The Old Man and Me (3 page)

C. D.’s laughter gurgled and gushed and squeaked and squealed. It was the laughter of a child—free and unfettered. His head rolled back and his belly fairly shook, the old jelly. And every time he looked at the waiter it started up again. Hiss—giggle.

“Delicious,” he said when he could. “You must come with ah...” indicating Smitty, “both of you. Day after tomorrow. Drinks.” A touch of the paw again. A passionate appeal in his eye. “You won’t let me down, will you? I’m so looking forward to it. Do bring her, please.” And the audience was over. But not for the rest of the audience, I noticed, which was a good part of the restaurant. The Patron flew to my side with a great snapping of fingers for my coat, my coat, “
le manteau de Madame la Princesse!
” I gave him a look. Was he putting me on? Not especially. Fall-out from the presence of C. D. McKee.

I felt suddenly very tired. Outside, I said goodnight to my new friends and exchanged telephone numbers and promises and hopped in a cab for my hotel.

I went up to my room and got undressed, carefully avoiding the great clumps of hotel furniture rising like sharp rocks from the hysterically patterned carpet in the tiny room. I made my way to the even tinier bathroom and stared at myself in the mirror. Then I began combing my hair, admiring its shining blondness. I put on my white silk pyjamas, snapped the elastic waistband twice hard against my stomach, and rubbed my hand under it. I wandered over to the window and looked down at the lonely noisy traffic-filled street below. How ugly it looked under the arc light. I tried to think of the evening with pleasure. It had been an unqualified triumph. Why was I so angry? Then I knew. It had been practically the first time in a whole month that I’d held a conversation with English people that didn’t involve asking for a direction or paying for a cheque. One whole long lonely month. Damn them, how dare they? I opened the window and leaning out thumbed my nose at the traffic below.

I called up Dody next day as soon as I awoke.

“Honey, thank goodness,” she exclaimed when she heard who it was. “Such dramas at your hotel. They refuse to believe you’re staying there. I’ve been on to them all—desk clerk, hall porter, manager and back again each swearing you’re no such person. You’re not incognito by any chance?”

I wonder now why I didn’t tell her I was. Of course it would have taken too long to explain. And I didn’t know her well enough. And I wasn’t clear myself why I was doing it. I suppose that’s enough reasons. Anyway I said that I hardly ever got messages (too true) and that there was doubtless some conspiracy at the switchboard.

“Oh dear, English hotels,” she moaned, “I feel I should be apologizing for their inefficiency. Scotty would be I’m sure—but never mind about that. Listen, what are you doing this very minute? Could you come over as soon as possible. I’ve got to see you. I’ve something rather important to ask you.”

I got a cab to her address in Mayfair. There were four bottles of milk standing outside her door when I rang Dody’s bell. And her husband had been gone less than two days. Dody was still in her dressing gown. She had lost her husband only two days ago and already she was a lost soul. She led me first into her bedroom and then apologized for the mistake and took me into the dining-room for no reason and finally into the living-room where it occurred to me watching her wandering aimlessly about picking up things and putting them down elsewhere that retracing her exact footsteps on paper would yield the blueprint of a rather interesting tango. She looked for cigarettes and all the boxes were empty. She stared at the goldfish bowl uncertainly. “I can never remember whether I’ve fed him or not,” she said suddenly. “I kept on feeding them and they kept on dying all the time. All but one. So I don’t know if he killed the rest or if I was over-feeding them or starving them or what. You’re supposed to give them a pinch of food every day. But how big is a pinch anyway? I don’t know, I—” It was an awful sight, someone so bang in the middle of suffering she didn’t even know it. “Oh goodness,” she sighed, “I haven’t even offered you anything to drink.”

“There’s some milk outside,” I said.

“Oh is there? Let’s see.” We went to the front door and picked up the bottles. “So that’s where it’s been,” she said. “No wonder there wasn’t any in the fridge.”

The ice-box was empty except for five eggs, two tins of sardines (one opened), half a packet of butter and a withered head of lettuce. We put in the milk and Dody looked thoughtfully at its contents. “What with one thing and another we didn’t eat in at all during the last fortnight and I suppose I haven’t been eating much since. I always try to get some milk down though.” She poured out two glasses with shaking hands and we sat down at the kitchen table and drank them in silence.

“It’s about this flat,” she finally said. “Don’t look at it now, it’s a mess.” She flew to a corner and picked up a pair of her shoes which had been left there and then she didn’t know what to do with them. She sank back into her chair and still clutching them blurted out the whole story. She was going to get a divorce. She was consulting lawyers. It was clear that he’d gone off with this other woman, this Indian woman. But there mustn’t be the slightest chance of a counter-suit said the lawyers. For instance, unless another girl came to stay with her it would be quite inadvisable for her to entertain men alone in her flat, and so she must get herself a flat-mate. And she didn’t know who to ask. She had the feeling all the girls who’d been their friends had also been his mistresses. She supposed she was being foolish, but there it was. What she wanted to ask of me was, would I—could I—possibly move in with her?

