Bond Street Story (13 page)

Then Sir Harry caught sight of the butler. He signalled to him to come over.

“Two whiskies and sodas over here,” he said. “And better bring me another cigar before it starts. Can't jus' sit here doin' nothin' while it's all goin' on. You all right, Major?”

Before Major Cuzzens could answer, however, there was a sudden hush. Swami Lal had just been shown in. He advanced, wearing a red silk robe tied loosely with a sash round the middle.

“Fellah looks like a boxer,” Major Cuzzens remarked from behind his hand.

Sir Harry inspected him for a moment. Then he shook his head knowledgeably.

“Not him,” he said. “No hands. Nothing there. Now, there used to be a coon ...”

Mrs. Rammell herself was leading Swami Lal over to a chair placed near the piano.

Major Cuzzens leant forward.

“D'you imagine the fellah always goes about like that?” he asked.

Sir Harry inspected him again.

“Ever see that ‘I've-got-a-horse' chap?” he asked “Prince someone-or-other. He does.”

Because the rest of the room was in silence, everybody began looking in Sir Harry's direction. He acknowledged the situation with a little nod in Mrs. Rammell's direction.

“You go ahead, m'dear,” he said. “Don't bother about me.”

Mrs. Rammell spoke her piece with the easy charm of someone who has done the same thing endless times before. She told them how lucky they all were to have Swami Lal with them at all, and how doubly fortunate that he had agreed to dance for them. Mrs. Rammell and Mr. Burnett might, indeed, have been rehearsing the part for months. Because the timing was perfect. As soon as she paused for a moment, Mr. Burnett said “Hear, hear,” and then everybody else said “Hear, hear,” after him. It was only the phrase “world-famous” that caused difficulty. Major Cuzzens leant forward again and whispered in Sir Harry's ear.

“D'you ever hear of the fellah before?” he asked defiantly.

Sir Harry thought for a moment.

“Used to be a chap on the halls,” he said. “Same name. Did a dance with a snake. Can't be that chap though. Too long ago. May have been his father.”

Various members of the Yoga League and the Natural Posture Guild said “
ssh! ssh!
” very loudly, and Sir Harry turned round to see who was
sshing
him. Major Cuzzens turned too, and the
sshing
stopped instantly. The bloodhound look had suddenly become quite unmistakable, and two keen madrigalists edged timidly away.

“I'm afraid that Swami Lal has to leave us after only one dance,” Mrs. Rammell was saying. “It is because of a charity engagement that he has most generously undertaken to perform.”

The clapping had already started when Mrs. Rammell rose again. That was because of some rather agitated signalling on the part of the small man who had come in behind Swami Lal. He was the agent. The only bit he had come to hear had somehow been left out.

“And before Swami Lal dances his ... er ... dance,” Mrs. Rammell resumed hastily, “I should say that I am sure that we shall all be meeting again many times at the Coronet Theatre during Swami Lal's season which starts next Monday. And please tell your friends. The Coronet Theatre. For one week from Monday.”

The agent had relaxed by now. But a broad grin had come across Sir Harry's face. He nudged Major Cuzzens.

“See you there,” he said. “Don't forget. Tell the other chaps in the club.”

Throughout the whole introduction Swami Lal had sat there with eyes closed. Now when he got up, he opened them and looked around slowly as though surprised to find himself there at all. He might have been transported in a trance straight from Benares. But he soon recovered himself. Slipping the red silk robe off his shoulders, he stood there gleaming, supple-limbed, flexible-looking. There was a sudden creaking of the little gilt chairs as the ballet lovers all leant forward to see him more closely. It was their magical moment. Like something at Diaghilev's.

Swami Lal was certainly a magnificently built young man. The splash of colour of the caste-mark on the forehead showed up the natural aristocratic paleness of his skin. And the lines of the face were set in an expression of arrogant contempt. It was like being regarded by a rock carving. First he outstared Major Cuzzens and then slowly, contemptuously turned towards Sir Harry. Sir Harry stuck it for a moment and then winked back at him. Swami Lal looked hurriedly away.

