The Sea Change (5 page)

3

EMMANUEL

H
E
left the house with the spurious sensation of freedom that he had come to associate with leaving any place where he had
slept. There was no sense of accomplishment – no movement in a better direction; simply an opening, with the streets and the daylight before him. His day had been arranged for him by Jimmy
and Lillian – on the usual basis of ought and not. Lunch with Sol Black and another possible Clemency – early, because he had said that he wanted to work all the afternoon. That meant
going to the dreary little top floor room in Shepherd Market that Jimmy had hired for him. He had spent a week actually trying to write in it, but had been defeated by its impersonal cosiness
– its almost furtive air of artistic information. With its divan, its cheap bookshelves packed with the sine qua non of the last thirty years – its postcard reproductions of Etruscan
art and its chipped pottery ash trays, it had seemed to him the place to be poor and young, silly and serious, and desperately in love. He was sixty-odd; his income bounded precariously ahead of
his enormous income tax; he was no longer silly without an effort, and hardly at all serious, and he had the greatest difficulty in remembering what it was like to be in love. In fact, the room
seemed to underline to him everything that he had lost; and so he had used it off and on, but not for writing. Anyway, did he want to write another play?
Poor Man’s Friend
looked like
running here for a year, at least, and the Broadway production was assured – it only remained to find a girl for Clemency. Somebody of nineteen – like Betty Field; but there
wasn’t anybody like her. The young actresses today couldn’t kick up their heels any more – there were no pretty clowns whom you fell in love with while they were laughing at
themselves. Nowadays they were all stern and intelligent about it, and talked about timing – somehow they’d forgotten their bodies: it was like meeting a kitten who turned out to be a
ballet dancer. No good talking like that, and worse to think so: nostalgia was a dangerous drug – one developed such toleration to it that even deadly doses failed to stimulate the
imagination which ended by living on its own fat with no hunting summer ahead . . .

He was on a bus – he did not know where he was going – but he bought, as usual, a sixpenny ticket, and allowed himself to be swept, with good-tempered surges and patient moments,
down Bayswater Road. It was raining quite hard now, and the park looked its worst. Enormous trees, their new green lumpy and sodden; the grass, soured by soot and frost, had no sense of direction,
and all this endured under a sky both dirty and hopeless. There had been some streaks of blue – Lillian’s favourite colour – when he had looked out of her window earlier. Poor
Lillian. He wished that he either wanted to write another play, or, at least, didn’t want
not
to write one. But what on earth was he to do this summer if he didn’t write? His
inability to think with any hope or confidence so far ahead jolted up more recent events: the last few weeks; last night. Lillian, who might really have had a bad heart attack: Gloria, who might
really have killed herself: Jimmy, who might easily have lost his head or washed his hands at the unnecessary shock and squalor of the whole business . . . But when he came to himself in all this,
he was assailed by exactly the pattern of panic that made him have a drink (he’d even got the first drink out of Jimmy by a trick) – such horror of being himself, of consequences
spreading like ink on to other people that he had to desert, to abandon himself, to go out of his mind which so disgusted him, and become a man who would naturally do such things. He was feeling
sick again – must get off the bus; must stop drinking; must stop seducing secretaries; must stop upsetting Lillian . . . He got off the bus, took a taxi (he always took them if he knew where
he wanted to go), and went to the theatre to find Jimmy. In the taxi he felt such profound, humble gratitude to Jimmy that he wasn’t at all sure he could bear to meet him. He had had it
before – several times now – and once when Jimmy had actually been there he had said: ‘I don’t know why you do it. You’re worth six of me.’ And Jimmy had looked
at him – soft and cynical and said: ‘Yeah, but there
aren’t
six of you, Emmanuel; thank the Lord for that, whichever way you like to look at it.’

He found Jimmy with a photographer arguing about stills. They were both leaning with their hands on a large desk over which the glossy plates were strewn. The photographer was sulking, and Jimmy
was discarding plate after plate with a kind of professional petulance. They both looked up when he came in – the photographer assumed good humour and Jimmy winked. ‘Don’t think
that you haven’t done a wonderful job, Lionel, in the
main
, it’s just that, particularly with Miss Cockeral – I’m looking for a different quality; a kind of . .
.’ he paused with two fingers held an inch and a half apart; ‘you know what I mean?’

The photographer, let loose like a horse in new pastures, tossed his head, snuffed this meaningless air, and seemed soothed.

