GS Marlowe - I Am Your Brother

by (epub)

  Whereupon Shark sniggers rudely, but is silenced by angry glances at once. Never mind, Bailey, go ahead. What were you thinking?

  “Hmmm! . . . I was just thinking . . . er . . . thinking . . . hmm . . . anyway . . . when I was a little boy I often used to go to my sister’s out in Wimbledon . . . er . . . I was a little boy . . .”

  “And your sister lived out in Wimbledon,” says Shark, smiling savagely.

  “Right,” says Bailey. “That’s quite right. . . . I was a little boy then. . . .”

  “He-he!” from Coco, and a splutter from Amy.

  “I never knew,” continues Bailey, “what happy marriage and family life could mean. As I, when I was a little boy, for different reasons . . . er . . . to make it short . . . my sister in Wimbledon . . . He suddenly rubs his forehead with the vacant expression of a half-killed chicken: “I don’t know what’s the matter with me . . . can’t get my mind together. . . .” And quickly he takes a sip of water, smiles, drops the smile again, smiles again, but what of it? “A lovely thought I had, just escaped. . . . I am sorry. . . .” And he sits down heavily, drinks up the glass of water, pours some more water into his glass, pours, drinks, pours, drinks, and still another one, and everybody looks at old man Bailey with pity and suppressed amusement. They don’t expect him to speak again, so they start talking, but it’s all very leathery and dry. Suddenly, however, he jumps up: “When I was a little boy I always used to go to Wimbledon, to my sister’s, just to see . . . my God! Damn it all! When two people are suited to each other, all alone in the world . . . I mean to say . . . if one has no brothers or sisters . . . no relatives . . . it’s the only thing, to get married at once . . . an old man”—and he lowers his voice in sentimental fashion—“like me, if asked what to do in life, I say, marry, and marry, and marry again!”

  “Hah!” says Shark, and a quick “Ho-ho!” from Coco.

  “To make it clearer,” continues Bailey, “a man alone is nothing, and a woman—what can she do? Alone in the big wide world.” And the tears glittering in his voice: “So it’s an old law, and that’s why I said in the beginning of my speech that at my sister’s out in Wimbledon, when I was a little boy, I used to go there quite often.”

  This is the cue for heavy applause and giggles, and Bailey, not taking in the insult, smiles right and left, highly pleased and conceited. As a matter of fact, he is convinced it was a magnificent speech, and he taps on his glass again, and Coco shouts: “When I was a little boy!” Look, little Coco’s got the hang of it. And Shark applauds: “Encore, encore!”

  “No, gentlemen,” says Bailey, “I only want to raise my glass and drink to the health and prosperity of our two dear friends. As our German friend Sullivan Kraut would say, Hoch! Hoch!! Hoch!!!”

  This was a shock. Followed by a dead and agonised silence. And Bailey sees that he has dropped a brick. So he wants to alter the end of his speech, but he can’t think of anything. . . . “Anyway,” he says, “here’s to you—cheerio!” And exhausted, he sinks down into his chair, wiping cold perspiration from his forehead, nose, and cheeks with a checkered handkerchief.

  The conductor looks at Julian and Shark, and as both look down on their plates, where ice-cream is melting, and wafers drown in creamy sauce, he doesn’t know what to do. But Julian looks up quickly at Viva and at Shark.

  “You must get up, Julian, and say a few words—they are all so nice to us—do get up, darling. . . .”

  “No, no, Viva.”

  “But you simply must!”

  “I really don’t know why. I can’t make a speech.”

  “But Julian——”

  “Leave him alone,” says Miss Williams. “He’ll make a speech all right.” And to Julian: “Won’t you, Mr. Spencer—Julian? Have another glass of wine. Coco, pass the wine.” And she pours some of the red alcoholic liquid into Julian’s glass. It’s quite good red wine, two-and-six a bottle. Chianti. Goes easily to one’s head, but makes one heavy in the feet.

  “Now, Julian,” says Miss Williams, “now you can face them—eh? You don’t have to say much——”

  And Julian, very annoyed: “Much? I have nothing to say. They only sneer at me because I’m different and I really don’t belong to them. It was ridiculous—the whole thing—whoever’s idea it was.”

  “Now, Julian—it was my idea—besides it’s always done—it’s no good quarrelling and sulking—but have it your own way.”