Twining his two arms as though they were made of rubber from the elbows to the fingertips, Swami Lal began to address them. His voice, however, came as a bit of a surprise, even to the ballet lovers. It wasn't like a man's voice at all. It was a schoolboy's voice. Or a schoolgirl's. Practically Junior mixed. There was a piping quality to it that suggested canaries. But it was obvious straightaway that Swami Lal was not an English canary. On his lips, the language seemed to consist mostly of s's. It was as though at some period in history the Welsh must have gone storming and whistling through the Khyber Pass.

“The danss I danss thiss night iss the Lotuss danss,” he explained. “It iss a danss that hass been danssed in my country for many thousands of yearss. It iss very ssacred. A princess walkss by a river. Sshee findss a lotuss. The lotuss speakss to her. It tellss her that sshe iss going to die. Sshe iss very sad. Sshe weepss. Then sshe throwss the lotuss to the ground, and sshe stampss upon it. The lotuss changess into a snake and bites her toess. Sshe iss poissoned. Sshe sscreams, but her ladiess do not hear her. Sshe faintss, and fallss headlong. Sshe liess unconssciouss upon the snake. But the ssnake hass changed back into a lotuss and bloomss again besside the river. Sshe diess. The lotuss-danss. No smoking, pleass.”

“What'd he say?” Sir Harry asked.

“Fellah said it changed back into a lotus,” Major Cuzzens replied.

Sir Harry shrugged his shoulders.

“Thought he said something about smoking.”

“Don't think so,” Major Cuzzens replied, blowing out a great cloud of smoke in Swami Lal's direction. “Mostly about snakes. Can't be certain, though. Difficult to hear what the fellah says.”

Swami Lal waited motionless. The gilt chairs creaked uneasily.

“What's he waiting for?” Sir Harry asked. “I'm ready.”

“Bit of a hitch by the look of it,” Major Cuzzens replied. “Always the same with these fellahs.”

“I've got it,” Sir Harry said suddenly. “Partner hasn't turned up yet. Don't wonder if she's wearing those sort of clothes. Police've probably got her.”

“Damn bad staff work all the same,” Major Cuzzens said severely. “Fellah ought to have thought of it.”

Sir Harry leant back and crossed his legs.

“Looks as though it's all off,” he said. “Got us here for nothin'.”

A hand came forward from the row behind and tapped Sir Harry on the shoulder. The hand belonged to an elderly lady with very thick glasses and a length of black muslin tied over her head.

“Swami Lal dances all the parts himself,” she whispered.

Sir Harry was grateful for the information. He remembered now that the chap on the halls had been a quick-change artist, too. And devilish clever about it. You never knew what he was going to turn into next. This evening was looking up a bit.

“Does he, by Jove,” he said. “Good for him.”

There was a pause.

“It's your cigar he's waiting for,” the whisperer continued.

But this time Sir Harry shook his head firmly.

“Count me out of this,'‘' he said. “Too old. Haven't been up on to the stage for years. Give him yours, Major. This lady's in the turn with him. You go up.”

In the end, Mrs. Rammell herself had to come over. And, for a moment, it looked as though Sir Harry was going to be difficult. But Major Cuzzens revealed a sense of diplomacy that had come in very useful in Bangalore in the old days.

“Fellah's probably got a weak chest,” he said. “Most of 'em have.”

Sir Harry shrugged his shoulders.

“Hope he hasn't got a weak throat, too. I'm not giving up my drink for anyone.”

After another pause, this time only to set the piece, Swami Lal started. And it was soon evident that it wasn't only his arms that were rubber. It was his legs and thighs as well. He was sinuous all over. He wove patterns with himself. He slowly melted before their eyes, and reset in impossible positions. He merged.

But so slowly. Very, very slowly. It was like watching high diving in slow motion upon a cinema screen. There was a strange, lulling quality about it. Sir Harry began to feel sleepy. Once or twice, he opened his eyes to make sure that it wasn't all over. But the sight of those languidly waving arms, those legs crossed over somewhere at the hips, made him irresistibly drowsy again. He hadn't felt so much at rest for years. He snored. His head slid over on to Major Cuzzens's arm. But Major Cuzzens did not stir. He was off too. Front paws folded beneath his dewlaps he was dreaming of man-hunts and murderers and long-buried bones.