But she wouldn’t stop for my answer. Nervously she was dragging me by the arm flinging open doors and getting in their way as she tried to push us past them in her eagerness to show me the various rooms.

“Now you’re not to say a thing, not a word till you’ve seen the whole flat. It’s really quite decent—at least it will be when I’ve tidied it up. And look—masses of space. I shan’t be in your way at all. Two bedrooms, see? One for each of us. Of course you come and go as you please, that’s understood. I mean it’s better than living in some dreary hotel. Oh, Honey, if you would, it’d be such a help. He must not come back here, you see. Not to this flat anyway. It’s called condoning. It’s very serious. In fact I’m supposed to change the lock on the door so he can’t. I like that part of it,” she said all of a sudden laughing quite genuinely, “I don’t know why but it absolutely appeals to me. I must get it done first thing in the morning. And his clothes. I don’t know what to do about them. His lawyers said send them to his club. Of course he hasn’t got one. Perhaps I’d better send them to his mother. She drinks.”

We were in their bedroom by now, Dody finally silent as she stared at her bed table: empty match covers, aspirin, vitamin tablets, glucose, cough drops, nail polish, nail polish remover and a half-full glass of water. “None of it does any good,” she said frowning at the display, “except maybe the nail polish remover taken internally. Oh God. His mother. He says it’s all her fault. His father was an explorer and away all the time and his mother was too busy drinking to love him properly so he needs more love than ordinary people do.” The Indian girl had taught him all about Vedanta, an Indian religion where, as near as she could gather, everything is One, which meant it was O.K. to do anything you like whenever you like. Anyway, this Indian girl had got him very interested in it. He was always reading books about it. Her trouble, Dody’s trouble, was that she’d been happy all the first year of their marriage just being in love with him. It was true she didn’t care—didn’t even think much about anything else. Then he began getting nuttier and shouting at her all the time that she was living in a dream world and he was determined to crash it. Look around you, he kept yelling, feel, feel something about what you see. Something, anything. Hate! Hate well and maybe you’ll be able to love well.

Dody had never asked herself a lot of personal questions. Three days after they’d met he had declared himself violently in love with her, and then they’d gotten married. He was strong. He had a lot of opinions. Dody sighed and her head made a slight movement as if buffeted by a particularly strong opinion. It was easy to imagine her going into orbit, a dreamy satellite content to revolve eternally around her sun except the sun’s course had become too erratic causing her to crash into reality. But now, said Dody shaking herself out of her trance, she was going to hate. Because he was right. It was stupid to be the way she’d been—passive and trusting; it meant getting stepped on. Her defiance was springing up at last. She would do all the things he hated. She would like all the things he hated. That was easy of course—he hated everything. She’d go to that man’s party. He hated him. She’d get a job. He never wanted her to have a job. And she’d get a divorce.

Dody flopped on to the bed. I did think she was right about getting a divorce, didn’t I? I sat down on the chaise longue facing her and lit a cigarette. I recognized that this was going to be one of those exchanges where, under the guise of seeking advice, in fact she merely wished to be agreed with. I began agreeing.

I said yes, I thought she was right about getting a divorce.

“I mean it would be silly to continue like this.”

“Absolutely.”

“Because it means he can go on behaving the way he has.”

“Yes, and on and on.”

“On the other hand a divorce is so expensive what with lawyers’ fees and detectives and everything.”

“It probably adds up.”

“And it’s not as if there was someone else I wanted to marry. He hated so many people I hardly know anyone any more.”

“It’ll probably take time.”

“So perhaps I ought to call the whole thing off, see what happens when he comes back. He’s coming back in three months. Not rush into anything.”

“That might be sensible.”

“But look—why the hell should he get away with it? Off with another woman—it’s humiliating!”

I sighed my sympathy.

“And of course he doesn’t love me or he wouldn’t have gone off like that, would he?”

I said it was not my idea of love.

Dody wandered over to the bureau. “This is his photograph. It’s not really a good likeness. You’ve met him—he’s much better looking than that, isn’t he?”

“Yes, that was my impression.”

“He is good looking. And fun. And well known. I suppose he can’t help it if girls go for him. Everyone else I know bores me.”

“There certainly are a lot of boring people in the world.”

