Curtain Call (20 page)

The late-October night had drawn down its blinds. A dreary street lamp threw a cone of light by which one could survey the anonymous visitors filing in and out of the public lavatory. It took Jimmy's trained eye to distinguish between the ones who called in for a piss and those furtive few who had other things in mind. That pale-faced youth, for example, the one with the sliding eyes who had disappeared below a few minutes ago, he'd had a proper air of mischief . . . Jimmy glanced left and right before quitting his lookout post and descending smartly down the steps. The stench of ammonia mingled with detergent started a throb in his trousers. A dingy bulb lit the long room and its reeking enfilade of urinals along one wall, where a single figure was occupied, eyes straight ahead, a slight tilt to his back. A fierce stream of urine could be heard hissing against the porcelain. Jimmy went to stand at the next one along; the man, indifferent, shook his peg and buttoned up. Without so much as a glance he departed, his steps receding upwards to the street. It seemed he was alone, though he felt certain that his quarry had not exited the place.

Behind him were three cubicles, two of them with the door ajar. The last one stood seductively closed. Jimmy liked a touch of coyness, it lent the illusion of having to earn his fun. He sidled over, and with a cough as his introduction he pushed at the door, which was unlocked. The youth, straddling the toilet bowl, gave him the once-over.

‘Thought it might be you,' he said with a snicker. ‘Seen ya outside. I thought, 'e's a dirty dog. Am I right?'

Jimmy wondered what sort of reply was expected. ‘Well, I'm –'

‘
Yeah
, a right dirty dog,' he continued, rising to his feet as he appraised Jimmy. He was a shortish, wiry youth of about nineteen or twenty in a brown wool suit. Jimmy had liked his shifty, vulpine gaze, though he hadn't noticed the discoloured scar down the side of his jaw. In one quick movement the boy grabbed him by his coat front and shoved him down onto the seat he had lately occupied. The force of this little manoeuvre caused Jimmy to bang his head against the thick iron pipe running up to the cistern.

‘Ouch! My dear fellow –' Jimmy began laughingly, and stopped on catching a glint of something steely in the boy's hand. This was not what he'd had in mind. The boy casually brushed his cheek with the knife's tip. He leaned forward and patted down Jimmy's breast pockets, then fished out his wallet. He opened it, and pulled a face at its meagre contents. Pocketing the money, he began examining the rest. Jimmy's hand tightened around his walking stick.

The boy drew out a card and read: ‘“Press pass . . . Mr James Erskine . . . the
Chronicle
.” Ha, a journalist, eh? Maybe you could write about
me
.' He threw the card away, and picked out another. Emboldened by his distracted look, Jimmy sprang forward, whirling his stick through the air and catching his opponent a sharp blow on the forearm. The knife clattered on the floor. He was nearly past him when the youth recovered his balance and swung a fist that connected explosively with his eye. Jimmy felt a white starburst of pain shoot through him as he crumpled onto the toilet floor, and thence into unconsciousness.

In the days following this incident Tom had telephoned Princess Louise Mansions repeatedly and received no reply. It was so unlike Jimmy to withdraw from company that he went round in person one afternoon, only to be told by the porter that Mr Erskine was ‘indisposed', and had given instructions that he wasn't to be disturbed.

‘What's wrong with him?' asked Tom, knowing how much Jimmy feared to be left alone.

The porter shrugged. ‘Ain't seen hide nor hair of 'im, sir. Though he must be around,' he added, ‘cos I took delivery of his wand this morning.'

Tom was puzzled, until the man pointed to the back wall of his office, where a new walking stick was propped.

In the meantime he had resolved to hand in his notice to Jimmy. The decision was long overdue. They had been together nine years, and he knew it would be better to quit while they were still on speaking terms. When he had started, his duties had been clearly defined: editing, proofreading, liaising between his editors and publishers, deputising for him when he went on holiday. Perhaps he had been too efficient in the job, because Jimmy eventually had him running his diary, his finances, his housekeeping, his travel arrangements. His life. Nor had he been remunerated for this ancillary work. He had squeezed one meagre pay rise out of him four years ago – or was it five? That business over the typewriter was really the last straw . . . He acknowledged his own share of the blame in allowing him to get away with it.

