few hours earlier I had said he was a saint.
“Admittedly,” he went on, “for ‘normal’ men—for men who have a family—it could all be rather different. By forty you’re more or less established, the children are becoming less of a millstone, the future’s reasonably secure. Not so many fears of a lonely or a loveless old age. I sometimes think it must be very satisfying to have a family to work for.”
“In that case, matey, I’d say there’s only one solution.”
“And what’s that?”
“You’d better go looking for a wife. You’re rich enough. You’re attractive enough. Just say the word; I bet the women would come flocking!”
“You sound as though you’re serious.”
“Well, damn it, if you’re really that anxious to wallow in long-term emotional security!”
But then I heard what I was saying—and at once felt guilty.
“In any case, why in heaven’s name do you need a family to work for? You have me to work for. I’d have thought that would be enough for anyone!”
It was extraordinary to see the change in his expression when I told him that. One moment he was wooden-faced—dull-eyed—aloof.
The next he gave a laugh.
I said: “You’re a nut, Oliver Cambourne! You really are.”
“Yes, I suppose I am.” Already he spoke in a far more lively tone. “It’s just that a person gets so tired. He can’t go on and on being positive. He loses his vitality.”
“Oh, balls.”
“No, it’s true.”
“Then there’s one very obvious comment, concerning the things people get up to, either late at night or early in the morning. You won’t win much sympathy from me, complaining you feel tired!”
“That has nothing to do with it. Good sex is one of the few things which increases your vitality.”
“Oh, really? Well. my word! Anyway, remember this. ‘Philosophan Fortifies the Over-Forties!’”
That slogan was on every tube train—although he would probably never have seen it there, and even I, since we had met, hadn’t used the underground.
“So just hold out for another eight months,” I said, “and all your problems will be over.”
Oliver made as if to give me a clip across the ear. I dodged. Then, laughing, I ran back along the track.
“Come on, Granddad! Puff, puff, puff!”
But after a while I let him catch me and we had an energetic tussle on the pine needles. These days Oliver seldom went to a gym (I was trying to get him back into the habit—as company, and competition, for myself) yet otherwise we were fairly evenly matched. As I brushed the dirt off my trousers, I remarked, “Well, not too many signs of advancing decrepitude there! And—rather annoyingly, if I’m aiming to keep up—I can’t believe there ever will be!”
The rest of the day held no such downswings. We returned home ready for tea—and Christmas cake—in the library; then moved a table closer to the fire and played a lengthy game of Monopoly. Mrs Cambourne was the winner, with Oliver coming in second. As for me, I fell a long, long way behind.
“And I always assumed,” I said, “that the Cambourne Empire was just another music hall!”
“Well, now you realize your mistake,” answered Mrs Cambourne pithily, waving a wad of paper money underneath my nose.
But soon she was talking gaily of Albert Whelan and Ella Shields and Lily Morris—“people I don’t expect either of you foolish boys have ever heard of.” Yet she was wrong. She, Oliver and I spent the next hour happily capping each other with half-spoken snatches of song: “Why am I always the bridesmaid?”, “My ole man said follow the van”, “I’m ’Enery the Eighth I am.” And also—no malice aforethought here, since I was the one who raked it up—“She was a sweet little dickie-bird; cheep, cheep, cheep she went; sweetly she sang to me, till all my money was spent…” And so on … Between us we must have resurrected more than twenty of these old music-hall anthems, interspersed with charming little footnotes from Mrs Cambourne on where she had first heard some of them or what they reminded her of. Altogether, it was fun.
Afterwards, we ate turkey sandwiches and watched ‘Top Hat’: despite its inexpressibly silly story, the sort of thing we all felt in the mood for. The song title ‘Isn’t this a lovely day?’ would have matched my sentiments entirely—if it hadn’t then gone on to talk about the rain!
Yet the next morning it did indeed hit the household like a downpour.
Oliver’s depression.
