The Old Man and Me (8 page)

“Georgian paste,” I heard C. D. saying.

I looked at him blankly.

“Eighteenth-century Georgian paste. All the jewellery in these cases.”

“You mean they’re not real?” Odd, this feeling of relief.

“Another gap in your education. You have the makings of a very poor gold-digger though I expect the design and quality of the workmanship make them almost as expensive as the real thing.”

“I’m glad they’re not real. I hate diamonds. That ring, there, it’s like the one my ex-fiancé gave me. I can’t stand the sight of it.”

“It’s quite understandable,” he said gently, guiding me away from the case. “By the way, what did you do with the ring if you don’t mind my asking?”

“I sent it back.” That was true. Honey had. What would
I
have done I wondered? Hocked it probably.

“It was the only honourable thing to do,” he said. I dropped my eyes guiltily in a way which he misread for sorrow. “In fact you deserve a reward. Look at this spray.” He pointed to a beautiful brooch and made them take it out for us. He held it up to my shoulder. “Pin it on. Here—look at yourself in the glass.” He stood back studying me. “Remarkable,” he said. “Extraordinary, most extraordinary,” he said enthusiastically. “It quite transforms you. What is it? That clean cut, austere, almost prim American armour seems to have a chink in it. The spray brings it out. Brings out the ‘other you’ as the women’s magazines have it. Gives you an air of naughtiness somehow. Yes. Gives you—oh dear, what is the phrase I want? The air of a rich man’s darling.”

I wheeled around at his words to look at myself in the mirror and to my unutterable relief found it was my grown self confronting me and not, as I had feared, a tear-stained child (the impression was so swift it melted even as it formed); and then I snapped out of it entirely and began admiring myself, fingering the spray shimmering on my lapel, playing with its little leaves quivering each on tiny separate springs. I noticed with pleasure how my eyes reflected its soft brilliance and seemed to make them dazzle and glow and for the second time that day I felt the pangs of acquisitiveness.

“I’d like to give it to you,” said C. D. right out of the blue. “Please. Would you like it? Do let me buy it for you.”

I caught myself. I must remember I was a nice young girl, I was honourable. I was not a gold-digger.

“Don’t be silly,” I said lightly taking the pin off and putting it down on the case. “I couldn’t accept it.”

“No, of course not. I say, I didn’t mean to embarrass you.”

On the other hand there was nothing to be gained by coming on like a prig, either. “Some other time, perhaps,” I murmured silkily. And as he stood there baffled I turned to leave, reflecting that though one played many roles to attract a man one must be careful not to play them all at once.

Back down the billowing staircase we floated, the Archduke and I, and “
Goodnight lad-ies!
” the ghostly violins sawed away, resolutely propelling us into the night.

“Which would you choose—a brooch of Georgian paste or an early Meissen coffee-set?” asked C. D.

I considered. “It would depend what I was up to—what part of my life I’m at; if I was at a certain point, well, like now for instance, I’d choose the brooch. As an eye-catcher, to let it kind of speak up for me. But if I were in love...”

“If you were in love? Go on.”

“Well, I can see myself having breakfast on some sunny terrace and I can see that coffee-set harmonising eloquently into the surroundings. And I can see myself pouring...”

“And who can you see sitting opposite you?”

“No one.”

But suddenly I saw C. D. standing behind me, touching my hair as I bent over, admiring the picture I made. “I think I’d choose the coffee-set anyway,” I surprised myself by saying.

We were walking through a mews full of parked cars en route to Dody’s flat. “Which would you choose: Made in America or Made in England?” C. D. paused pointedly between a sleek, shiny Jaguar and a poor old beat-up Chevrolet that looked as if it
had made the long hot journey on foot, its excess of fintails, bumpers and chrome splattered and dented and limp with exhaustion “—come away from that filthy Da Sota or whatever it is, this minute! You’ll be covered in dirt. What are you doing with your nose buried in it?”

“That is the limit!” I exploded. “Talk about hospitality. Someone’s been scrawling obscenities with their fingers all over the windshield. What’s it say? Probably ‘Yankee Go Home,’ or some such gracious invitation. I can’t make it out. What’s it say?”

“I am not an archaeologist. I don’t read dust,” said C. D. with dignity, taking out his handkerchief and fastidiously brushing himself clean from its contaminating contact. “Ah you’re smiling again, that’s better. I say, you mustn’t pick one up so, I was only having my little joke about the wretched vehicle, you know.”