  Peggy Williams tries to smooth things out, and that’s why she says: “But, Viva, you know he’s nervous—I shouldn’t get the wind-up, if I were you. Don’t spoil the lovely evening.”

  Viva leans over the table, and her voice gets sharp as a knife: “Listen, Peggy, it’s all very well—it has nothing to do with you. It’s none of your business. You needn’t protect Julian. He can stick up for himself. He doesn’t need you—so save yourself the trouble.”

  Julian hasn’t said a word, but now it’s too much for him: “Listen,” he says, “I can’t stand this any longer—I shall go home at once.”

  “Ah,” says Viva, very surprised, “go home—just like that—huh?”

  “Now, Julian,” says Miss Williams. “You won’t do anything of the sort.”

  “All right, all right!” And he gets up: “Ladies and Gentlemen!”

  “Quiet!” “Silence!” “Mr. Spencer!” “He is going to speak now!” “Hand me that glass quickly!” “No I haven’t any matches—afterwards.” “He-he!” “Quiet, Coco!”

  “Ladies and Gentlemen!”

  “But I said cheese!” shouts Luigi. “Cheese and de biscuits—hell, am I talking to myself? It’s always cheese.”

  The whole kitchen is in despair, and if you say another word, Mr. Luigi, your beloved cook, Lucrezia—in fact, your greatest asset—will burst into tears.

  “Silenzio!” cries the waiter, rushing in. “Il Maestro is making a speech.”

  “Cheese!” shouts Luigi, hammering with his fist on the table, and: “What did you say?”

  “De speech—Mr. Spencer——”

  And Julian’s voice: “It’s not so easy to believe in one’s own talent if there isn’t somebody else who believes in one, too. It came all so very suddenly and unexpectedly. . . .”

  “Beautiful,” says Luigi, “it’s like the preacher at the funeral.”

  “Psst,” from Lucrezia, and she, too, is deeply moved.

  Julian was probably moved himself. That’s why there is a pause. And his voice again: “I very often think it can’t be true. I have waited and waited for this evening to come, and now we are all here together, as in the old days. . . .”

  They all sit and listen, and every one of them is conscious of the significance of this great evening and moment. And Viva looks at Peggy, and Peggy looks at Viva, and Coco looks at a fork, and Bailey plays uneasily with a cold cigar butt. It probably reminds him of Wimbledon again. And Shark thinks of Mrs. Esmond. People are like this. They want to be moved from the outside to fall back on their own emotions inside. Julian reaches for his glass, and he looks up, lost in thought, towards the door, the door connecting dining-room with kitchen. He sees the bead curtain over the doorway and—ah!—now he knows what to say to end up his speech, and then he looks back and sees all the familiar faces: “So, my friends, I ask you to drink to the health and happiness of my future wife—to Viva!”

  He raises his glass, and there is suddenly a sound—what is it? A sound from over there, and he looks at the bead curtain, and there is a shuffle of feet and strings of beads sway apart. The shuffle of feet—and nearer; and nearer they come—not it—it’s him—and in a flash—that hideous face of the Brother!

  “Help!”

  “A doctor!”

  “Fainted!”

  “Hah! Hah!”

  And they all jump up from their chairs, and some chairs fall on the floor, and Viva cowers, paralysed, and Miss Williams tries to soothe her, but still and quiet Julian lies across the table, the glass in his hand, and he doesn’t move, and all is in a t
urmoil. Broken dishes, apples and little oranges rolling on the floor.

  Peggy, now screaming and crying, drags Viva out of the place: “It’s all right, darling, it’s all right, darling!”

  And Viva, hysterically; “I don’t care, I don’t care . . .”

  And the girls rush out, and Luigi himself lifts up Julian. “You’re all right, Mr. Spencer?”

  And Julian, faintly: “Is he still here? Has he gone?”

  “Who?” asks Luigi. “Nobody here, Mr. Spencer. You had too much de Chianti.” And, to the little waiter: “Bring in de cold towels. Ask Lucrezia . . .”

  Shark, Ritornelli, Esmond: they all stand in the street, and they murmur something, and whisper, and Esmond shrugs his shoulders, and Shark makes a sharp gesture—to hell with it all, so to speak. And it’s very dark and cold, and the wind, strong as ever. Lights sway in the wind, and in the distance, shouts: “Taxi! Taxi!”

