The Naive and Sentimental Lover (25 page)

“Christ,” said Shamus. “You've really got it made.”

Cassidy mentioned Helen. Helen was fine, said Shamus. She was staying with her mother, princesses had to be locked in towers.

“Time she was deprived,” he explained. “She was getting cheeky.”

“Did she enjoy London? Being with Hall and . . .”

Being not quite into the language, he had wanted to say Hall and Saul, but saved himself in time.

“Sure, sure,” said Shamus, and brushing Helen aside, embarked on a somewhat desultory enquiry into the dangers of foreign competition in the Pram Trade. Was a French pram sexier? A German pram more solid? How were the Russians coming on? While he was asking these questions, Shamus' attention strayed to a young girl in the corner of the room. She was twelve years old, no more. She sat alone under a chandelier and wore Sandra's silver dress from the May ball at Oxford. She had ordered something
flambé
which required fruit and a quantity of liqueurs. Two young waiters, under the eye of the
maître d'hôtel,
were ministering to her from a trolley.

“Christ never said anything about us, did he?” he remarked suddenly. “Not a word in the whole manifesto. All we're supposed to do is keep the score.”

Taken by surprise, Cassidy faltered.

“Us?”

“Writers. Who do you think?”

He was still watching her but his expression was neither friendly nor curious, and his voice, as he continued speaking, had a trace of the familiar Irish brogue.

“I mean the pramsellers, all right: they're for the high jump. Hard luck but you know where you stand. You've got it in this world so you can sing for it in the next.”

The girl was selecting bottles: not this one, that one; pointing with her small gloved hand. She wore a black band round her neck, a single diamond glittered at the centre.

“The peacemakers are laughing: they're the children of God and no one could wish for better parents. But I'm
not
a fucking peacemaker, am I?”

“You certainly are not,” said Cassidy heartily, not yet fully woken to Shamus' change of tone.

“I'm a collision man. A truth-teller, that's me.”

“And an Old Testament man,” Cassidy reminded him, “like Hall.”

Had Shamus
really
boxed? Cassidy had boxed at Sherborne. He had made the mistake of taking a bath before the contest because he wished to please his housemaster, who had an elevated view of his religious potential. Though he had stood for quite a while being hit, he was obliged to lie down in the third round, and for years afterwards leather car seats made him sick.

“Piss off,” said Shamus.

“What?”

“Piss off. Shut up about Hall.”

“Sorry,” said Cassidy, puzzled.

It was the girl who still commanded Shamus' entire attention. The
maître d'hôtel
poured a little lemonade into her wine glass. “Enough,” her frail hand said, and the bottle was removed.

“And that little bitch is all right because she's a kid,” Shamus continued, still upon the subject of the saved. “And kids get blanket protection. Quite right and proper too. I'm a fervent supporter of the breed myself though I happen to reckon the age limit could come down a bit. But what do the writers get? I tell you one thing: we're not meek, thank you, so we certainly don't inherit the earth. And we're not poor in spirit either, so we can't count on the Kingdom of Heaven, for instance.”

His expression hesitated at the brink of anger. Taking Cassidy's hand, he stroked it devotedly, soothing himself against it.

“Easy lover, easy . . . don't get cross . . . easy . . .” Relaxing, he smiled. “You see, lover,” he explained in a gentler voice, “there's just
not enough information,
that's my view. I put this to Flaherty only last week. Flaherty, what are you going to do about the writers? I said. Do they get it now, or later? You do see my point, don't you, lover? You're the boss man after all. You're paying.”

“Well you do have your
freedom,
” Cassidy suggested cautiously.

Shamus rounded on him.

“Freedom from what, for fuck's sake? Freedom from all that lovely money?
That
freedom? Or was it by any chance the unbearable captivity of public recognition you were thinking of?”

Too late, Cassidy reached for his conference voice. “I suppose I was thinking more of freedom from boredom,” he said easily, using a passing waiter to order brandy.

“Were you now?” said Shamus pleasantly, the Irish brogue in full flower. “You may be right about that. I will concede that freedom from boredom is a privilege I may well have overlooked. Because after all, I could sleep all day, that's true, and no bugger would raise a finger. Not everyone can say
that
now can they? I mean the warders wouldn't come and bang on the door or tell me to empty my bucket, I'd just hear the sounds of laughter that's all, and the fellows getting their exercise out in the fresh air with their girls maybe. Only trouble is, the nights are such a problem, don't you think?”

“Yes indeed,” Cassidy agreed.

With child-like fascination Shamus watched him tip the waiter. It was a very large tip but Cassidy abroad believed in laying strong fences against disrespect.

“What'll you do in nineteen eighty?” Shamus asked, when the transaction was complete.

“I'm sorry?”

“World population's growing seventy million a year, lover. That's a hell of a lot of people to tip, isn't it? Even for you.”

 

Their parting was equally enigmatic.

“You do feel
well?
” Cassidy asked doubtfully as he saw Shamus to the lobby.

“Don't worry lover, I'll be all right on the night.”

“Bit too much of Elsie I expect.”

“Who?”

“Elsie.”

“Sure . . . Lover?”

“Yes?”

“You will let me have a go on those prams, won't you?” An odd defencelessness had replaced the earlier menace. “Only . . . well
you
know, it's what I came for. I feel I could
do
it you see. Sell. I reckon I could turn it into a real vocation. Hey lover.”

“Yes.”

“Thanks for the suit.”

“That's all right.”

“The lobster was great.”

“I'm glad you liked it.”

