31st Of February (14 page)

“If we pass the scheme through tomorrow, Andy, early next week for the memo. Can do?”

“I suppose so. I don’t know when I’m supposed to work on Hey Presto.”

Better hand it back, then, if you haven’t got time for it. Mustn’t let anything stand in the way of Hey Presto. I was going to give you the dope, but it can stay here.” Something in the way in which Reverton tapped the papers on his desk, the readiness with which his own mild grumble had been accepted, seemed curious to Anderson. He felt, with no obvious reason, that he had fallen into a trap.

“That’s all right,” he said; “I’ll manage.”

“Grand. Weight off my mind.” Reverton handed over the papers with a smile and tamped the tobacco in his pipe thoughtfully. Anderson felt, as he had done a few minutes ago with Wyvern that there had been a sudden drop in the emotional temperature. There had been a moment of crisis, and now it was over; but the nature of the crisis baffled him. He expected, nevertheless, that Reverton would pursue the subject of the memorandum, so that the next remark took him completely by surprise.

“What do you think of Charlie Lessing?”

Anderson quite frankly stared. “Charlie Lessing? As a copywriter, you mean?”

“All round. There’s more to being a copywriter than writing copy; you know that.” He waited expectantly.

Anderson said: “I don’t know just what you want me to say. He’s good at classy copy, stuff with plenty of snob appeal, not so hot when something down to earth is wanted.” He ended almost with a question. Reverton puffed away at his pipe.

“A nice chap, is he? Easy to get on with?”

“I get on with him. Some don’t – think he’s a bit superior. Why?”

“One just likes to keep a finger on the pulse,” Reverton said with quite uncustomary vagueness. “Harmonious running and all that. So you’ll tackle that memorandum after our meeting tomorrow.”

Anderson said he would tackle the memorandum. Back in his own room he found Jean Lightley and Molly O’Rourke. Jean was standing guard over the two letters he had asked her to type; Molly was at the window, staring out at the figures on the other side of the well, moving about in their little lighted boxes. She looked round as Anderson came into the room, and then turned her back to him and stared again out of the window.

“Your letters,” Jean said.

Anderson looked at his watch. “You could have signed them yourself. It’s late.”

“I thought perhaps – that one to Mr Crashaw – you’d like to look at it.”

“You’re quite right.” He signed the letter to Bagseed, and then read the one to Crashaw. It was strong, but not too strong. He signed it. “By hand.”

“Oh yes, Mr Anderson.” She brought out hesitantly:

“Mrs Fletchley rang through and spoke to me. She’s had to go out and you can’t reach her. She’ll be at a party later on this evening – at the Pollexfens’, she said. She said it was something important.”

Anderson looked at Molly’s hostile back. “The Pollexfens’ yes; thank you, Jean.” She went out. Without turning round Molly said: “Five minutes.”

Anderson put down the Crunchy-Munch papers and said with elaborate patience: “I told you I was busy.”

“Too busy to come in and see me.”

“That’s right.”

“Too busy to see me tonight.”

“That’s right.”

“But not…” Since Molly was standing with her back to him, addressing the window, Anderson could not hear her.

“If you’d turn round,” he said, and at that she turned round and showed tears running down either side of her great nose. Her voice was choked.

“Not too busy to see Elaine Fletchley.”

“I haven’t seen Elaine.”

“You’ve been trying to see her. Ringing her up.”

The tears blotched Molly’s powder. Anderson contemplated her with distaste. “You know why I want to see her. I asked you last night if Val had an especial boy friend. Now I’m going to ask Elaine.”

“Why?”

Suddenly Anderson’s control left him. He smacked the desk lightly with the palm of his hand. “Because Valerie was somebody’s mistress.”

“So what?”

“And it was somebody in this firm.” Now, Anderson thought, I’ve done it; the cat’s really out of the bag. But to his surprise Molly seemed not to find the news exciting.

“What does it matter? She’s dead. It won’t bring her back. And anyway, you never loved her.” Molly dabbed at her eyes. “I must look awful. I’m making a fool of myself. I’ve never met a man who didn’t give me a runaround. And do you know another thing – I’ve never failed to come back for more. I’m a fool that’s all, I’m a fool.” She began to cry again, weakly and without conviction. Anderson picked up the Crunchy-Munch papers again, and pretended to study them. “You don’t want to make love to me.”

