Bachelors Anonymous (3 page)

A snore
proceeded from the man on the wall. Joe gave him a speculative glance.

‘Blotto?’
he said, lowering his voice.

‘Sozzled,’
said Mac with his Flaubert-like gift for finding the
mot juste.
‘He’s
waiting for Miss Dalrymple.’

‘He’ll
be an entertaining playmate for her.’

‘Ah.’

‘Not
that he hasn’t got the right idea. I am about to go and get into a similar
condition myself.’

‘Now,
Mr Pickering.’

‘You
don’t approve of me drowning my sorrows?’

‘I
think you’re taking this too hard, sir. Everyone has flops.’

‘I
hoped I’d be an exception.’

‘Just
got to make the best of it.’

‘You
preach contentment, do you? Like the butterfly.’

‘Sir?’

‘The
toad beneath the harrow knows exactly where each tooth point goes. The
butterfly upon the road preaches contentment to the toad. Kipling. All very
well for you to talk. You’re a happy rollicking stage-doorkeeper without a care
in the world.’

‘Yes,
sir, but don’t think I wouldn’t have liked something better, if I could have
got it. When I came out of the army, there weren’t any cushy jobs going, only
stage-doorkeeper, so I became a stage-doorkeeper. But you don’t find me
beefing about my lot. I’d rather be top man at the Bank of England or run a
nice little pub somewhere, but I know when I’m well off.’

His
eloquence moved Joe. He nodded understandingly.

‘You’ve
made your point, Mac, and I stand rebuked. I abandon the idea of drowning my
sorrows. No more self-pity.’

‘That’s
it. Stiff upper lip.’

A
thoughtful silence fell. Mac broke it.

‘You
going out front, Mr Pickering?’

‘No,
I’ve seen all I want to of this particular drama. Why?’

‘I was
thinking that if you were going out front, you might run into Sir Jaklyn
Warner, Baronet. He was in here just now, asking for you, and you know what a
cadger he is. He wants to make a touch. I could see it in his eye. I should say
he’d touched everybody in the West End of London since he started hanging round
there. He even stung me for a bit the other day. Made me feel like one of a
great big family.’

‘One
touch of Warner makes the whole world kin.

He’s
certainly not one of our better baronets.’

‘You
can say that again, Mr Pickering. Jak Warner!’ said Mac disgustedly, and the
man supporting himself against the wall stirred like some Sleeping Beauty
coming to life. ‘If you want to know what I think of Jak Warner, he’s a twister
and a louse.’

The man
detached himself from the wall. His eyes were now open and his face was stern.
He spoke coldly.

‘I
heard what you said.’

A sharp
‘Coo!’ escaped Mac. It was as if he had been addressed by a statue or a corpse
after rigor mortis had set in. Joe was equally taken aback. The last thing he
had expected from this pie-eyed person was coherent speech.

‘And,’
the speaker continued, ‘I am going to knock your block off. Jack Warner is a
dear friend of mine. Well, when I say a dear friend, we haven’t spoken to each
other for three years, but that makes no difference. Anyone I hear aspersing
his name, I knock his block off. It is a name at the mention of which men from
one end of Hollywood to the other, including Culver City, bare their heads.
If,’ he added, ‘they’ve got hats on.’

‘He
didn’t mean that Jack Warner,’ said Joe, the pacifist.

‘You
keep out of this.’

Joe
persevered.

‘You
were speaking of hats and Hollywood,’ he said. ‘I suppose not many men wear
hats there.’

‘Very
few.’

‘The
sun is never too hot. No danger of sunstroke.’

‘Practically
none.’

‘But
you get a nice tan.

‘Sure.
Who’s to stop you?’

Joe was
relieved. It seemed to him that by cunningly turning the conversation to the
weather conditions in Southern California he had averted an unpleasant brawl.
Tact, he was thinking, that was what you needed in an emergency; tact and
presence of mind.

‘It
must be wonderful in Hollywood,’ he said. ‘All those oranges and movie stars.’

With
the best intentions he appeared to have chosen the wrong subject for his
eulogy. The face of the inebriated friend of Jack Warner darkened, and his
mouth twisted as if he had bitten into a bad oyster. His comment on Joe’s words
could only have been called curt.

‘To
hell with movie stars!’

‘Quite,’
said Joe hastily. ‘Quite, quite.’

‘The
scum of the earth.’

‘You’re
probably right.’

‘I’m
always right.’

‘But
the oranges. You like those?’

‘To
hell with them, too. No time to talk about oranges now. I’ve got to knock this
guy’s block off.’

And so
saying the pie-eyed man approached the window of Mac’s box and started to climb
through it.

The
situation, Joe saw, was one of delicacy, calling for adroit handling by a third
party anxious to make sure that neither of the two contending parties did
anything for which he would be sorry later. Mac was liable to get into trouble
if he indulged in personal strife with visitors, and his opposite number could
not fail to regret it if he went about knocking people’s blocks off. With
laudable promptitude he attached himself to the latter’s garments and pulled.
To gather him up and escort him to the street door and push him through it was
a simple task. It was, he noticed, raining outside, but no doubt his charge
would find a taxi before he got too wet. He returned to Mac with something of
the feeling of a Boy Scout who has done his good deed for the day.

‘Lord love
a duck,’ said Mac.

‘Lord love
a duck indeed.’

‘You
get all sorts.’

‘You
certainly do. Who was our guest?’

‘Couldn’t
tell you. He gave his name, but I’ve forgotten it. Loo something.’

‘From
Hollywood, I gathered.’

‘I
don’t know where he came from, but I wish he’d stayed there. Much obliged to
you, Mr Pickering, for acting so prompt.’