Night had fallen. The ill-lit mews seemed full of sinister shapes lurking behind implacable facades of parked automobiles; the air was poisoned with fumes of oil, rubber, and gasoline. Dark patches on the ground, probably from leaking tanks, looked as if they might be blood. I began walking faster. The brick pavement underfoot was bumpy. I tripped and stumbled along, longing to break into a run. Curtains were drawn tightly across the windows of the mews cottages. Suddenly it was the gas-lit London of Victorian England and I was all alone in a dark alley with a demoniacal stranger. My scream would not be heard until too late. My body-heat accelerated by fear reached its boiling point, melted into a sweat and trickled in rivulets down the insides of my arms and between my breasts. I was panting by the time we reached Dody’s. I leaned against a shop window to catch my breath.

“You’re deathly pale, child,” said C. D. in alarm. “See here, I’ve worn you out traipsing you around town like this. You’ll want a nice cup of tea to bring you round. We’ll have young Mrs. What’s-her-name make you one the minute we get there. Can you manage? Lean on my arm. We’ve only a few more yards to go.”

“Dody’s her name. Dody Schooner. I’m all right, really. I don’t know what came over me.”

“Ah yes, Schooner. Why do I never see her with that clever husband of hers? Amusing chap. Always on the boil. One feels the lid’s just about to pop off.”

“It did. And he popped off with it.”

“Oh? Where to?”

“India.”

“How sad for her.”

“Not really. Good riddance.”

“Steady, now,” he cautioned me. “That facile cynicism’s sneaking up again.”

“But wasn’t that what you said to me at lunch today? You know, about he that made you bitter making you wise?”

“But that’s quite different from letting he that made you wise make you
bitter
.”

“Is it? Well rah-rah.” I sighed. “I guess
I
don’t know anything.”

“I do,” he announced in a calm completely out of context voice, giving my arm a squeeze—or was it a caress?

“What’s the scoop?”

“I know that my head is spinning from trying to make you out. Do you believe in the battle of the sexes? That is, do you believe it exists?”

“I don’t know. Why?”

“Because I have the definite impression that we are at war with each other.”

“But I like you very much,” I protested.

C. D. smiled wistfully. “That seldom has anything to do with it,” he said.

All the way up the stairs we could hear Dody’s gramophone blasting away full force. We had to press the bell hard several times before she answered.

“It’s
West Side Story
,” she said excitedly as she opened the door, raising her voice to be heard over the music. “I went and bought it this afternoon. Isn’t it marvellous? Scotty hated American musicals. Listen to that brilliant orchestration with all those wild repetitions. It’s like a symphony. Don’t you adore it?”

“The needle is stuck,” said C. D.

She looked at us while the gramophone blasted five more da-
da
! da-
da
! da-a da-
da
’s at us. “You’re right,” she cried and left us standing there while she ran to turn the thing off.

“How did you know?” she asked him, upon returning. “I mean it sounded so on purpose.”

“It’s always happening to my gramophone,” he told her kindly, while Dody gazed upon him with awe. Suddenly she shook herself.

“Come in, come in. Goodness, how rude of me. I’m all topsy-turvy these days.”

“I’ll only stay a minute. Miss Flood is utterly fagged from our day’s outing. Entirely my fault. Might she have a cup of tea?”

“But of course. Where are my manners?” She sprang into action. “It’s been so long since I’ve entertained. Oh damn and blast!” She stopped suddenly mid-flight and sank into the nearest chair. “I—I don’t think we’ve got any more,” she said in a small voice. “Scotty decided a couple of months ago that he hated tea. He said it was a filthy English habit.”

“What is he drinking in India then?”

“I don’t— Oh. So you know.”

“It’s my fault—I told him,” I put in quickly. “I didn’t realize it was a secret.”

“No, it’s only...I’m only...I don’t know where I’m at.” And she waved her hand impatiently as if she would like to fling herself away from her. “But what will he drink there?” she pursued. “Isn’t there some local brew?”

“Yes,” said C. D. “Tea.”

“Oh of course. Indian tea. I’ll run out and buy some now.”

“No, don’t bother. Alcohol will do as well, won’t it, Honey? What would you like?”

“Gosh, I don’t care. Sherry, I guess.”

“Oh dear, I haven’t any sherry either,” cried Dody in distress.

