Black August (4 page)

‘Has he had any exhibitions of his work?' asked the practical-minded Ann.

‘Well, now, isn't it strange that you should ask
that
,' Mrs. Pomfret's false teeth showed in a wide smile. ‘Only the other day I was saying that we simply must arrange an exhibition for him, but of course he is like a child, my dear—so simple—so unspoiled! Our hard, western commercialisation of beauty is quite beyond the understanding of his delicate mind.'

Ann felt an intense desire to giggle. She thought it highly probable that the Chinaman was a clever little rogue who made an excellent thing out of the enthusiasms of his arty-crafty European friends; but she was saved the necessity for comment; Mrs. Pomfret had heaved her bulk off the settee and was dragging a heavy parcel from the corner of the room.

‘My dear, I must show you,' she exclaimed—fumbling with her small useless hands at the wrappings. ‘He lent me this because I know a dealer—really an unusually clever man for his class—and I thought he might be interested. Look, my dear, his Infant Jesus—don't you think it
quite
remarkable?'

Remarkable was the word Ann agreed as she gazed with astonished disgust at this monstrosity in stone. A large ball covered with every variety of human face, the expressions varying from benign to mercilessly sadistic; it stood upon two short, splay feet, and two puckered, feeble hands protruded from its upper surface.

‘It is clever, I suppose,' Ann remarked doubtfully, once more forbearing to offend.

‘Clever!' Mrs. Pomfret cried, her pale eyes bulging at Ann's lack of enthusiasm, ‘but it is marvellous—it has such atmosphere—such rhythm!—help me to lift it on to the bookcase, dear, I simply must keep it for just one day.'

‘Rhythm!' thought Ann impatiently, ‘what utter rot!' but she helped to lift the figure, and then curled up in her chair again while Mrs. Pomfret stood back to admire this product of a distorted mind, her small hands clasped in an ecstasy of adoration.

‘It makes me feel so … so … Oh! how hard it is to put one's emotions into words. I wonder if you understand?'

Ann did not care two kicks what the woman felt, but at that moment Mr. Pomfret limped into the room.

He was a tall, cadaverous person, moody and silent—which his wife attributed to his great artistic gifts. Unfortunately the British public did not share her appreciation of Mr. Pomfret's genius, so although he had been writing for some twenty years it was a constant struggle for him to induce his publishers to renew their contracts and actually put into print those long dissertations upon the hesitations of the human soul which he evolved so laboriously.

‘My love,' he said, smiling wanly at his Junoesque spouse.

‘Hildebrand!' she swayed towards him—they kissed.

To Ann, there was something incredibly grotesque about the performance; the fat, emotional woman in her too highly coloured clothes, the lank, disappointed man who, despite the August weather, still wore a thin dark overcoat which dangled far below his knees.

‘Hildebrand—my treasure, we must hurry!' exclaimed Mrs.
Pomfret with a quick return to the practicalities of life.

‘But where?' the man turned sad, dark eyes upon his wife.

‘Zumo, my darling—had you forgotten?—and Chitterson Phlipper will be there, perhaps we can persuade him to take your article on the sex-life of the cryptogam.'

‘Ah, yes. Let us go then.' He held the door open for her with the elaborate courtesy of an old-fashioned actor, but her exit was momentarily impeded by the hurried entrance of Miss Griselda Girlie.

Griselda tossed a heavy satchel on to a nearby chair as the Pomfrets left the room. She was studying for her medical degree, and still taking student courses through the long vacation. Striding over to the hideous plush-covered mantelpiece, she looked quickly through the leters. ‘Oh dear,' she sighed to Ann. ‘He hasn't written—he won't now, I don't think.'

Ann nodded sympathetically; she knew that Griselda had tasted one glorious evening of romance when a young traveller in medical implements had made love to her at a students' dance. For a few days Griselda had been almost beautiful—but that was a fortnight ago, and now once more she was bony—plain. Ann felt that it was unkind to encourage her to hope. She knew that Griselda was desperately, tragically, anxious to be loved—but how could any man in sober earnestness desire to caress that gaunt unprepossessing body, or kiss those pale bloodless lips.

