GS Marlowe - I Am Your Brother

by (epub)

“Aaah! Don’t! Don’t!!”

  And it’s all shadow, and shouting, and very dark attic and agony.

  Isn’t it lovely to see suddenly, as you turn off Knightsbridge into one of those side streets, a beautifully arranged shop window, all lit up? A desk; artificial plaster-cast flowers; and a very stylised vase, slightly early Egyptian or so. A few comfortable chairs—very square cut and deep and soft; ceramics—a woman without bosom leaning against a deer: oh, so very artistic and so inspired! Two desk lamps you really can’t use, as they give out very little light: one the shape of a cucumber; the other round-shaped and buxom, like the breast of a negro woman, conceived by Gauguin. And a delicious sign, very square and modern: Norman Harris, Ltd.

  And a young man in a well-tailored suit, knitted pullover, standing on the pavement, looking at the arrangement: carefully scrutinising the whole.

  And another young man pauses in the shop window, and the clean-shaven young man on the pavement shows with his hands that the statue should be a little bit—no—just the other way—just a tiny little bit—an inch—hey! That’s right. What fun to arrange a window.

  Now the young man wiggles into the shop and closes the door carefully—no vulgar air—Norman might get a stiff neck.

  “My dear,” says Norman, “I’m desperate. I can’t possibly get Julian Spencer’s flat ready by Monday. Even if I don’t go down to my aunt for the week-end. I simply can’t get it ready. And he wants this photograph—too disgusting! Photograph”—and it almost makes him faint and collapse—“of some frightful chorus girl. He imagines it will look wonderful if it’s flush with the wall—it’s no good trying to tell him. . . .”

  Whereupon the other boy sneers a little. “Poor Norman, how tiresome!” And giggling: “Probably the love of his life, my dear!”

  But Norman only droops in despair. “My God, it’s six already. I must go to Sybil Haine’s party. She’s promised me . . .”

  “Hallo, hallo! Who’s yer lady friend?” and clearing his throat again: “Who’s the little girlie by yer side? I’ve caught a cold,” he concludes, and turns around.

  Kraut is a very funny sight, when his face is all covered with soap and he stops singing. “You know, Viva,” he says, “it’s all very well leaving the window open at night. . . .” And sharpening his cut-throat razor one, two, one two, up and down, up and down; “but in moderation. . . . Just a little bit. We must get some more blankets.”

  There is no response from the bedroom, so Kraut goes on shaving. He is in his vest, all hairy shirt and biceps. The water is gurgling into the bath, and in a minute or two it will be full and Sully will take a bath.

  “You know,” he shouts into the bedroom, “we continentals—I mean especially in Germany”—and going over his chin with the razor—“Saturday is the day one takes a bath and afterwards one goes to bed, all wrapped up. Ha, ha! It’s the night. . . .”

  Viva’s voice from the bedroom: “Listen, Sully, are you expecting anybody?”

  But Sully is doing the top lip. You know, right under the nose. A tricky spot, very dangerous, and so he says nothing at first. Afterwards, slowly: “Not that I know of. Wait! Just a minute, darling!”

  Julian.

  Viva was quite right. There is and was somebody at the door, and it is and was Julian. But the moment he hears—the moment he wants to ring the bell—Kraut’s step on the other side of the door, he runs down quickly.

  “You are hearing things,” says Sully, “I couldn’t see anybody.” And bare-footed he taps through the dark hall towards the bedroom, stops on his way, and disappears into the toilet. That’s what cold feet do to you.

  Julian stands in the street, and it’s dark and the wind is blowing, and very few people are passing by. Farther down: lights, noise, buses, people. . . . Slowly he disappears down the street.

  The telephone is ringing. Ringing again. Ringing like mad. The door to the servants’ hall is open, but nobody bothers to come out and answer the telephone.

  The butler in bedroom slippers is sitting on the table, a glass of whisky and soda in his hand, and the personal maid of Lady Castle is sitting at his feet, so to speak. The butler says, playing with her golden curls: “So I says to her: ‘Don’t be a damned fool, every story has to come to an end. Better to-day than to-morrow.’ ”

  And the chambermaid, cuddling: “Oh, Cuthbert, you’re so sensible.”

  “So I am, so I am,” says bedroom-slippered Cuthbert. “Women have no dignity.”

  “Ah?” says the personal maid. And her face asks—what does dignity mean, anyway? And then, “The telephone, dear.”

  “Right,” says Cuthbert. “It’s probably George from White’s. He’s getting the sack.” And he shuffles along to the telephone. He turns the light on in the hall, and all the gorgeous pictures of dukes and duchesses are wakened up by the sudden glare of the huge crystal chandelier.

  “Who?” he shouts into the receiver. “No, sir, her Ladyship is abroad. For a month, sir. I will tell her, Mr. Spencer telephoned.”

  Cuthbert puts down the receiver, turns the light out and padding off again to the servants’ hall, mutters to himself: “Huh—silly young fool.”

  He sinks down wearily into his special chair, very curved and comfortable: “Men have no dignity either.”