“It really was all his mother’s fault. For being so drunk all the time. And his father always off to the North Pole or somewhere. He had a horrible childhood. He said she never even gave him a bath herself. You know, perhaps I should have shown more that I loved him.”

“Yes.”

“A man like that needs someone possessive—even aggressive. Like that Indian girl.”

“Mmnnn.”

“But you think I should?”

“Yes. I mean no. I mean should what?”

“Go on with the divorce as planned.”

“Well what do
you
think?”

“I think I should.”

“So do I.”

“Good.”

I looked at my watch. It was twelve noon and I was wondering if I was going to be able to get away with not paying for that night’s hotel room or if it was already too late. “I’d better be getting back,” I said rising.

Dody looked at me in terror. “What’s the matter? Is it something I’ve said?”

“Why no. It’s to get my clothes.”

She looked at me stupidly. “Your clothes?”

“To pack. To pack my clothes. Oh and before I forget”—I had forgotten; and the ugly thought struck me with considerable force—“how much rent do you want me to pay?”

“But I wouldn’t dream of it. I couldn’t possibly take any money from you. It’s already been paid in advance by him. And you’ll be doing me such a fav...” She stopped in mid-track. “You mean you’ll come and live here?” she asked incredulously. “You really will? Oh Honey, I can’t tell you—I’m so relieved—why didn’t you say so straight off?”

I closed my eyes and counted ten. “I’ve been trying to all this time,” I said, as gently as I could.

After I checked out of my hotel and moved myself into Dody’s flat I telephoned Smitty at his office.

“Have you got a file on C. D. McKee in your morgue?” I asked.

“Yes, what for?”

“So that I may sparkle perceptively over drinks tomorrow night.”

“You Yanks—” I could imagine the look he was giving the phone. “You Yanks; thorough.”

I stuck out my tongue at him from my end but merely said, “Bye, bye. Be right down,” and caught a series of buses to Fleet Street.

Smitty got out the file and I flipped through. C. D. McKee. Cosmo Darwin McKee. Nothing at all about his early life. A few short paragraphs in which he was included in lists of academic honours conferred on him by various foreign universities while at Oxford. The war, his Generalship, meetings with Heads of Staff, etc., etc. Then a sort of social butterfly series—photographs mainly
—old Porky leering out from glossy groups at Hunt Balls and deb parties and art exhibitions. I was flipping through faster when suddenly, wedged in between the Hunt Balls and his marriage to the wealthy American widow Mrs. Pauline Saegessor, and on newsprint instead of slick paper—wham—a pile of clips on the Bosworth Clute Securities case. A public scandal; a great big fat juicy business scandal. I caught my breath and studied them closely. What startled me at first was that I knew the name—Bosworth Clute. By, I suppose, a not very wild coincidence, this much married, much divorced English business tycoon was the father of one of the girls I’d been at school with. I ploughed through reams of almost incomprehensible testimony. Something about the firm being hammered on the Stock Exchange. Something about sharepushing. Something about Clute concealing his snowballing losses by using his clients’ securities without their knowledge. Something about gambling on a successful Suez action by Britain that would cause a boom in oil shares. Something about Clute being sentenced to six years in jail having been found guilty on sixteen counts of conspiracy, fraud, and false pretences involving £300,000. But what had all this to do with McKee? Oh—oh. There it was. A little bit tucked away at the end. Clute’s Board of Directors, amongst whom C. D. was singled out for special mention by the Judge. “As to General McKee I have satisfied myself that he was at no time aware of the transactions Clute was conducting though I should like to record my amazement at his lack of interest in the enterprise whether by naïveté or design and the lack of business qualifications which Clute seemed to feel appropriate to the selection of his Board of Directors on the whole and to General McKee in particular.” Hmm. Spot of trouble there.

C. D.’s house was in one of the prettier squares in Knightsbridge. I was especially struck by the way the front windows were lined up with the back ones so that from the approach his lovely green garden seemed to shine right through the house; green foliage through stone. In the midst of busy London the square was quiet, hushed, unrushed. His man opened the door, took our coats, showed us in. I listened to the expensive tinkle of crystal and china we set off as we crossed the hall and mounted the stairs into a long graceful drawing-room. C. D. rose and came towards us, shook Smitty’s hand and then received mine in his nest of paws breathing, “Good. You’re here. I was so afraid you wouldn’t come.” His man pussy-footed around giving us drinks and Smitty began the interview. They talked about cryptology for a while and then launched into a flood of war reminiscence about who didn’t do what and who should have done what and what would have happened if they had. I stopped listening and looked around me. The room was exquisite. Magnificent. He lived well, old Fatso, he did himself proud. He wanted for nothing. He didn’t hold back. I watched the two of them utterly absorbed in their discussion, oblivious of me, and I began to feel resentful, angry. It had begun so well. “Good. You’re here. I was so afraid you wouldn’t come.” Well, what difference was it making that I had come? His man entered pussy-footing in again, whispered some message to him, and I seemed to detect in the sudden briskness with which C. D. resumed the conversation that our time was almost up. I sat there twirling my glass thinking I
must
speak; I must make my presence felt.