‘Perhaps it is just as well dear,' she said softly, ‘an affair would handicap you terribly in your work.'

‘I'm sick of work,' Griselda threw herself angrily into the second-best arm-chair.

That's because you've been doing too much,' Ann soothed her. ‘Take a day or two off, and you'll feel better.'

Griselda shrugged despondently. ‘Oh, what's the good, Ann—why are we cursed with sex I wonder?'

‘Who is cursed with sex?' asked a quick voice behind them. Gregory Sallust had entered unobserved.

‘I am,' cried Griselda fiercely, to Ann's amazement.

He laughed, not unkindly. ‘Blessed, you should say, my dear. Sex is the one great escape we have from the incredible dreariness of daily life. It only becomes a curse when you haven't the courage to get it out of your system in the normal way.'

‘Shut up!' said Ann sharply. She was feeling acutely for the
other girl, and wondered how Gregory could be so wantonly cruel.

‘You're a medico,' he went on blandly, ignoring Ann. ‘Be sensible then, put aside your stupid little suburban prejudices and make the young man happy. No harm could come to you, and it would probably cure your indigestion.'

‘What a brute you are!' Griselda flung at him. ‘As though any girl could go out into the street and offer herself to the first comer.'

Gregory ran his hand over his dark, smooth hair. ‘Dear me, I thought you had a man in tow already—but never mind, the other is just as good—clinically!'

‘How revolting! I couldn't!' gasped Griselda.

‘Why not?' his voice was sharp—imperious. The scar which lifted the outer corner of his left eyebrow gave his long, rather sallow face a strangely satanic look. ‘There are a hundred thousand lonely men in London—go out then, wait till some strong, healthy-looking blighter tries to pick you up—be coy if you like, but grab him. Then, once you get down to brass tacks, throw your inhibitions overboard; men always fall for that because it's rare in Anglo-Saxon countries. He'll ask you to meet him again—certain to, and when you do—don't look at his Adam's apple, gaze into his eyes and tell him he's a new Sir Galahad! Then with any luck the poor fish will get all sentimental, and you will at least have secured someone to fend for you in the trouble that is coming to us all.'

‘You filthy beast!' Griselda sprang to her feet, and rushed from the room in a futile endeavour to hide the tears which welled up in her small tired eyes.

‘Gregory, you are a cad.' Ann flung a half-smoked cigarette into the grate, and gave him an angry look beneath half-closed lids.

He swung upon her quickly, his shoulders hunched, his hands thrust deep into his trousers pockets.

‘Why?—don't be silly, Ann. God knows who'd look at her, but some fool would. There are lonely men—lots of them, and her one asset is that she's a young healthy woman, but of course she hasn't got the guts to do it. She's the stupid, inefficient sort who go under in every war and revolution.'

Ann's eyes fell before his glance. ‘What is the latest, Gregory?—are things getting very bad?'

‘Glasgow is under Martial Law. The troops were compelled to fire on the rioters last night. There were seven killed and sixty wounded. In Hull, during the early hours of this morning, an organised raid was made on the principal banks; a number of police were injured, the safes were dynamited and the contents carried off in fast cars. It is said to be the work of international crooks who are taking advantage of the disturbances. In a village of the Merthyr valley an income-tax collector was pulled out of bed at four in the morning, saturated in petrol, and then set on fire; he was burnt to death while the crowd cheered as if it had been Guy Fawkes' night. The crews on some of our biggest ships are giving trouble because it is the leave season, and all leave has been cancelled. Three pawnbrokers—Jews, of course—were dragged from their shops and kicked to death in the East End this afternoon. Troops are being moved into the dock areas now, because they fear rioting here tonight.' Sallust paused, and then added cynically: ‘Want any more of the gory details?'

She shivered slightly. ‘No! it's all too horrible—but do you really think the whole system is breaking up?'

‘I don't think—I
know,
' he laughed harshly, as he crushed out the butt of his cigarette. ‘I've been watching events for months and it's only a question of days now. There is not a single strong man in the whole of the Government—and this time next week the people will be fighting for food in every town in England.'

‘What do you mean to do?' she asked him curiously.

