No Laughing Matter (32 page)

‘Then of course, lots of the boys at the agency and down at the studio at Cricklewood when I did extra work were just the same. You should have seen us tripping over our togas in Ben Hur. I became used to picking up people then if there wasn’t any work going at the Agency. It was in Windmill Street when the awful little man put his head through the hatch and said, “No work at the studios today, boys.” There I was right on top of Piccadilly so there wasn’t much else I could do. At first of course I just got myself picked up, having tea or a poached egg at the big Lyons and other cafés round there. But later I started trolling, though I never went up West specially for it at night until I was eighteen at least. At first I used to take them back to 52. For some reason I was terrified of going to strange houses. And
I used to make awful social conversation – you know, “Yes, those are all my father’s books. He’s tremendously learned,” or “I’m afraid my room’s a bit old fashioned, but I’m hoping to do it up myself soon. Scarlet and black or something amusing.” Can you imagine? When there was only one thing in
their
minds. However I must say most of them were very kind and polite. I think they were bewildered, poor things. You see I looked more than my age and they probably thought I was an old pro who would take them back to some squalid
bedsitter
near the station. One or two just took off and fled when they knew it was my parents’ house. And then once I was lying there, hoping it would be over quickly. I’d shut my eyes because it was so painful. And when I opened them the door was very slightly ajar and I looked straight into
her
eyes. Of course she was gone in a second. But I
know
it happened. The man – a huge great brute of a Scotsman – hadn’t seen a thing. So I said nothing, but I don’t know how I ever had the courage to get him down those stairs and out of the house. For some reason I thought she’d gone for a policeman. I was an
awfully
daft mixture of sophistication and childishness. The only sign she showed was when I gave her money that week. We didn’t even pretend about allowances by then, but I often earned two or three pounds in the week what with film work and the clients, and I always gave her a pound or thirty shillings. This time she threw the notes on the drawing-room floor with her most tragedy queen look. “How dare you offer me that filthy money?” and so on. Of course I should have had it out with her then and there, but I was too scared. I just picked up the money and spent it all on seats for Giselle. But after that I had to take my courage in both hands and go back with
them.

‘Even then I used to go into long social explanations. I can
remember
it happening on that occasion I wanted to tell you about. I’d tramped all the agencies from Oxford Circus to Villiers Street and back. And my poor old feet, dear, well Lor luv you. I’d relied on a call for more Roman citizens to cheer on Ramon Navarro. But no, they weren’t shooting that day. It couldn’t have been more tiresome for I wanted to go to
Sylphides.
Suddenly I saw this sort of dashing guards officer in Jermyn Street, a bit red in the face and corsetted, but still I’d known far worse. I stopped and looked in the window of the cheese shop. And which cheese was
I
going to buy and did I keep house for myself and was I musical? So I said, yes, I was, but I found it difficult to get the money to go to concerts, which was to
make it clear to him the whole thing was rent. Well, you know all that, because that’s what I said when I met you that evening after
Three
Cornered
Hat.
And then, I can hear myself now – “I would so tremendously like to entertain you in my own studio.” Studio! ark at er. “But the awful thing is I still live with my people and so I’m afraid it’s rather out of the question.” So we went back to his place in Mortimer Square or somewhere like that behind Selfridges. Me talking all the way in the taxi, Didn’t he just adore Marie Tempest? And did he like the Impressionist painters? and Could I be right and was he in the army? And I was right. And he was called Major Mooney or Moody or something, and he got tremendously fatherly with me, and called me young feller me lad, and told me it was a damned shame to see a young chap with obvious artistic talent at a loose end and he was rather an artistic cuss himself despite the army and I must come with him to Covent Garden, did I like opera? But of course it didn’t stop him taking me straight up to the bedroom and making me strip.

‘All I ever wanted with them was to get it over, but the Major started a horrible catechism, what did most men expect from me? Who was the first who’d done it to me? Had I had it from the front? I stood there naked and wished the floor would swallow me up. And then, as though sent from heaven, I saw a copy of Margaret’s book. So I tried to say casually, as though I was in the habit of saying such things in the nude, “Oh, I see you’ve got my sister’s book of stories. One or two are rather terrific, aren’t they? Actually she’s caught me rather well in that wedding story.” And posing with one hip stuck out in what I hoped seemed like Donatello’s David, I read aloud – “Oh, so enjoyed his winged arabesques and pas de chats”. I drawled it all quite brilliantly. I suppose I hoped to stop the major in his tracks. I certainly did. He stood quite still and stared. Then he walked to the bedroom door, opened it and whistled. A few moments later another major appeared, only thinner and more wooden looking. Then
my
major said tremendously formally, “Seymour Dunlop, my housemate.” Waving his hand at me – the Michelangelo made flesh – he said, “This silly little bitch has been lying like stink. Says Margaret Matthews is her sister.” “I
don’t
think,” Major Dunlop said, “Rotten little twerp.” “I didn’t bring you back here to hear snobbish rot and lies,” my major said, and picking up a hair brush he caught me a nasty blow on the buttocks, “That’s what’s interesting about you, or would be if you
weren’t so spotty.” No don’t protest. It was probably true. I only got rid of that awful acne about six months before I met you. “Go to hell,” he said. “Get your things and get out of here. Back to the
rectory
.” I think trying to keep some dignity while I dressed and got out of that room was about the most awful moment of my life. I was determined not to cry.’