The mysterious silence ended one Friday morning when he received a note from Jimmy asking him to call at the flat. On his way there Tom carefully rehearsed what he would say, a few sincere, straightforward phrases outlining his decision to leave, his gratitude for nine years' employment, and his modest hope that he had been of service. There would be no mention of Jimmy's meanness, his ill tempers, his selfish and graceless behaviour, any of it – they would part as friends. If Jimmy wished to provide him with references . . . no, he would not even ask for that, he would simply shake hands and be on his way. He found that he was whistling as he stepped off the bus.
I should have done this years ago
, he thought as the porter admitted him.

Upstairs Mrs Pargiter, the char, answered the door. ‘I've just brought 'im his tea,' she said, nodding towards the living room. This was odd in itself: usually by eleven Jimmy would be blazing away in his office, meeting a deadline.

He gave a brief tap at the door and walked in. Jimmy was sitting in one of the winged armchairs with a tray across his lap, spooning out a breakfast egg. His eyes were shielded by a pair of dark glasses, which gave Tom an abrupt lurch of fright.

‘Oh my God – what's happened?'

Jimmy put down his spoon and, with the grave dignity of a dowager removing her lorgnettes, presented his face. Tom stepped closer to examine his black eye, which was now a livid blue with yellow striations.

‘You look almost relieved,' said Jimmy, with indignant surprise.

‘I am. When I saw those dark glasses I thought you'd gone
blind
.'

‘For a few days I practically was – couldn't see out of this one.'

On the coffee table steam was drifting from a china teapot. He bent down and poured them each a cup, adding Jimmy's milk and sugar. The invalid took the proffered tea with a mournful air.

‘I presume the traditional concomitant
sympathy
is on the way,' he muttered.

Tom made an apologetic motion with his head and sank into a chair opposite. ‘Who did this to you?'

Jimmy looked away, and sighed. ‘A wanton boy. I could bear the bruising, but he took my pocket watch, too. Had it since I went to France . . . twenty-two years.'

‘I'm sorry, Jim, that's rotten luck. What did the police say?'

Jimmy stared back. ‘You think I went to the police.'

‘Why not? You've been –' He read a mixture of embarrassment and defiance playing over Jimmy's features, and understood. ‘Oh . . . I see.' So it was like that.

As though able to read his thoughts, Jimmy murmured, ‘“I grow old, I grow old” . . . Beastly little thing, assaulting a fellow like me. Thirty years ago I would have boxed his ears.'

Tom heard a note of self-pity. ‘To be honest, Jim, you're lucky it
wasn't
the police, what with their tricks. You might be in Pentonville by now.'

‘I fancy that's where my employers would like to see me. I had a rather disagreeable chat with Barry at the
Chronicle
this week – told me Swaim was on the warpath. Apparently my private life has become a liability to the paper's so-called reputation.'

‘They wouldn't dare drop you,' Tom said.

‘I'm not so sure. They say he hates queers like Mosley hates Jews.'

As Jimmy's gaze dropped a shaft of compassion pierced Tom's heart. It wasn't the damaged eye that did it so much as the air of defeat; he'd never seen him look so frail and dispirited. The valedictory phrases that had been on his tongue were beginning to sound untimely, and he knew he would have to steel himself to utter them. It would have been so much easier if he'd done it two weeks ago. Or two years ago.

Jimmy was gazing in silence at the debris of his breakfast, and out of instinct Tom stood and removed the tray from his lap, brushing off the crumbs with a napkin. He then poured a fresh cup of tea and placed it in his hands.

‘There – the cup that cheers,' he said.

Jimmy took a sip, then gave Tom a level look. ‘You know, even in my darkest moods, the one thing that's kept my pecker up – if you'll pardon the phrase – is the knowledge I could depend on you.' His eyes had gone moist as he spoke. ‘Thank you, Tom, from the bottom of my heart.'

Oh hell
, thought Tom, who now felt quite the blackguard for the knife he was about to plunge. ‘Well, I just do my job,' he said quietly. ‘Actually, I've been meaning to have a word with you . . .'