  And they all disappear.

  Five, six, seven, eight. And from another church, quickly, another five, six, seven, eight. But more hurriedly than the first. And some more chimes fall in. Night has gone, and a grey transparent morning is stretched out between houses, bridges and trees. Not quite clear; more like a veil of mist. No noise fills the streets yet, and even the cart loaded with spring flowers—hyacinths, tulips, mimosa—on its way to Covent Garden—not even the cart seems to make any noise. Windows are opened here and there, and two lazy street-cleaners work in monotonous silence. Sweep, sweep. There are hardly any people in the street—just houses, and closed shops, and way down there a long, slim, petrol lorry, SHELL, it says, in big letters, and it’s all as cold and transparent as the morning itself. A milk wagon comes up the street and the man jumps down from the driver’s seat, picks out six bottles, disappears into one of the houses, and the horse goes on by itself to the next door. The driver comes down again and he is very quick, as it’s so cold a morning. Four bottles. And he goes up the staircase and it’s a very old house. Wide stairs, and lights stuck in the wall, formerly gas burners, now transformed to hold electric bulbs. And he stops at a door and on the shiny brass plate it says: Mrs. S. Hewitt, and he deposits two. And on the next floor there is no plate, just a little card attached, and it says: Mr. S. Kraut. He puts a bottle down quickly, and he brushes aside two charwomen—or maybe, a tenant and one charwoman—as they’re in his way. But they don’t pay any attention to him, as they are enjoying a hefty slice of rich morning gossip.

  “Last night,” says the one with the scarf round her shoulders. “It must have been one or two in the morning. I hear somebody speaking and a woman crying and shouting. They come up the stairs——”

  “You don’t say!” says the other one, who has two folded morning papers under her arm, “at one in the morning, you say, Mrs. Brewer?”

  “At two in the morning,” says Mrs. Brewer. “I say to my husband: ‘You better go out and see,’ but he turns over and gives no answer, so I thought I might go myself. You know, Mrs. Pewter, those new tenants, they move in one day and out they go a couple of days later. You don’t know what people you have in the house in the end. So I quickly put on my coat, run to the door, and what do I see?”

  “My God, you don’t say?” exclaims Mrs. Pewter. “That’s terrific! What did you see?”

  “Him”—and pointing to the door—“him, in pyjamas, coat over his shoulders, takes a girl upstairs. And she’s crying and shouting: ‘He’s crazy, he’s crazy! I’m fed up, I’m through with it all!’ and he: ‘That’s all right, that’s all right!’ and——”

  “Sssh!” warns Mrs. Pewter, as the door has suddenly opened, and Kraut, half-dressed in dressing-gown, appears, picks up the two bottles, and closes the door again.

  Kraut tiptoes back to the kitchen, pours the milk—glug-glug-glug—into a saucepan, strikes a match, lights the gas, turns the flame low, so that it won’t boil over while he goes to the bedroom.

  It’s a very old-fashioned flat. Umbrella stand, a cuckoo-clock which doesn’t work, cheap Oriental brass trays, and an enormous brass hookah on a coy little low stool, and a hunting-scene on the wall: the fox has obviously disappeared, and the hounds look quietly at their Master, conscious of being painted, and so they keep still, and look very much alike. On an odd chest of drawers part of Kraut’s yodelling outfit. The hat with the feather, a pair of embroidered braces. Oh, there’s really nothing wrong with Mr. Kraut or his flat. It’s all very moderate, old-fashioned, and therefore quite good. But, if we may say so, slightly dreary.

  Kraut comes out of the toilet and disappears into the bedroom. There’s still a slight gurgle of water, a last sign of exhaustion, and then silence again.