‘It’s elusive, but if anyone can get it, you can.’ Jimmy began blocking up the plates. He had metaphorically shut the gate and was talking over it – finishing the job.
“Now look, Lionel. She’s filming for the rest of the week as we all know to our cost – she won’t be in the mood to co-operate in the way you
need.
I’ll talk to
her, and fix something for next week, and then I
know
you’ll get some wonderful pictures for me. How’s that? By the way, have you met Mr Joyce?’

The photographer held out a hand like a fish slice.

I’ll show him the pictures,’ said Jimmy, still soothing.

The photographer whinnied, released Emmanuel’s hand, and looked reproachfully at the plates.

‘He’ll understand about them being roughs,’ said Jimmy smoothly. ‘Be seeing you, Lionel,’ he added as an afterthought.

Emmanuel smiled – really with pleasure at being able to see Jimmy so easily: the photographer gave him a yearning, dazzled look, and went.

‘He wants to do you, of course.’ Jimmy lit a cigarette. ‘My God. What’s he
done
to Elspeth though? She’s a nice, sexy girl, and he’s made her look like
she’s been underground all her life resisting something.’ He shoved the plates into a drawer. ‘You haven’t forgotten your lunch, have you?’

‘No.’

‘Got the key to your room?’

He began feeling absently in his pockets for the key, but before Jimmy could say, ‘It’s OK, I’ve got the duplicate here,’ he said: ‘I don’t know that I want
to write another play, Jimmy.’

‘Why not?’

‘“Why not?” That’s not how to do it. I’ve no statement to make.’ He touched the desk – pressed it with his fingers. ‘Out of touch: equal
proportions of feeling helpless and detached.’

There was a silence during which he knew exactly what Jimmy was not saying. ‘Have you got Gloria’s home address?’

‘She’s still in hospital.’

‘I want to see her sister.’ He waited a moment, and then said: ‘I must.’

When Jimmy had given it to him, he said: ‘You know anything about this girl Sol’s bringing to lunch?’

‘Only what Sol said: nothing. She’s had no experience to speak of. Of course Sol says she’s out of this world.’

‘I don’t blame her: it’s not a very nice world.’

‘You come along with me and get fixed up at the chemist’s.’

‘I’ll have to do something, or Sol’ll talk me into engaging her blind. Why can’t you come?’

‘I’ve got to tell Annie it’s no go, and there’s a two o’clock call.’

‘Annie?’

‘You saw her last night. Her voice depressed you.’

‘Yes, it did. Didn’t it you?’

Jimmy looked embarrassed. ‘She’s depressed me in other ways.’ Then he said almost angrily: ‘Pay no regard. I shan’t lose any more sleep over
her.
She
wouldn’t be right for Clemency – I always told her that, but she wanted me to get you to see her.’

‘Well, I may have to get you to see Sol’s girl. I don’t suppose she’ll be right, either.’

‘If we ever find any who is, I’ll fall for her. I
love
Clemency. Come on; drug store?’

‘Chemist,’ said Emmanuel gently. At that moment he loved Jimmy.

Sol Black, who had chosen the restaurant, met him in the padded draught which was its entrance. After they had stood there for a few minutes exchanging greetings and being hit
and trampled on by waiters and other clients (they were neither of them large men), Sol indicated a very small, low table jammed in a corner near the bar between two groups of drinkers. Their
chairs, higher than the table, were wedged behind it, but with some skill Sol levered them into position and they sat – the table rocking, and Emmanuel brushing potato crisps off his knees.
It was almost dark, but otherwise the general impression was red: the air impregnated with scent, French dressing, and damp suits (it still rained). Sol talked, but it was difficult to hear what he
said: ice shakers (or bracelets?), women laughing who had no business to do so in public, and the heavy murmur – like distant surf – of men boasting about money, made anything but an
exchange of platitudes almost impossible. The air-conditioning operated just above Emmanuel’s right ear and he tried to shift himself a fraction towards Sol’s white shining face.

‘Of course! You want a drink,’ Sol said instantly: he had a capacity for looking tragic over imaginary shortcomings. ‘Hey! We’ll get one ready for Martha, too.’

Emmanuel said he didn’t drink at lunch time.

‘You don’t say! God! How I admire you people. Sure you won’t break the rule – just this once?’

‘Tomato juice.’ His voice sounded useless – it sank into the padded walls anonymously – without a murmur.

Sol ordered two Bloody Marys and a tomato juice for Mr Joyce, and the waiter moved off like a knight on a chessboard with the order.