“Listen, I’m dying to know about this man Bosworth Clute,” I heard myself interrupting them.

C. D. turned completely around in my direction, I’d never seen a face change so fast. “What about him?” he asked, finally.

“Well, I mean is he still in jail? Or what...?” Acting puzzled, I foundered about in the dead silence and then, seeming to have no choice, pushed on. “You see, it’s the weirdest coincidence but I went to school with...I went to school with one of his...his...” I stopped, hypnotized by the sheer disagreeableness of his expression.

C. D. put down his drink and then released me from his gaze. “I see,” he said turning to Smitty. “Now, I understand. You haven’t come to interview me about the war at all. What you’re really interested in is raking up old muck. How clever of you using Miss Whatever-her-name-is as a decoy. Tell me, is it to be for one of those American scandal sheets? I’m quite curious to know.”

“What are you talking about?” I gasped.

His expression had become even more disagreeable if possible. “It’s obvious, isn’t it? He begins with the respectable approach and you come in for the dirt. Quite a team. Sorry, I’m not playing.”

“How dare you!” I sprang to my feet, one part of me surprised at the surge of rage I was allowing myself to show, I who had so carefully schooled myself always to keep my feelings under outward control. “How dare you,” I said again and got a grip on myself and went on more carefully. “I never heard of you in my life until the other night if you want to know. Then when you asked me over for drinks Smitty told me you were famous so I looked at some old clippings at his office to see what you were famous for. And I came across Bosworth Clute’s name. And I went to school with one of his daughters. At Braxton Hall if you want to check. And I want my coat and I want to leave.” And I flounced out a picture of righteous indignation.

C. D. followed me down the stairs. “I say, please Miss Flood. Please. I am sorry. I see I’ve misjudged you. Do come back. At least till your friend finishes our interview. Pay no attention to the ravings of a tiresome old man. I’ve always been much too sensitive about the Clute thing. I’ve an idea. Why don’t you come and sit in my study until I’m finished with Mr. Smithers? I’m sure it’s all very boring for you. Then we can have a friendly drink and talk of pleasanter things. Say yes,” he implored.

“All right,” I conceded as he led me upstairs to it. “But because I don’t want to mess up Smitty’s interview.”

“No, I’m sure you don’t,” he murmured and he closed the door on me before I had time to react.

I wandered around for a while. A door of the study led to his bedroom, then to his bathroom. I didn’t quite dare explore his bedroom so I went to the bathroom and opened his medicine chest. A man is known by the medicine in his chest, I told myself, and suddenly I grabbed two small pill bottles out of it and stuffed them in my handbag and returned to the study.

Some fifteen minutes later I heard a soft knock. “Yes?” I said.

“Miss Flood?” purred C. D. “We’re finished now. Do come and join us.” He entered and stood over me beaming. “And what have you been doing all this time?” he asked.

“Reading your mail,” I replied coolly.

He laughed his hiss-giggle and began leading me down the stairs to the drawing-room again. Midway he paused and turned to me all charm and suavity. “I am sorry to have behaved like that. Especially when really the whole thing is so unimportant. But—” the old loon’s eyes were brimming with mischief, “but tell the truth, Miss Flood, I assure you it won’t make the slightest difference—they did put you up to it, didn’t they?”

This time I marched straight down the stairs almost knocking him over, demanded my coat from his man and, without backward word or glance, left.

So that was that, I thought glumly, huddled in the corner of the taxi that was taking me back to Dody’s. I mean gosh, I mean gee, I mean golly, I’d known he wasn’t going to be one of your ordinary kindly everyday run-of-the-mill old gents, I hadn’t expected him to be—but all this mercurial jazz, one minute one way, one minute the next—he was too much for me. I would never have gotten around him; would never have gotten him to fork over the money. Well, that was that. And now what? Back to America and forget the whole wild project?

The phone was ringing when I let myself into Dody’s flat. It was C. D. The apologetic full-of-contrition C. D. He’d got my number from Smitty. He wanted my address so that he could send me flowers.

“That won’t be necessary,” I said primly.

“No, but it’s essential,” he replied. And could he give me lunch tomorrow? And would I accept his word that this evening would never be referred to again?

What had I got to lose? I thought. Nothing. And maybe the world to gain. And so I accepted with pleasure his invitation to lunch.