My God! He was morose from the moment he got up, but was obstinate and wouldn’t return to bed—although at first I’d thought the problem might be tiredness. He ate no breakfast, spoke to me either in monosyllables or not at all, and retired after only a few grudging sips of coffee to the drawing room, where he hid behind the latest ‘Paris Match’. I felt restless and aggrieved. I couldn’t make him out. He had seemed in such high spirits the night before and wholly recovered from the few dismal moments of the afternoon. But now there was no question about it. He was behaving like a sulky little boy.
And in fact it was far more entertaining when, halfway through the morning, Mrs Cambourne came downstairs. She and I grew practically conspiratorial. We drank coffee in the library.
“Oh, he gets these attacks,” she said. “The only wonder is, he hasn’t had one for so very long! But I’ve learned it’s best if we ignore them. Or do I mean—ignore him?”
She gave a crooked smile.
“Lots of artistic men, they tell me, are subject to these black periods. The dark night of the soul, I think they call it. It’s very trying for the rest of us.”
“You can say that again! I was going to suggest you come for a drive this afternoon—in my car—but not if these blackout conditions still prevail.”
“At any rate, John, I’m glad to know you can retain your sense of humour.”
But I hadn’t been feeling particularly humorous. I’d been thinking: I’m artistic and I don’t carry on like this!
I noticed she had called me John. Of course, when speaking of me to Oliver in my presence she had often used the name; and also on the tag to my Christmas gift; but never whilst addressing me directly. And it went through my mind how ironic life was: only two days earlier I’d have been considerably alarmed at the idea of sitting alone with her over morning coffee—and yet here we were now, getting on wonderfully. We had a stimulating ninety minutes. At the end, our talk returned to Oliver.
“It makes me very happy,” she said, “to see you show such tolerance—such sensitivity.”
Christ!
But there it was, I reflected. Her apology. Out in the open.
It assuredly gave me a good feeling—but caused me to think that I, unlike Rachel Millwood, could never be a soothsayer.
Not even in prose.
Sorry, Oliver.
14
New Year’s Eve.
Chelsea Arts Ball.
Its golden jubilee, to boot.
Ten minutes to twelve. We’re sitting in a large party of Oliver’s friends, all of whom seem very merry and some of whom appear quite drunk. Oliver is dressed as a French aristocrat, circa 1780. I’m a pirate from the Spanish Main. At various times I’ve been mistaken for Errol Flynn, Tyrone Power and Cornel Wilde. Shall I fly off to Hollywood, I wonder, and see if similar mistakes arise.
Yet despite the fact I’ve been looking forward to this since Christmas, now that it’s here I’m not honestly enjoying it, I think chiefly because I, like everybody else, have been drinking. But unfortunately it hasn’t made me merry.
Just queasy.
Also, although perhaps merely in k
eeping with the theme of the ball (says he, charitably!), nearly half our party is wearing female attire and could probably, even in daylight, pass for women. We boast a couple of apache dancers, one of whom, Gerald, is made up to look like Cyd Charisse in ‘Singin’ in the Rain’. He could almost be her double—his legs are perfect. I can’t help it but I find this, too, a mite nauseating. I know it’s intended as a joke.
One of the girls, however, actually is a girl: a petite blonde called Melissa Stanton, who’s the daughter of a diplomat. (Oliver sold a painting to her father.) It’s a pity she isn’t Elizabeth.
It’s also a pity that she keeps talking like a character out of a book and saying things like, “Isn’t it lovely about Sir Alec?”
“Sir Alec whom?” I ask.
Her baby blue eyes express astonishment. “Why, Guinness, of course! Oh, didn’t you know? New Year’s Honours List. Out tomorrow.” Giggles; puts a hand to her mouth. “Oh, naughty me, I shouldn’t have told you! Please don’t pass it on!”
I take her word for it about Michael Somes and Stirling Moss and Freddie Grisewood. She appears to have them all off pat: her CBEs, her OBEs, her OMs.