‘I,' he shrugged; ‘oh, don't worry your little head about me. The traditional bad man of the party may get killed in the play, or in that poor boob Pomfret's novels—but not in real life. Luckily, I'm not handicapped by any illusions or scruples, and so, my dear—I shall come through; a little drunk perhaps on looted gin, but otherwise unscathed. The thing is—what about you?'

‘I … I hadn't realised that things were quite so desperate,' Ann confessed.

‘Well, you'll survive—you're too damned good-looking for anyone to want to do you in. But you'll have to pay the price unless you slip off now. What about those people of yours in Suffolk?—I should get out if I were you while the going's good.'

‘Perhaps I ought to have stayed down there. A man I met the other day wrote and urged me to, but the letter only reached me
just as I was leaving because it was forwarded from here.'

‘Who is he? Anybody who's really in the know, or just some chap who is anxious for his lovely's safety?'

‘He's a civil servant, I think; he told me that he was after some post to do with the Government.'

‘Then he probably had good reasons for his warning. Take his tip, Ann—and mine. Quit the party…. God! what's that?' Gregory Sallust had suddenly caught sight of the monstrosity on the bookcase.

‘A masterpiece by Mrs. Pomfret's
protég
é Choo-Se-Foo,' Ann chuckled. ‘The Infant Jesus, I believe.'

‘How utterly blasphemous!'

‘Dear me,' she mocked him. ‘I thought you were an atheist.'

He turned on her swiftly. ‘Perhaps I am—but Christ was a great man—I hate to see Him mocked at by these filthy pseudo artists.'

A new sound came to them above the casual noises of the street. The rhythmic tramp … tramp … tramp of marching men. They both moved instinctively to the open window. As the head of the column came level, the door opened and Rudd joined them:

‘Wonder where the boys are off to,' he remarked thoughtfully; ‘we don't often see 'em darn this way.'

‘They are
en route
for the East End, I expect,' Gregory told him, ‘and they are probably taking the side streets in order to avoid comment as far as possible.'

It was a full battalion in war equipment. Steel helmets—packs—gas-masks—overcoats, bandoliers and rifles. Company after company swung by. The dust on their boots showed they had come in from the country and evidently their Colonel did not consider that they were far enough into the heart of London to call them to attention.

They marched at ease, their rifles slung or carried at the trail, many of them smoking, chewing sweets, or talking.

‘They might give us a bit of a song,' said Rudd.

‘That's just the trouble,' murmured Gregory Sallust, ‘they are not singing—and that's a damn bad sign.'

The sound of marching feet died away in the distance, and they drew away from the window.

‘I wonder whether Clarkson's is still open?' Gregory remarked as Rudd left them.

‘Why?' asked Ann.

‘Want to get a fancy dress for a party,' he answered absently.

Her tawny eyes were filled with sudden mirth. ‘How like you, Gregory, to go fiddling while Rome burns.'

‘You, I suppose, prefer to pray?' he countered in quick derision.

‘No, as a matter of fact I'm going out myself this evening.'

‘Good for you—“business as usual”, eh? and “Keep the home fires burning”. All the old gags will come out again—you see! … Got a new boyfriend?'

‘I shouldn't be going out alone, should I?'

‘No,' he eyed her critically, ‘by some amazing stroke of good fortune for you the proportion of proteins, hormones and vitamins which make up your body vary very slightly from the proportions allotted to Griselda—owing to the result of the blend you don't have to. All the same, what I said to her goes for you too and, if you've got a man, you'll be doubly wise in these days to make it worth his while to stick to you.'

‘Thanks, but the proportions vary in men as well, and so thank goodness they're not all like you. The decent kind don't need to have it made worth their while to stick to a woman if they're in love with her.'

He gave a sudden shout of laughter. ‘God! what fun you are, Ann—I love to see you get all romantic, I've a good mind to take you out myself one night!'

‘If that's an invitation it comes a little late,' Ann smiled.

‘Ah! well,' he shrugged his stooping shoulders, ‘Fleet Street keeps me busy six nights out of seven, so work shall serve as
an anodyne to my broken heart!'

‘Idiot!' she laughed. ‘You haven't got a heart.'