  Streets. Quite. Yes, that’s quite right. There are streets that lead a life of their own. They start somewhere, let’s say, right here, and they run smoothly down to that corner over there, and they stop, look around, and then suddenly lose themselves between houses, garages, and mews, then they appear again, join up with another street, trundle along for a little while, and then shoot off, and if you don’t know the habits of this certain street, you are simply lost. In the city they behave themselves and are rather dead, but when you get to the suburbs let’s say, Hammersmith—or Shepherd’s Bush, then they just run wild. Maps are no good. Advice given by pedestrians, taxi-drivers, or even policemen on duty, doesn’t help. In fact, it’s more confusing than otherwise. Look at this street, for instance. Right: it’s like a bad dream of a street. Tumbledown houses, edges, corners, all crooked and wrong, and that’s probably why nobody lives here. At least, it looks like it. There’s only one policeman standing at the corner, and he watches two pigeons, who seem to be having the time of their lives. The male pigeon puffs himself up to twice his size: walks two little steps, suddenly gets a funny idea in his head, turns round and tries to jump on the plain-looking missus: but somehow he’s disappointed, and so he takes two little steps to get away from her: but he can’t help it: he turns round and runs back to her. The policeman is amused, looks at the pigeons, looks at his shoes, then at his hands, and then up again, as he is on duty and must keep an eye on things.

  He sees a man who is in obvious need of advice, for he is looking at a piece of paper, trying to find a certain number in this street. It is Julian Spencer. And finally he approaches the policeman. “Excuse me,” he says. “You don’t happen to know where thirty-seven is? I’ve been looking for the last half an hour, and it always changes. A few minutes ago I thought I saw it over there . . . you see? Thirty-five. Now there is thirty-six, so there must be—or at least one would think so—thirty-seven. It’s a carpenter I’m looking for.”

  “Hmmm,” says the policeman.

  “Daniel Macpherson is the name,” adds Julian, “a carpenter.”

  “Never heard of him,” says the policeman, looking at the piece of paper with interest. “But, if you know the number changes, and you said you saw it here and then over there again—in that case, of course, you must catch it the moment you see it. I suggest you hide in this garage, and the moment you see it appear, jump out and run straight into it. Don’t wait—act at once.” And then quite casually, he says: “You are standing in front of it, Mister—here! ‘Daniel Macpherson and Co.’ ”

  Julian looks up, and sees the sign: Established 1810, underneath the name.

  He rings the bell. Nothing much happens. Nobody opens the door, and there is no sound. As a matter of fact, it looks uninhabited.

  Julian rings again, and a window is opened on the first floor, and a strange-looking old man appears, smiles from one ear to the other, and nods—once, twice—and closes the window.

  Now the door is opened, and the strange-looking man introduces himself: “Daniel Macpherson” he says, and very servile: “What can I do for you, Sir? A box, a barrel, or what?”

  Julian is slightly flustered by the appearance of this man, and his rather curious way of talking, and says slowly: “I want a box made to order.”

  “Oh,” says Macpherson, “I know exactly what you wa
nt. Step right inside.”

  And there is a tiny office; two desks, a map of the Empire, and a wall-calendar—given away by a lumber firm. A bird-cage without an inmate.

  Mr. Daniel Macpherson sees that Julian is rather interested in the place, and pointing at the bird-cage, he says: “Gulliver was his name. He sang himself to death. It’s the spring.” And then he walks over to the desk, and picks up a piece of cardboard with samples of wood glued on to it. “What you want is a strong box, six feet by one and a half—that is correct, is it not? And this”—pointing to a piece of oak—“is the proper material—it’s strong, and it lasts long.”

  “I haven’t said anything yet,” says Spencer. “You really haven’t given me a chance to explain what sort of a box I want.”

  “Oh,” says Macpherson, “you needn’t tell me. I know all about it. After all, I read my daily papers carefully. Especially the agony column. I read every bit of it. I start with ‘Lord, I do believe,’ and read all the way down to ‘Clothes turned’ or ‘Wine-Grower near Rheims.’ You know, it varies, like the number of this house. Since I’ve been here the number has changed considerably, and I have been here for a long time. I established the firm in 1810, with my brother. He died rather young—day before yesterday.”

  “I am sorry,” says Julian.

  “Now you’re talking sense,” says Mr. Macpherson. “We’re nearing the subject. It’s your brother who makes you order a box. He feels he’s a nuisance, and he wants to pop off, like”—snapping his finger—“that. So, careful and considerate as brothers are, he asks you to order him the box before it is too late. He even orders the flowers for his funeral and asks the tailor to sew a few buttons on the trousers of his dress clothes, have them nicely pressed, so that when they put him in the box, he will look neat and respectable. Some even have their hands manicured—” and laughing—“it’s all very funny. Anyway—six foot by one and a half—that’ll cost you fifty pounds flat. No shillings, no pence, no small change at all. We Macphersons are generous.”