She says, “That’s Felix Topolski over there; he’s a very dear friend of Philip’s. Thirty guineas those boxes cost but I wonder if he’s had to pay for his. I don’t think I have to tell you—he’s the person who painted this lovely canvas!”
“Mmm. I believe they did allow him a small discount,” I murmur. “Twenty-five percent.”
She doesn’t quite know how to take this. Can’t be sure whether I’m serious or not. Gives another little laugh. “I mean! Who sums up Chelsea better than Augustus John?”
“Yes, who?” I ask. “Who on earth?”
For Augustus John, my informant tells me (and I suppose reliably), will be eighty next Sunday and—clearly in honour of this—has been made the central figure in Topolski’s panoramic design. “Oh, isn’t it wild!” enthuses Miss Stanton. “Just look at the 1958 girl. Gosh, has he painted one mean girl in her! Wouldn’t you say that girl is really mean?”
Because the enormous canvas under which we’re all doing the cha-cha when she says this—it must be at least sixty feet by a hundred—depicts Twentieth Century Woman at ten-yearly intervals, from 1908 until the present time.
“Oh, absolutely!” I reply.
That mean 1958 girl is thin and angular and wearing a sweater and black stockings. She’s certainly no glamour puss. No rival to Mae West.
But this year’s costumes according to my partner are quite as brilliant and saucy as ever—and as far removed from any trace of trying to economize. The only thing that’s different this year is the peaceable behaviour.
“Because, well, haven’t you noticed all those marvellous specimens of manhood dotted around the Hall?”
When I answer that, no, I haven’t—because I’m sure she doesn’t mean Gerald—she tells me that amongst the fifty stewards there are a dozen barrel-chested gymnasts from the London Polytechnic Weightlifting Club. I only hope this girl never goes over to the Reds; she’s plainly in the Mata Hari class.
“So much less rowdy this year,” she repeats, shaking her head in bewilderment. “Honestly, John, you wouldn’t believe it—you would not believe it!”
“Tell me,” I say. “I’m interested. You’ve obviously been here before. Why do you keep on assuming I haven’t?”
This throws her, it truly does throw her. For about a minute she becomes confused—apologetic. Afterwards she doesn’t twitter on half so merrily.
Then I feel sorry and suggest she possibly heard it from Oliver. Too late I discover she isn’t really such a bad girl; too late I discover I didn’t need to be unkind. But now Miss Stanton appears to be avoiding me. How tiresome when people show themselves sensitive!
As I say, it’s ten to twelve.
“Happy 1959!” Though Oliver’s sitting next to me he still has to raise his voice.
“Thanks,” I say. “And you.”
“It’s going to be a splendid year.”
“Yes. But I’m sitting here deliberating if I ought to get a job.” (Elstree? Shepperton, Pinewood? Or straight out to California?)
“Why? You’re busy enriching the heritage of the British novel.”
“Not very fast I’m not.” ‘Where Two Roads Meet’ is in the doldrums. There was a strong, invigorating wind some three weeks back; but this abated well before Christmas.
“Well, who cares about speed?” asks Oliver.
“I can’t live off you forever.”
“Why not?”
Why not? I’ll tell you why not. Because I want to go to Hollywood. I want to smile down from cinema screens across the world, be mobbed in the streets, give press and television interviews, be recognized by head waiters in all the luxury restaurants. I want to be known as both an actor and a sex symbol. I shouldn’t mind being the new James Dean. I shouldn’t mind acting with Gregory Peck or Rock Hudson or Jean Simmons or Henry Fonda. No, I don’t even want to be the new James Dean—let alone the new Errol Flynn, the new Tyrone Power, the new Cornel Wilde. I want to be the new John Wilmot. Me. Me, in my own right. Top Box-Office Draw of 1959. And ’60. And ’61. Et cetera.
But not so easy to convey all this in one pithy sentence at the top of your voice. Not so easy to convey all this in any way at all—not to Oliver.
