Dance and Skylark (24 page)

But Mr. Gurney, when the Mayor rang him up to ask for an explanation, had uttered a bird-like squawk and put down the receiver. Later, when Stephen accompanied the Mayor to his shop, they had received no answer to their urgent knocking on the door. The familiar notice
Back in half an hour
had been removed from the window and replaced by another which bore the single word
Wait
.

So Joanna turned out to be as mythical as the unicorn and the roc and the great sea serpent; an airy nothing, a creature of Mr. Gurney's mischievous imagination, an ingenious fraud like the Chippendale and Hepplewhite chairs in his shop window, and, like them, faked up with infinite pains, to feed fat his ancient grudge against Councillor Noakes. But her statue remained, as pointless as the pyramids, six feet six inches from the base of the pedestal to the top of her head, seven hundredweight (as Councillor Noakes put it) of hoax. She whom it commemorated no longer had any substance; but its formidable solidity would mock the town for ever. And it had cost the ratepayers four hundred pounds.

“I'm real sorry for your little Mayor,” said Polly. He lifted the draperies about Joanna's skirt and stared at her reflectively. “And I'm sorry for you too, Stevie. Let's go to the Red Lion and have a drink.”

He waved to the carpenters, who were laying wooden crosspieces upon the framework of the little bridge, and took Stephen's arm as they walked down the back lane
which led past the balloon factory towards the main street.

“Those planks,” he said, “will blow clean out, see, so we can collect 'em up and use 'em again for each performance. I've gotten some dynamite, Stevie. We can have a real big bang.”

How on earth, Stephen wondered, does a stranger in a strange land get hold of some dynamite? But that was all of a piece with the numinosity of Polly, it was another demonstration of his Dionysiac quality: he could do things which were impossible to ordinary men.

“And I dated up that redhead,” he observed casually, as they came opposite the balloon factory from all the windows of which, like smoke from a crowded room, there streamed a thin haze of french chalk. “And I bought a hundred thousand balloons to advertise my circus.”

Dionysiac indeed! Within less than forty-eight hours he had caused Old Screwnose to sing
Hexes to the good old snakebite
, he had persuaded the carpenters to work all Sunday afternoon, he had mysteriously obtained some dynamite, he had dated up Miss Foulkes, he had bought a hundred thousand balloons. And now, at the corner where the lane entered the street, he suddenly paused and exclaimed excitedly:

“Stevie, I got an idea!”

“Yes? What is it this time?”

“I been thinking. If you could have those Pleasure Gardens closed to the public for an hour or two this afternoon, and the gates locked during the performance—”

“Yes—why?”

“I could fix that Dame Joanna of yours.”

“You're rather good at fixing dames, aren't you?” laughed Stephen. “But what exactly do you mean?”

“Well, are you sure your little old Mayor would be glad to be rid of her, Stevie? Are you quite sure of that?”

“I should think he'd give his right arm if she could just magically disappear.”

“That's fine. Then I'll fix her. I reckon,” said Polly thoughtfully, wrinkling his forehead, “that the narrowest part of a dame is somewhere round about her waist.”

Because Edna had gone up to London for her film-test, Mrs. Greening had taken her place at the end of the long bench, and was testing the new batch of beach-balls which were being turned out in a hurry to fulfil an unexpected repeat order from Australia. When they were done the factory was going to start on Polly's platypuses. There was enough work on hand for nearly a month, and all the arrears of wages had been paid that morning.

“What would they be like, these platy pusses?” said Mrs. Greening to Jim, as he brought her another dozen beach-balls which he had just peeled off the formas.

“Dunno. They make some pretty funny things in this line of business, but I can't say I've ever 'eard of a platy puss. But good luck to 'em. Means we keeps our jobs, anyway.” Then, as he went back to his oven, he resumed his description
of the things which would happen to Edna if her film-test were successful.

“Fust thing,” he said, “they takes out all your teef.”

“They never!”

“They does. I read it in the
Worker
. Nobody's natural teef ain't good enough for them B. plutocrats what owns the fillums. Then they pulls out your eyebrows 'air by 'air, 'cause you 'as to 'ave new ones painted on special. Just the same wiv your mouf. Maybe it's the wrong shape; not what the plutocrats calls kissable. Maybe it ain't big enough. So they paints you on another.”