Trapped between Mrs. Rammell and Swami Lal's agent, Mr. Rammell stared down at the toes of his patent leather shoes. He had taken rather a lot to drink at dinner. And, though he didn't feel ill yet, he knew exactly how he was going to feel next morning. He wished that he had gone straight to bed.

Then he glanced up. Over by the door, young Tony was standing. He must have arrived late because he hadn't changed. It was one of his older sports-coats that he was wearing. Mr. Rammell forgave him that. What he couldn't forgive him was his expression. It was dreamy and entranced. Practically hypnotized. Apparently he actually admired Swami Lal.

“Oh, God,” Mr. Rammell told himself. “I've got to get the boy away from this somehow. It's ruining him. And it's killing me. If there's another blasted recital in this drawing-room, I'll shoot myself.”

 

The copy of
Hassan
was lying open on the bed with two dents on either side of it on the pillow where Irene's elbows had been. But she didn't want to read any more of it at the moment. She had been Yasmin for too long. Ever since last Tuesday, in fact. She now had that stale, used-up feeling that comes at the end of all successful runs. That was why she was so glad that she was going out to the pictures with the girls.

As soon as she got outside the house she felt better. It was extraordinary how closed-in, half suffocated she felt when she was at home. And it was steadily getting worse. On Sundays it reached asphyxiation point. Particularly when Mr. Bloot came. Because, having kissed her, he never let go until he had added: “Mahy, mahy! Quaht the young lady, aren't we?” She could foresee an endless future of it—the same damp, rather spongy kiss, the same unchanging lunatic comment.

But by the time she had reached the end of Fewkes Road, everything about Mr. Bloot and his Sunday visits was forgotten. Her own mother and father, too, were simultaneously blotted out. It was simply her friends that mattered. And she was obviously late. Because there they were, a close little huddle of girls all bunched together outside the Underground.

They were all dressed—just as Irene was—in short thickish coats over light thinnish dresses. They all had flat shoes with low wedge-shaped heels. They all had brightly coloured scarves tied peasant fashion around their faces. And they all had just enough make-up to set off the head scarves and still get by their own mothers. Even their handbags were the same. Whereas up till a year or so ago every one of them would have carried something small and rather dainty with a snap-over clip on top, they were now carting everything about with them—their small change, their compacts, their combs, their lipsticks, old letters, theatre programmes, photographs, propelling pencils and all the rest of it—in massive leather cases slung over the shoulder like an old-fashioned cartridge pouch. The sling bags were of chunky, undressed leather. They looked as though the girls had hacked the things out for themselves with a bush knife.

Being seventeen is always rather exclusive. Childhood is over. But maturity hasn't come. It is the emotions that are the trouble—too
many of them, and not yet properly sorted out. But when seventeen-year-olds are not bending under the strain of religious devotion or school examinations or prospective suicide, they are usually a pretty cheerful lot.

To-night, for instance, as soon as Irene got there they all started giggling. They went on giggling. They could not stop giggling. They had to hold on to each other to support themselves. They were noisy. They were conspicuous. They were happy.

It was really the fact that they were all four so well educated that made them so badly behaved. If they had gone straight into the world from Yerbury Road Senior Girls they would have had some real experience of life by now. It would have sobered and chastened them. It is also more than likely that they wouldn't still have been going out together at all. One by one, sex would have made its claim upon them. Any sixteen-year-old from Yerbury Road would have driven to find herself a boy-friend simply to avoid the appalling prospect of lonely old age at seventeen.

But they weren't merely Yerbury Roadites. They had all left Yerbury Road behind them, and graduated to the grammar school. They were old Eleanor Atkinsonians now. And between Yerbury Road and the Eleanor Atkinson there is the sort of gulf that divides Pimlico from Belgravia.

To be frank, they weren't in favour of sex up at the Eleanor Atkinson. Rather frowned upon it, in fact. The accent there was on Modern European History, New Testament scholarship and games. Any girl seen out with a boy of her own age, even at week-ends—let alone in the cocoa-brown school uniform—was regarded as something of an emotional outsider. A misfit. The portrait of Eleanor Atkinson herself, unmistakably a thoroughbred, gave the whole school its keynote. It hung squarely above the hall platform, this portrait, with a bracket light directly under it. And the long, sad face, with bit and bridle removed, dispensed an unmistakable message of breeding, training and plenty of good healthy exercise.