“Great bread too. Crisp outside, squidgy in the middle. There's so much of you I could
use,
” Shamus remarked suddenly, putting his hands on Cassidy's shoulders. “Hey listen . . .” Cassidy listened. “We got to love each other, see. It's the great experiment, like blacks and whites and all that shit. But if I don't have you
all,
I don't get any of you, do I? You're such a big slimy fish. I can put my hands on you but I don't know where you end.... You're
awful,
honest. . . .”

Cassidy laughed awkwardly. “Perhaps it's just as well you
don't
know,” he said, releasing himself in case Shamus was contemplating a public embrace. “I say you didn't bring a copy of the book, did you?”

Somewhere in the brown darkness of Shamus' eyes, a warning light went up, and stayed.

“What if I did?”

“It's just that I'd love to read it, that's all. If you've brought one. What stage is it
at
actually?” he added. Receiving no answer, he deemed a subsidiary question politic. “Will it be a film, like
Moon?
I'll bet that's worth a bit just by itself. Let alone the book sales.... Paperback, too, I suppose?” As he continued speaking, Shamus was already backing into the lift.

“You know,” Shamus said as his feet ascended into the shaft, “if I was Flaherty I could work this thing alone.”

 

It was midnight by the time Cassidy joined him. He had business in the Bristol Bar and another meeting with Bloburg, and at eleven o'clock a public relations girl called to check handouts. Shamus was lying like a dead onionseller dressed in the black coat again, flat on his stomach on the coverlet with his face in the beret. His new suit was hung carefully in the wardrobe with an Exhibitor's badge pinned to the lapel. The brochures were still strewn beside him on the floor. A ruled pad was propped on the chimney piece.

Honourable Sir,
the message read,
Kindly to wake the undersigned tomorrow morning punctual for the Fair your obedient humble servant Shamus P. Scardanelli (Vendor).
The postscript said, Please
lover.
Please.
Major commitment. And lover forgive, please forgive. Vital.

 

A lorry was parked outside the window and workmen were unloading crates on the cobblestones, shouting jokes he couldn't understand.

I should have bought him pyjamas too, thought Cassidy. Why does he have to wrap himself in that coat?

He sleeps like Hugo but quieter, cheeks squashed against his forearm in a pout.

Down in the street a woman was calling, a tart by the sound of her and drunk. Is that what I want him to do: pimp for me?
Forgive lover, forgive.
You're so full of truth, Cassidy thought, looking at him again, what is there to forgive?

 

“Dale?”

Shamus was muttering but Cassidy couldn't hear the words. You're dreaming, he thought, turning to look at him again, you're dreaming of Elsie and selling prams. Why not dream of Helen?

Suddenly Shamus cried out, a short hard cry of “
No!
” or “
Go!
” swinging his shoulders in angry rejection.

“Shamus,” Cassidy said quietly and put out his hand to touch him. “Shamus it's all right, it's me; Cassidy. I'm here, Shamus.”

No, he thought, as Shamus settled again, better to be just the two of us. Dream of Helen another time.

“Dale you bugger.”

“It's not Dale. It's Cassidy.”

A long silence.

“Can I come to the Fair?”

“Yes, you can come.”

“In my new suit?”

“In your new suit.”

Minutes later Shamus woke again, abruptly.

“Where's my carnation?”

“I put it in the toothmug.”

“It's for the lady buyers you see. At the Fair.”

“I know. It'll slay them.”

“Goodnight lover.”

“Goodnight Shamus.”

T
he day was dull for Cassidy, for Shamus balm. The pramseller rose without haste, his ears already full of the greedy, unproductive clichés of the trade; but the great writer was already dressed save for his feet; was pacing the floor with the alacrity of the young executive bent on increasing his figures. His lacquered shoes were back with the valet; dust had been identified in the welts. Cassidy had planned to leave late, but Shamus would have none of it. Great conquests were in the air, he insisted; Cassidy and Shamus must be in the field early, breathe heart into the troops.

They arrived in fine rain; the tents were sagging dismally on their masts, smelling of rugger and changing rooms.

“Bee-Line?” Shamus cried indignantly. “
Bee-Line?
Never heard of them.”

“Our main competition,” said Cassidy.

Two Beefeaters guarded the entrance; halberdiers were serving bitter beer in pewter tankards.

“You mean you camp with the enemy? Jesus lover, you got to burn them down! Rape their women, nippers to the stake!”

“Take it easy,” said Cassidy. “Hullo Mr. Stiles.”

“Oh
hullo
Mr. Cassidy. How's business? Doing anything, are you?”

“Not much; I hear it's pretty quiet.”

“I think it's the same everywhere,” said Stiles with satisfaction. “I don't think devaluation's bitten the way it ought, do you?”

“I'm sure it hasn't,” said Cassidy.

“Creep,” said Shamus, as they left. “Toady.”

“You've got to keep on terms with them,” Cassidy explained. “After all, it is us against the foreigners.”

The Cassidy tent restored him to humour. Introduced as an important contact of the Chairman's, Shamus tested the chassis, rode in a pushchair, flirted with the girls, and talked about Saint Francis with Meale, who had recently become extremely sullen, and was expressing a desire to take Holy Orders. They all
own
him, Cassidy thought, mystified; they all own him. If
I
was the hanger-on they'd chuck me out in minutes. A large crowd had just entered the tent, mainly Scandinavians, women of a certain age. Over luncheon, befriending a Froken Svenson from Stavanger, Shamus sold her a hundred chassis at thirteen to the dozen. She should pay when she liked, he said, Cassidy's had the large approach to money.