He looked at Jimmy, whose expression had softened into beatific indulgence as he said, ‘I think I know what it's about.' Tom blinked wonderingly. Was it that obvious? ‘I've been taking you for granted,' Jimmy continued, ‘and I want to make amends. So I'm going to pay you an extra five bob a week, and I'll throw in your half for the cost of the typewriter.'

Tom would have laughed if he hadn't been so appalled. Here was a misunderstanding of comic, no,
tragi
comic, proportions. He could almost believe it was a sly bit of gamesmanship on Jimmy's part, but from his tone he clearly thought he was dispensing true largesse. He had recast himself as the Generous Employer. ‘Your half' for the typewriter . . . What a nerve. As for the five-shilling raise, it was neither large enough to make any difference nor so small as to free him from a show of gratitude.

Jimmy sensed an uncertainty in Tom's silence. ‘Was there something else?'

Tom shook his head, and managed a weak smile. ‘No. Thank you.'

‘Good man!' he said, evidently feeling better for the conversation. ‘Now – to business. There's a big dinner in aid of the Marquess I gather I'm supposed to attend. Know anything of it?'

Tom, slightly dazed, said, ‘I replied on your behalf. It's next week.'

‘Evening dress?'

‘I expect so.'

‘Hmm. I'm not sure I can still get into my dinner suit . . . I suppose I should hie me to Moss Bros. A lot of bother. Perhaps if I gave you my measurements you could call in and get one for me . . . Tom?'

Tom, miles away, forced himself back to attention. ‘Sorry?'

‘Hiring a dinner suit – from Moss Bros.'

Tom stared at him for a moment, wondering if Jimmy saw the irony in this resumption of the old routine – the routine of master and servant – and the way it followed hard on the heels of his admission that he'd taken Tom for granted. But his expectant look seemed quite oblivious.

‘Moss Bros, right,' he said. ‘I'll see to it.'

Edie Greenlaw had asked Tom if he cared to bring a friend to the party. It was her fortieth, and she had hired rooms at a hotel in Half Moon Street. When he arrived, the main room was already in a roar with a lot of people he didn't know. Edie's friends were mostly from the theatre, but she was also honorary queen bee to Jimmy's coterie of fast young men. She had them gathered about her now as she hailed Tom from a crescent-shaped plush banquette. They were all drinking a raspberry-coloured cocktail called an Albemarle Fizz. As he approached a couple of the youths stared appraisingly at him. Next to Edie sat Peter Liddell, busy trying to comfort a young fellow named Jolyon who had drunk too much at a recent ‘do'.

‘I'm so terribly embarrassed . . .'

‘Well, we'd all had a few,' Peter conceded.

‘Oh, but to fall asleep and just
lie
there.'

‘My dear boy, don't fret about it. You were the still life of the party.'

Jolyon, not quite understanding, gave a worried nod. Edie then screeched with laughter, and ordered more drinks.

‘Where's that nice girl you brought, Tom?' she asked.

‘Oh, she's just gone to the powder room.'

After their night at the theatre, he had waited a while before he called on Madeleine again. He had enjoyed her company, though he wasn't quite sure she had enjoyed his so much. She was a strange one, girlishly eager to please but rather distant when he asked about her life. She had told him a little of her early years; he knew about her being orphaned, and the convent school, and the aunt she once lived with – in Chertsey, was it? About her present circumstances, though, she was damnably mysterious. He gathered she had digs in Camden, and earned enough to afford good clothes and taxis. But she was vague about her job, saying only that she worked most evenings at a nightclub.

He had decided to surprise her by showing up there unannounced, though from the fright that seized her face on seeing him he wondered if it was such a good idea after all.

‘Tom . . . what are you doing here?'

‘Oh, just passing by. Thought I'd pop in!'

She was looking furtively about her. Roddy wasn't in the place this evening, fortunately, but there were others there who knew her.

‘How – how did you know I worked here?'

‘Oh, Peter – you remember meeting him at the theatre? – he told me he spotted you coming in here the other night, and I took a chance that this might be . . .'

He could tell already that she didn't much like surprises. Still glancing about her, she led him out of the club by a side entrance. They stood in a service yard that stank of old beer and urine.

‘Sorry, I shouldn't have burst in like that,' said Tom. ‘It was a spur-of-the-moment thing, you know.'