‘. . . As I was . . . saying – about this girl – Martha – she’s not the usual run – you must believe me. She looks good, of course, not conventional, mind
you, but is that girl intelligent! She’s read everything! And she really understands your work: she’s said things about it which really made me sit up. Little things, mind you. And you
know all those Russians? Well, she’s read
them
! Not just the dialogue – the whole works . . .’ his face glistened, his voice broke: ‘and music,’ he said
hoarsely, ‘boy! has she come out the other side of that!’ Their drinks arrived and he waved the bill away.

‘Has she done any acting, Sol?’ Emmanuel asked gently.

‘Well now you’re asking. Cheers! Yeah, she’s been in Rep: wanted to do it the hard way – she’s
cultivated
. . .’ He took a deep drink.
‘She’s twenty, you know – just a kid really – she couldn’t have done much of anything. I want to bring her in on the top, because I
know
she’s got what it
takes – I’m a
hard
man,’ he added appealingly: ‘Look at me!’ he gazed at Emmanuel with liquid eyes; ‘Broadway, London, Hollywood, I’ve been
everywhere – they’re all the same to me. You can’t tell me any more about human nature, and if I tell you this girl’s got what the public wants and a great future ahead of
her – she’s
got
a great future, period.’

‘Have you seen the play, Sol?’

‘Took Martha last night. It’s great: she’s wild about it – just crazy about that girl Vlem – Clem . . .’

‘All right, stop selling her, Sol. I’d like to see her.’

‘Well, now: here she comes!’

He tried to get up, and Emmanuel clutched the table. A tall girl in a dark blue suit was weaving her way over to them. The skirt was tight, the jacket was loose on her shoulders; her dark brown
hair was neatly scraped back from her face, which was big and well proportioned. Sol introduced her; everybody smiled, and she sat down on a third chair which seemed to grow up out of the floor.
She was wearing a white shirt, very open at the neck, and as she sat down Emmanuel realized that she had the most beautiful breasts that he’d ever seen in his life. This made him laugh aloud
which he seldom did: the others looked at him enquiringly, but at that moment, the head waiter, a man with a diabolic expression and shoulders like a grand piano, loomed over them and laid a menu
about twice the size of the small table upon it. They protected their drinks like guilty secrets between knees numb with cramp and screwed their eyes in the appropriate directions. The menu was in
mauve handwriting hectographed on to rough grey paper; it was written in food French, and Emmanuel couldn’t be bothered with it. He watched the others: Sol expansive, generous –
struggling with greed and his waistline; the girl – Martha Curling she was called – trying to choose what was expected of her; the head waiter whose features had settled to an
untrustworthy co-operation – and then back to Miss Curling’s breasts. He had never seen anything like them – he wanted to congratulate her, to laugh again – to celebrate
such a delightful phenomenon. He ordered oysters in their honour, and tried to take a more general interest in the proceedings.

‘. . . you dig your knife in and all the butter runs out,’ Sol was saying.

The girl was fingering one of the buttons that were not done up on her shirt: she had large irresponsible hands, and Emmanuel wished she’d take them away; ‘but then I suppose she has
to eat with them,’ he thought.

‘Is it a Russian dish?’ she was asking him: ‘I mean, Kiev?’ she added intelligently. Emmanuel smiled charmingly at her and didn’t reply: he never answered a
question that bored him. She decided to leave the button alone, and have steak. The waiter went, and Emmanuel realized that unpleasant though he was, he nevertheless created an area of calm.

Eventually they were herded to a table which was not unlike a roundabout on the Great West Road, only smaller, and unless they actually sat on the table, much less safe. It was a good table
anyway, said Sol, with satisfaction. He loved people, but they made him sweat – and already he had exerted himself until he looked like a melting candle. They all had lunch: but the girl had
a kind of inert self-confidence that Emmanuel found dispiriting. She tried to fix him with her large pale blue eyes, which seemed somehow to reflect great wastes of her character: she worked her
way perseveringly through his career – comparing his plays with one another – broadcasting her innocuous opinions like weed killer on a well kept lawn, with Sol behind her rolling the
mixture in. Emmanuel ate his oysters and tried not to feel predatory or exasperated. The other two drank a wine foisted on them with expert contempt by the wine waiter: the girl unfortunately added
bravado to her repertoire and Sol gleamed phosphorescently in the gloom. She was practically asking for the job now, and Sol was heading her off – he had finesse if you looked at things large
enough – by asking about Lillian and Jimmy.