“Not at this moment, thank you.”

“You don’t even want to kiss me?”

She tottered toward him on her high heels. “Give me a kiss to show you don’t hate me.”

“For God’s sake, Molly, we’re in the office.”

“It’s time to go home. Everybody’s going home. Nobody will come in. Just one kiss.”

“Very well.” Anderson got up and advanced toward her round the desk. Her nose at this distance, and under harsh electric light, was revealed as one of ghastly shape and size, almost like a false nose put on for a charade. Was it possible, if one kissed her, to avoid a jarring contact with that forward and hunting proboscis? It appeared not; and yet it had been possible, no later than last night. Very gingerly Anderson’s lips approached the tear-ravaged face. Reluctantly he felt the warmth of her body against his own. He closed his eyes, like a child about to drink medicine, and thus he did not see Molly’s withdrawal from him, but simply felt it in terms of decreased warmth. He opened his eyes again. Molly was staring past him. He turned round and saw VV standing in the doorway, hatted, overcoated, staring at them.

6

At one moment VV was standing there before Anderson’s astonished eyes. In the next moment, without speaking he was gone. Had he really been there at all? With vigorous gesture Anderson pushed Molly away from him and opened the door. He ran down the corridor in time to see the door of VV’s room close and present to him so blank an oak face that he was moved by the kind of fear he had known in childhood when he had been found out in wrongdoing and had been locked in his room, not, as his mother impressed on him, as a punishment, but so, that he could “think it out.” He felt at those times a weight of guilt that could be dispersed only by contact with the judge, his mother, even though when he saw her he had nothing to say. So now, with the sense of betrayal strong upon him, he felt it essential to see VV. He crossed the landing, tapped on VV’s door gently and entered.

The bright, inquisitive, intelligent face that was turned toward him seemed wholly friendly; it showed no consciousness of having witnessed that scene in Anderson’s office a moment ago, no recollection of that appalling luncheon. Anderson felt again, as he had felt several times in the past forty-eight years, that the events in his life somehow failed to be interconnected, as events should be in a life properly organized and rational; the happenings of yesterday, the errors of luncheon, the visit to Miss Stepley’s establishment, seemed to bear no relation to what was happening here and now. Had these things really happened? If they had, Anderson thought, they must be on the tip of VV’s tongue; they will surely be mentioned. But VV, instead, presented him with two thumbs triumphantly raised. “New World Cooler,” he said. “Everything went like a dream. Approved this, approved that, approved the other – only two small copy revisions. Lessing’s scheme, wasn’t it? Well, it’s very good work. Congratulations all round are in order. Copy, Studio – even the man who took it up and sold it to them takes a bow.” Gracefully VV bowed, and added solemnly: “It’s times like these – intelligent scheme, intelligent client, no squabbling – that make one feel advertising is worth while.” He looked at his watch and showed a rare trace of nervousness. “What are you doing for dinner tonight? Can you come back with me? Belsize Park, you know. Only
en famille –
but it’s rather an occasion in a way. And we should have time for a talk.” With an upward look, humorous and shy, he said: “We ought to have a talk, you know.”

Anderson had dined once before with VV and his wife, but that had been in a restaurant. Was it a mark of favour to be asked to dine with him at home? While he was pondering this point, VV said with a small intimate smile: “Better get your hat and coat. And get rid of your – visitor.”

“I’d like you to understand, it’s—”

“Not another word. I do understand, my boy. I understand perhaps better than you think.”

Molly was still in Anderson’s room. She looked at him as if he were a stranger. “Where are you going?”

Anderson put on his overcoat. “I’m invited out to dinner with the boss.”

She continued to stare at him. “There’s been a telephone call. It was a policeman named Cresse. He wanted to know if you’d be at home tonight. I told him I didn’t think you would. He said he’d call anyway.”

“That was absolutely right.” Anderson adjusted his black hat at a jaunty angle. “Did he say anything else?”

“He said that the air was unhealthy in Melian Street. He said you’d understand.”