“Did he hate Spain too?” inquired C.D. politely.

“No. He hated gentility. He said drinking sherry was genteel.”

“How did he feel about gin?”

“We’ve got bottles of it,” she said brightening. “Would you like a gin and something, Honey?”

“Don’t bother about me please,” I said. “I don’t care much about drinking, anyway.”

“But you must have something,” insisted C. D. “It’ll do you good. I am worried about you. You still look peaky.”

“O.K. I’ll have a martini then.”

Dody went over to the drink cabinet and stared at the bottles for a while. “It’s no good,” she moaned hopelessly, unable to bring herself to face us. “No vermouth. I’m afraid Scotty—”

“Hated cocktails,” supplied C. D., going over and pouring me out a gin and tonic and placing it in my hand and standing over me to make sure I drank it all.

“Feeling better now?”

“Oh yes, much.”

“Won’t you have one too, Mr. McKee?” asked Dody timidly.

“No, I must be off.” He smiled winningly. “Do ask me back soon, won’t you? I hate to leave but I’m already hours late for my next engagement.”

Liar, I thought, travelling to the door with him. And where was this mythical engagement when you were imploring Lady Mary to see you this evening? Nevertheless, I thanked him lavishly for the pleasure of his company, flattering myself as I stood waving him out that my own smile, if not as winning as his, was—at least—bravely showing.

“But he’s so nice,” exclaimed Dody in wonderment as soon as the door closed. “Why he’s not a bit the ogre they make him out to be. He hardly frightened me at all. He’s so kind and considerate and gentle. And the way he kept hovering over you, you are lucky. I can’t imagine Scotty even noticing that I was tired much less offering to do something about it, I’d probably have to faint dead away before it even registered. How do you do it? It must be your magic touch, I wish you’d teach me. Not that it’d be any use,” she gloomed. “It’s the way I am. I bring out the worst in everybody. I’ll bet Scotty’s different with that Indian girl. I’ll bet he throws his coat across the street every time she takes a step so she won’t get her bloody sari muddy. Do they have streets in India?”

“Paved with gold.”

“Don’t joke. I sort of imagine cowpaths or something. I suppose I should know more about the place. I could get some books and read up on it. Actually I’ve got a map of it somewhere but I daren’t look at it. I know I’d go twice as crazy if I were able to picture them together in their accurate setting. It’s bad enough as it is.”

“You’re right, Dody. You must try to forget about him.”

“But I do try. I try all the time. Why do you think I bought that record of
West Side Story
? And then I didn’t even realize the needle was stuck. Do you think that means that Scotty was right about it all along? Maybe the musical isn’t any good. Is it?”

“Of course it is. It’s divine.”

“You see what I mean? How would I know? I took his word for everything.”

“What else did you do today?” I asked, attempting to change the subject.

“I don’t know. Fed the fish. Watered the plants. And I stopped the milk—except for a quart a day.”

“Dody, have you had anything to eat today?”

“Yes...No...I forget.”

“Come on, get your coat.”

“But where could we eat alone, just us two girls?” she protested.

“Any old Espresso bar.”

“There’s a little Italian restaurant right around here. In Curzon Street,” she said.

After dinner I dragged her off to the Curzon cinema thinking if I didn’t get a few hours respite from her incessant Scotty-used-to-say-do-you-think-he-was-right chatter I was going to go crazy. Peace at last, I said to myself, sinking into the dark springy luxury of my seat. Peace in the audience at any rate. On the screen all hell was breaking loose: a Brigitte Bardot film, crackling with carnality. As I relaxed into its comforting amorality I felt my Honey clothes becoming unstuck and myself slipping into Bardot’s panties. I felt myself becoming immersed in Bardot’s doings with an absorption not so much vicarious as actual, propelled by a need rather than a thrill. To lure C. D. I was going to need all the help I could get. Where else could I get it except from books and movies? Where else, come to think of it, had I ever gotten it? I was remembering the scrapbooks of my favourite movie stars I used to keep as a child: all female, all “sex-symbols,” all immensely imitable: the hair-do, the eyes, the walk, the attitude. The most imitable thing about Bardot, I guess, is her strippingness.

I was with her on the screen that night. I was right up there with her—raising my skirts high above my thighs, pulling on sweaters and peeling them off, prancing about nude and dripping from the bathtub. Game for anything.