Nor was he crying now. Most of his tension and anger appeared to have vanished as he became absorbed in telling his experience. He laid his head back on the pillow. Jack sat on the side of the bed and stroked Marcus’s cheek with the back of his hand.

‘Poor Sweet!’ he said, ‘By the way, I’ve managed to buy the Modigliani portrait of Bakst for you. Though why I should encourage you to have any father figures before me, I don’t know. If any man tries to insult you again, I’ll kill him. All the same,’ he went on, ‘that major did have an eye for the essentials.’

A
lesson
in
Lamarckian
survival

The
dining-room
of
the
residence
of
William
Matthews
Esq.,
gentleman
and
author,
at about half past three of an autumn afternoon in the year
1925.
The
room,
though
clearly
originally
furnished
to
give
an
air
of
warmth,
of
opulence
worn
with
gentlemanly
ease,
and
of
solid
but
not
heavy
comfort,
has
now
acquired,
through
years
of
over
indulgence
on
an
insufficient
income,
an
appearance
of
draughty
penury,
ill
concealed
shabbiness
and
vague
but
pervasive
discomfort.
F
or
those
with
sharp
eyes and noses,
stains,
mildew and
stale
gravy
have
taken
possession
of
the
room.
Centre,
the
long
mahogany
dining
table
is
set
out
with
plates
of
sandwiches
and
biscuits;
tumblers,
whisky
and
siphons
of
soda
adorn
the
sideboard;
seven
chairs
are
placed
at
the
table:
it
is
clear
that
company
is
expected,
but
not
for
a
formal
meal.

*

Enter
by
door
to
right
–
WILLIAM MATTHEWS
aged
55,
a
small
man,
once
boyish,
pink
and
cherubic,
but
now
a
trifle
motheaten,
harassed
and
with
an
incontestable
air
of
slyness
difficult
exactly
to
pin
down.
He
is
dressed
in
well
worn
t weeds
and
floppy bow tie
and
carries
a
vaguely
‘artistic’
old
shapeless
green homburg hat.
He might be a minor
portrait
painter,
aland
agent
to
an
indigent
nobleman,
an
amateur
antiquarian,
the
harassed
tutor
of
the
unruly
son
of
a
millionaire,
or
an
Asquithian
liberal
candidate
for
a
safe
Conservative
rural
constituency.
He
is,
in fact,
an
unsuccessful author,
who
maintains
himself
by
a
diminishing
private
income
and
an
even
more
diminishing
stock
of
journalistic
small
change.
A
moralist
would
soon
label
him
self-indulgent,
weak,
evasive
and
lazy.
In
fact,
by
far
the
most
in
teresting
feature
of
his
character
is
the
highly
developed
cunning
by
which
over
the
years
he
has
survived
the
disaster
the
moralists
have
predicted
for
him.
To
this
survival,
of
course,
the
snobbish
reverence
of
the
English
tradesman
towards
paraded
gentility
has
greatly
contributed.

*

After
him
follows
his
eldest
son
QUENTIN MATTHEWS
aged
27
.
He
is
a
tall,
very
thin man who appears from moment to moment as a young man
prematurely
aged
and
embittered
by
pain
and
failure,
and
as
a middle-aged
man
with
the
boyish
smile
and movements
of
some one
in
whose
breast
hope
springs
eternally,
if
a
little
fatuously.
He
is,
in
fact,
a
journalist
and
news
paper
columnist
who
has
in
a
few
months
had
sensational
success
with
his
trenchant,
hard
hitting
attacks
on
the
government’s
supine
industrial
policy –
sensational
success,
that
is,
with in
the
very
limited
circles
of I.L.P.,
Fabian,
S.D.F.,
and
various
minute
groups
of
Marxist
and
anarchist
eaders,
but
as
this
is
the
only
world
that
at
the
moment
he
recognizes,
he
feels
his
power
to
be
infinite.
His
butcher
blue
shirt,
chrome
yellow
tie
and
the
mop
of
fair
hair
through
which
he
runs
his
fingers
when
excited,
have
become
a
well
known
feature
of
most
left
wing
platforms
during
the
last
months
and
he
clearly
speaks
in
ordinary
conversation
as
though
address
 
ing
a
meeting.
Nevertheless,
despite
this
air
of
theatricality,
Quentin
Matthews
is
a
young man to bereckoned with, for he has the disconcerting
habit,
hardly
known
among
politicians,
industrialists,
trade
unionists
and
other
men
of
action,
of
on
occasion
actually
doing
the
things
which
he
has
announced
that
he
is
going
to
do.