For instance: when you have your friends in … Either they’re queer (and I don’t like mixing with queers en masse, although individually, I suppose, most of those I’ve met have been all right) or they’re not queer—and then what sort of position does that place me in? I wasn’t born, Oliver, to be viewed merely as some extension. Subservient, the hanger-on, the one who has to be included in all those invitations you receive. I wasn’t born to be patronized. Or overlooked.
And, anyway, I want to go to Hollywood.
But how can you convey all this when your head hurts and you have to shout and the very last thing you want to do is cause him any pain?
Why, of course, you convey it in a shrug.
I shrug.
“Besides,” says Oliver, “a job would only get in the way of things. I want to take you travelling. And you remember we spoke the other day about our sailing round the Greek islands? Up to now, you haven’t even seen the ‘Sarah’, let alone sailed on her!”
Corks pop. Balloons are bursting. Two monstrous pink elephants float above our heads.
“I must say”…I temporize…“that would be very pleasant.”
“Well, yes, it would.”
And I don’t temporize for long. “Oh, to hell with all those petty bourgeois scruples!” (Is that what they were? Not quite but never mind.) I unexpectedly revive a little. There has risen up an image of our sailing round the Greek islands, other places too, sunning ourselves on deck—perhaps naked, a deep overall tan—putting into port to spend peaceful languorous evenings drinking and eating and singing in small tavernas off the tourist routes. And after all, damn it, I am only nineteen. Hardly born yet! Hardly yet standing upon the very threshold of life! I move in a little closer—we were already pretty close. “Okay. Eat, drink and be merry, for tomorrow we die. That’s my New Year’s resolution.”
“I thought it was your Old Year’s resolution.”
“Aren’t I allowed to reaffirm?”
Now it’s nearly midnight. Everyone is wanted on the floor. There are a few seconds of comparative quiet; the M.C. has his right arm raised and his eyes on his watch … the arm comes down, lights flash on and off, couples kiss and—atypically in public—I, too, lose my inhibitions: Oliver gets a long and robust hug, one that dislodges his feathered hat.
“‘Should old acquaintance be forgot and never brought to mind, we’ll drink a cup of gladness yet, for the sake of auld lang syne…’”
The great linked circles come in on themselves, right in, then retreat, advance, retreat again, break up. There’s something about it that always makes me feel emotional.
But when it’s over, the
throbbing in my head—which has so far been bearable—starts to accelerate.
“What now, Ollie? Back to your place? Let’s have an orgy!” Lucien, a dashing musketeer—but with the kind of almond-shaped, highly buffed fingernails I don’t suppose d’Artagnan ever had—begins to organize everyone. “We’re all going back to Ollie’s!”
“But not for any orgy,” says Oliver.
The grace with which Oliver gives in to the suggestion—or, rather, the readiness with which he seems to meet it—coupled with the undeniable good looks of Lucien, however effeminate, provokes in me a rush of jealousy. But I clench my fists and determine not to show it.
Thirty minutes later we are reassembled at the flat, some dozen males in all (whatever happened to Mata Hari—did she feel so very much offended?), and we’re sprawling about with yet more drinks. Even I have another; I’m not sure how it found its way into my hand. James appears in his element—I have never known him so convivial—passing round the glasses with an almost skittish air. Either he senses Oliver’s new interest in Lucien (is Oliver interested in Lucien; can there have been anything between them in the past?) and will be glad to see my much-hated nose put out of joint—or else he’s looking for a new master. That’s my own view of it. Not that I care much any longer. All other, smaller aspects of my misery are abruptly pushed aside by one that demands instant, absolute obedience. I rush towards the lavatory.
In the corridor, whom do I meet but Lucien, returning from the same place.
“John, my pet, you’re looking fanciable.”
“Not feeling it.”
“So very butch, with all that open shirt and acres of yummy torso. How about coming round to my place one evening this week? Rick’s away till Saturday.”
“Take care, I’m about to be sick!”
“Now you mustn’t act coy, my poppet. Don’t play hard to get. I know dear Oliver’s inclined to be a dash possessive, a bit old-fashioned at times—”
The Man on the Bridge Page 10