‘Don’t
give it another thought. Well, goodbye, Mac.’

‘Goodbye,
sir. Better luck next time.’

‘If
there is a next time.’

‘Oh,
there will be, Mr Pickering. One of these days the sun will come smiling
through.’

‘Well,
I hope it hurries,’ said Joe. ‘If you meet it, tell it to get a move on.’

He went
out into the street and started to walk to the modest flat which he called his
home. The rain had stopped, but there were puddles which had to be avoided, and
he had just stepped round one of these when a solid object bumped into him,
causing him to stagger.

He
clasped it in his arms. Tonight appeared to be his night for clasping his
fellow human beings in his arms. A brief while before it had been Mr Loo
something from Hollywood; now it was Sally Fitch. Some days had passed since
their former meeting, but he had no difficulty in recognising her.

2

‘Good Lord!’ he said. ‘You!’

‘Why,
hullo,’ said Sally.

‘Pickering
is the name, if you remember.’

‘I
hadn’t forgotten. Thanks for catching me so adroitly.’

‘Don’t
mention it. What were you doing? Practising rustic dances?’

‘Staggering.
.My heel came off.’

‘Oh,
was that it?’

‘I was
walking peacefully along, minding my own business, and suddenly
wham,
no
heel on right shoe. Interfered with navigation.’

‘I can
imagine.’

‘There’ll
be a cab along in a minute. Meanwhile, let’s have all your news. Been doing any
boxing?’

‘Not
lately. I did think of plugging Vera Dalrymple in the eye, but I let it go.’

‘I hope
she hasn’t ruined your play. How’s it going?’

‘It’s
gone.’

‘Oh,
no!’

‘Came
off tonight.’

‘Oh, I
am
sorry. You must be feeling frightful.’

‘I’ve
been cheerier.’

‘You
seem cheery enough.’

‘Just
wearing the mask. I’ve sworn not to indulge in self-pity. After all, there have
been lots of fellows worse off than me.’

‘I
suppose that’s one way of looking at it.’

‘Take
the boy who stood on the burning deck whence all but he had fled. Can’t have
been pleasant for him.’

‘Not
very.’

‘But
I’ve never heard that he grumbled. And Napoleon. He suffered from chronic
dyspepsia. Couldn’t digest a thing. Every time he got up from dinner he felt as
if a couple of wild cats were fighting for the wild cat welterweight
championship inside him. And Waterloo on top of that.’

‘And
probably all he said was Oo la la.’

‘I
shouldn’t wonder.’

‘Or Zut.’

‘Yes,
possibly Zut.’

‘And we
could go on kidding like this indefinitely, but that doesn’t alter the fact
that I’m awfully sorry and think you’re taking this awfully well.’

‘Thanks.
That means a lot to me.’

‘I hope
everything will get better soon.’

‘I have
it on excellent authority that the sun will shortly come smiling through. And
now,’ said Joe, ‘I’ll get you that cab.’

The cab
rolled off, and he resumed his homeward journey. There was a letter lying on
the floor as he came into the flat, and picking it up he recognised the
handwriting of his friend Jerry Nichols, who worked for his father’s legal firm
of Nichols, Erridge and Trubshaw of 27 Bedford Row.

‘Dear
Joe,’ wrote Jerry, ‘If you can get your Simon Legrees to let you off for half
an hour on Tuesday morning, come and see me. I think I may be able to put you
on to something good. I specify Tuesday because haste is of the essence and I
shall be away all Monday. Don’t fail, as this good thing looks quite a good
thing. Tuesday, remember, not Monday.’

Promising,
Joe felt, very promising. Yet, oddly enough, his thoughts as he dropped off to
sleep were not of Jerry Nichols but of Sally Fitch.

Chapter Four

Dotted about London in the
less fashionable quarters of the town there loom here and there enormous houses
which were built at a time when everybody had ten or eleven children, lots of money
and vassals and serfs in comfortable profusion. No longer able to be used as
private residences, principally because the serfs and vassals now know a thing
or two and prefer to make their living elsewhere, some have become blocks of
flats, others hostels for students and the younger wage-earners. Each of the
latter has a communal living-room and dining-room and each resident his or her
bedroom, and the general effect is of an informal and rather cosy club.

One of
these younger wage-earners was Sally Fitch, and on the Sunday following the
night on which her shoes had proved so untrustworthy she was in her room,
discussing with her friend Mabel Potter the latter’s marital problems.

Mabel
was the secretary of Edgar Sampson the theatrical manager, but leaving shortly
to get married, unless she decided to stay on after the honeymoon, and she
wanted Sally’s views on which course she ought to pursue. Charlie, it seemed,
who made quite enough for two in a stockbroker’s office, wished her to retire
and concentrate on the home, but she wavered because she liked being a
secretary.

‘Sammy
is awfully nice to work for, and you meet such interesting people in a place
like that. There was a newspaper man in the day before yesterday who had
delirium tremens right in front of my desk. Do you like your work, Sally?’

‘I love
it.’

‘You
must meet a lot of interesting people, too.’

‘All
the time. Have you ever seen an existentialist poet? Well worth a glance. The
one I did offered me absinthe, not to mention a weekend at Bognor Regis. And on
Tuesday I’m doing Ivor Llewellyn, the motion picture man. He ought to be good.
The trouble with the job is that it’s so ships-in-the-nightish.’

‘How do
you mean?’

‘You
meet someone you like, chat awhile, and part for ever. You never see them
again.’

‘Well,
you can’t expect celebrities to swear eternal friendship.’

‘A
paper like mine doesn’t go in much for celebrities, though I suppose Ivor
Llewellyn’s one. Never heard of him myself. We get the lesser lights. I was
thinking of Joe Pickering.’