“They never!” said Mrs. Greening again.

“Read it in the paper. 'Sides, you can see it's right every time you goes to the fillums. Those lushus great mouvs wiv the paint dripping off of 'em like strawberry jam ain't
real
, don't you kid yourself. Nor's the eyelashes. They'll pull out Edna's eyelashes wiv the tweezers, and stick on artificial ones about an inch long. But mark my words, Mrs. Grinnin,” croaked Jim solemnly, “it's ten to one that when they're done wiv 'er they won't like the result. They'll fiddle about wiv 'er face till they've made a muck of it, and then they'll say they don't like 'er figure or something. Maybe she ain't got enough uplift or maybe she's got too much—uplift's bosoms, it said so in the
Worker
—and then they'll just send 'er back to store. Girls is just cannon-fodder to them.”

“Who'd have thought it?” exclaimed Mrs. Greening in amazement. “I'd rather 'ave me pendix out meself. Now what'd them long eyelashes be made of, d'you suppose?”

“Pigs' bristles, I dessay,” improvised Jim on the spur of the moment.

“But what for do they do it, like?”

“So's they lie flat on 'er cheek and she looks like she's swoonin' when she's being made love to by James Mason or some such chap. When she looks like a dyin' duck in a thunderstorm it means she's enjoyin' of it special. I often seen it 'appen on the fillums.”

“Does your old 'oman swoon when you makes love to 'er?” inquired Mrs. Greening tartly.

“She'd be that took back, she would if I tried,” said Jim; and all the women at the long bench set up such a cackle of laughter that it sounded as if a fox had got in among a lot of old hens. Even John Handiman in his office could hear it, and he looked across the room at Miss Foulkes and smiled.

“What kind of a tail did you say it had?” said John, who was making the rough drawing for the matrix of the formas from an engraving of a duck-billed platypus in an old Encyclopaedia. “This picture doesn't show it.”

“Short and fat,” said Miss Foulkes promptly.

“All the book says about it is that it's oviparous,” said John. “What's oviparous, Enid?”

“Lays eggs, instead of bringing forth its young alive.”

“You seem to know a lot about the beast,” said John. He glanced up from his drawing and was astonished to see Miss Foulkes smiling at him quite composedly. This was a rare phenomenon anyhow, but what particularly struck him was that it was a peculiarly
contented
smile. He found
himself staring at her, wondering why she looked so different this morning. There were lights in her hair which he had never noticed before; in the sunlight which came through the small window over her head it burned with a slow-smouldering flame. And somehow—-John couldn't explain it—her manner was changed too. Some of the sharp edges seemed to have been rubbed away. Aware that he was looking at her, she returned his glance quite calmly, without any of the awkward defensiveness which so often embarrassed him. Then there was a knock at the door, and in came the messenger-boy from the florist's.

Miss Foulkes did not immediately look round; and John had said, “Put them on the filing-cabinet,” before she noticed the messenger. The flowers this time were gladioli, an enormous bunch of salmon-pink ones which must have cost, John thought, at least a pound. He was horrified at the thought of her spending so much of her wages on such nonsense. Then he became aware that Miss Foulkes had got up from her desk and was staring in amazement at the gladioli. He expected that her blush would match the flowers themselves, and prepared as usual to avert his glance. But this time Enid Foulkes did not even blush. Instead the blood drained away from her pale skin so that it looked quite transparent.

“But—but I didn't order them!” she gasped, and slumped back in her chair.

Stephen And Polly had just ordered their drinks, and inquired after the health of Mr. Hawker— “He's getting up now; but shaky as an aspen-leaf,” said Florrie—when the clock in the hall began to strike twelve, and as if at a signal Mr. Oxford entered the bar. He was followed by Timms, bearing like an acolyte a large silver trophy which he set down upon the counter. Mr. Oxford, who had a strong sense of the dramatic, stood before it in silence while he deliberately counted out five pound notes.

“Fill that,” he commanded, handing them to Florrie, “with a mixture of equal parts of brandy and champagne! ”

“Why, Mr. Oxford, whatever has come over you?” Florrie fluttered. “Have you won the Irish Sweep or something?”