VV’s high spirits were gradually dissipated on the way out to Belsize Park. In the underground train they were packed as close as tinfoil, and he talked about travelling conditions. “I admire,” he said loudly to Anderson as they swayed on the same strap, “the enormous capacity of modern man for endurance. But it’s unhealthy. The real, healthy thing is the capacity for rebellion. I don’t see any sign of that around us.” His waving hand, with a large parcel in it, described a small part of a semicircle and then was stopped by contact with a bulky figure in dungarees. The figure glared. VV glared back, but he stopped talking. After they got out at Belsize Park he was monosyllabic, and they trudged up Haverstock Hill in silence. Then VV said: “Marriage is a terrible thing.”

“What’s that?”

“I say marriage is a terrible thing. Have you met my wife? She’s a terrible woman.” Anderson found nothing to say. “Sometimes I wonder why one does it all. Advertising, I mean. Working, working, working – abandoning an artistic career – and for what? To support a woman who just doesn’t care.” VV’s rich voice was low and emotional, as though he were about to cry. “I sometimes think you’ve got the best of it. A girl like Molly—”

“Look here,” Anderson said, “I shouldn’t like you to think that was anything serious. It’s not.”

This time VV was able to make the semicircular arc without obstruction. “I’m a man of the world, Andy. I understand these things. I don’t want to inquire into your private life. Probably none of our private lives will bear inspection.”

“But—”

“Though there are compensations. Did you know I had a stepdaughter? Her name’s Angela. She’s a nice girl. It’s her birthday today. Fourteen.”

“Shan’t I be in the way?”

“Oh, not at all,” VV said gloomily. “Quite the contrary. And we must have our talk, don’t forget that.” His voice was now almost threatening.

VV lived in a large block of fiats. They went up three floors in a lift and down to the end of a corridor. As he turned the key in a highly varnished maplewood door VV gave a low-pitched whistle. There was a sound of running feet. The door opened and a large girl flung her arms round VV’s neck. “Daddy!” she cried. With a look almost of idiocy VV put his arms behind his back. “Daddy, what have you got? Oh, who’s this?” Anderson found himself shaking hands with the girl. She was large-boned, red-haired, slightly freckled, and attractive in a peasant-girl manner. She looked at least sixteen years old. “It’s my birthday,” she said. “Have you brought me a present?”

“I’m afraid I haven’t,” Anderson said. “But many happy returns, all the same,”

“Thank you. Oh, Daddy, what are you hiding?”

With ghastly agility VV skipped behind Anderson, holding the brown paper parcel still concealed. Angela shrieked and pursued him. Using Anderson as a fixed central pole, they danced round the little hall, giving cries and shouts of pleasure. At last Angela caught her stepfather and they struggled together as she tried to get the parcel. “Catch,” VV said. The package came flying through the air to strike Anderson chest high. He hugged it in both arms as the door opened and a voice said: “What is this brawl?”

Anderson remembered Mrs Vincent as large and bony. She now appeared smaller, but bonier, than he remembered. Her face was long and thin with a knifelike nose between high cheekbones from which the flesh fell away, Her breastless body was clothed in a long dark sack tied at the waist. Her hands, dropped at her sides, were long and colourless. She stood framed in a dark doorway, looking at her husband and daughter. “Victor,” she said, “don’t be disgusting.”

VV removed his arm from Angela’s waist and took off his overcoat. My dear, I’m glad to see you up,” His tone was one that Anderson had never heard him use before, the gentle placatory tone that an actor uses to a stage invalid. “This is Mr Anderson from the office
.
Perhaps you will remember him.”

“Go and wash your face and hands, Angela. You look grubby.” With awful gentility Mrs Vincent said to Anderson:

“How do you do? We have met at the firm’s dances, have we not? But this is an unexpected pleasure.” Anderson tucked the parcel under one arm and took her limp hand.

“VV was good enough to invite me at very short notice. I hope I haven’t put you out.”

“Nothing puts me out,” Mrs Vincent said, not reassuringly. She was staring at the parcel under Anderson’s arm.

VV made a gesture towards the parcel. “And what do you think? He’s brought a present for little Angela’s birthday.”

“That was kind,” said Mrs Vincent. “And particularly clever, at such short notice. But unnecessary. What is the gift, may I ask?”

“A pair of ice skates,” VV said hurriedly. Anderson patted the parcel and idiotically repeated the words. Angela ran out to the hall again and cried: “A pair of ice skates.”

“Happy birthday,” Anderson said, and dumped the parcel in her arms. She looked at him uncertainly. Mrs Vincent’s thin voice said: “Thank Mr Anderson for his gift.”