Mr. Oxford took a step back from the counter and looked about him. He nodded to Stephen, who introduced Polly. “Welcome to our ancient borough!” said Mr. Oxford, taking off his hat. Then he waved his hand towards the trophy, and Florrie dutifully reached up for a bottle of Martell Three-Star on the shelf over her head.

“That cup,” said Mr. Oxford, “is presented every year to the champion angler of all the Midlands, and it was won on Saturday by Mr. Handiman senior of this town
with a chub weighing eight pounds two and a half ounces. Am I right, Timms?”

“Two and three-quarter,” squeaked Timms.

“Two and three-quarter to be precise. Now, Mr. Handiman, flying as you might say in the face of all his prejudices and principles, backed himself with me to win two hundred pounds, and fortunately I had the good sense to lay off that bet among my confreres. It cost me, personally, a mere matter of twenty smackers, which I was very pleased to part with in a good cause.”

“Well, fancy that! And Mr. Handiman so strict!” said Florrie.

“You know my motto,” Mr. Oxford went on. “‘Pay up with a smile and pay on the nile,' as they say in Brummagem. So first thing on Sunday morning I says to Timms, ‘Timms,' I says, ‘the better the day the better the deed.' So off we go to Mr. Handiman to pay him his two hundred pounds. It was a moving moment, gentlemen! I have paid out a great deal of money in my time—it is always a pleasure—but I can honestly say I have never been so touched in all my professional career. ‘Praise the Lord!' he said; and there were tears in his eyes as he said it. ‘But if you don't mind,' he said, ‘I'd rather not actually
handle
the money on the Sabbath. May I have it to-morrow instead? ' Then ‘ Praise the Lord!' he cries again; and he puts on his bowler hat and hurries off to chapel like a man in a dream.”

Mr. Oxford's discourse was interrupted by the pop of the cork coming out of the champagne. He continued:

“So this morning Timms and I return first thing to Mr.
Handiman's ironmongery. Timms counts out two hundred smackers; and once again Mr. Handiman's eyes are moist with tears. Then he hands me this cup, and these five pound notes, and ‘Take that to the Red Lion,' he says, ‘and fill it up with what's proper.' ‘Horse's neck,' says I, ‘or dog's nose? ‘But he being teetotal don't understand. It being so hot a day, I thought a dog's nose would be too heavy; so horse's neck it is.”

By now Florrie had filled the cup, and at Mr. Oxford's request she took the first sip of it.

“Here's to Mr. Handiman!” she said. “I still can't get over
him
having a bet.”

“Ah, but it's bred in the bone!” boomed Mr. Oxford. “Ingrained, as you might say, in the British Race! Tradition, that's what it is! You can't keep it down any more than you can keep rubbub down. Here, for instance, comes Sir Halmeric, who 'as 'ad a little flutter with me every week day, barring the war years, since he was sixteen.” Sir Almeric lounged up to the bar and leaned upon it, glancing curiously at Polly, who was wiping his mouth after taking a long swig from the cup. Mr. Oxford hastened to introduce him.

“Let me present you, sir, to Sir Halmeric Jukes, Bart., a representative of our ancient squirearchy!”

“Glad to meet you, Sir Jukes,” said Polly, extending his hand. “My name's Polycarpos Gabrielides. Known as Polly.”

Sir Almeric took his hand lazily and stared hard at his big hat.

“Yeah. I guess we both go in for crazy headgear,” said
Polly cheerfully. “Where d'you buy yours?” Sir Almeric was wearing his little tweed cap with the button on top of it. “I'll maybe get one like it.”

“It is made specially for me,” drawled Sir Almeric, “by a man called Lock. If you
really
want to know,” he added nastily, “Mr. Pollywhatsit Gabrielides.” With that he turned his back on Polly and handed a betting-slip to Mr. Oxford. There was a short uncomfortable silence, which was broken by a faint scrabbling sound at the door behind the bar. At last the door opened, and Mr. Hawker appeared. It was apparent that the effects of the snakebite had not yet worn off. He came sidling in, not with his usual weasel-like air of questing furtiveness, but like a puppy that has made a mess. As Florrie had said, he was as shaky as an aspen; and his face was the colour of carbide which has been used. He carried two bottles of whisky, which he set down on the counter.

“Your Allocation,” he said to Florrie in a faint voice.