  And after this grave statement: “Be a duck and make me a nice cup of tea, Lucy. Then I must be off.”

  “Yes, dear,” says the only too willing Lucy, soft, sweet, and sticky as coloured caramel.

  Julian leaves the telephone-box again and walks down the street. He walks down Shaftesbury Avenue and there are lights, taxis, and a lot of people coming out of the theatres in top-hats and fur coats. And ladies in gold and silver wraps, very shiny, very sparkling, and so very smart.

  A man tries to sell matches and he is supposed to be blind. And another one sells mechanical toys—a mouse swinging her little baby, and a few Aberdeen run about wildly on the pavement. And there is quite some competition, as suddenly another man takes out a few snakes and lizards with little springs in their bellies, and it’s all very childish, though reptiles, even toy ones, are never very pleasant.

  The man says: “Take one home to the kids.” And holds up a wiggling snake-lizard. And to an old woman he says: “Take one home to the baby.”

  Julian stops, looks at it for a moment, and wanders off again.

  In one of the side streets two minutes from Piccadilly Circus, there is a snack bar. You can’t get a drink—just coffee and tea. And the proprietor of Nick’s Snack Bar is standing behind the counter, serving the guests himself. A taxi-driver—no, two—and a funny looking woman who sniffs all the time, and she eats a sandwich, greedy and industrious as a squirrel. She is very old but, no doubt, she has seen better times. And there are three more stools vacant, and so Julian sits down. He doesn’t remove his hat, just sits and looks at the wooden bill of fare.

  “What’s yours?” asks Mr. Nick.

  “Anything,” says Julian, “a sandwich and a cup of coffee.”

  “Salmon and egg?”

  And Julian, rather annoyed, “I said anything.”

  ‘“All right, all right,” says Nick. And to a startling-looking woman, who has just entered: “Good-evening, stranger!”

  “Good-evening, Nick. Chicken and ham as usual.” The woman, very blonde and very big, snakeskin bag, flesh-coloured stockings on muscular legs, a low-cut jumper, very thick and knitted, and a tweed skirt, not long and not short. Very respectable. A greyish raincoat, quite smart, belt and shiny buttons, and a beret. “How’s business, Nick?” she asks.

  “Mustn’t grumble,” replies Nick, cleaning a few glasses by squeezing a napkin rudely into their mouths.

  “How’s the wife?”

  “All right, thanks. Gone to stay with her people.”

  “What about my coffee?” asks Julian impatiently.

  “I am sorry,” says Nick, “you get talking to old friends . . . you know what it is . . . there you are, sir—sugar?”

 
“It’s my fault, I’m afraid,” says the big blonde woman, looking at Julian with good-natured, heavy-set interest.

  “Oh, that’s all right,” says Julian, reluctantly polite and busies himself with his sandwich. . . .

  “Can you give me a match, dear?”

  Julian fishes a box of matches out of his pocket.

  As she sucks at the little flame through her cigarette, her rather beautiful, cow-like eyes gaze at him intensely with a deep slow look. And, quietly caressing with her voice: “Thank you.”

  Julian still holds the burning match, looking at her.

  “You’ll burn yourself, dear.” And she grips his hand, takes it close to her lips, and blows the flame out. “I like you.”

  “Have another cup?” asks Nick, wistfully interested.

  “No, that’s all,” says Julian, and puts half-a-crown on the counter, indicating with a gesture that both bills should be settled at once. Hell, she is attractive, decidedly so. Round and healthy. Nothing mysterious about her. Comfortable, like a glass of thick heavy wine. Good vintage. Makes you forget.

  They both get up, and as she steps down from the stool: “Huh!” she says. A suspender has given way, so she pulls up her skirt with an embarrassed smile. “It is a damn nuisance.” And she has quite good legs. As a matter of fact, she has beautiful legs, thin ankles and the skin above her stocking is creamy white, nice soft flesh . . . and . . .

  “Don’t make a noise,” she whispers. “Hell—where’s the key?” And they both stand on the dark staircase on the landing, and the woman fumbles about in her purse, and at last she finds the key. Quickly she unlocks the door, turns on the light in the hall and closes the door.

  “Lovely room you have,” remarks Julian.

  And the blonde woman: “Glad you like it. It’s all right. I haven’t been here long anyway.” She takes off her hat and coat, throws them on the sofa—lots of fancy cushions of all sizes and shapes—walks over to Julian, pulling down her jumper. “All right?” she asks in a low, seductive voice. “You like me, don’t you?” And quite bourgeois: “Queenie is my name.”

  “Queenie,” repeats Julian absent-mindedly, not really looking at her, still standing in his hat and coat in the middle of the room.

  “Come on, dear,” encourages Queenie. “Sit down. Make yourself at home.”

  But Julian doesn’t move. His attitude makes Queenie quite desperate.

  “Bashful, aren’t you?” she says. “Just a little boy,” she adds, smiling. “Just a little boy scared of the big blonde woman—you like them big, don’t you?” And again she pulls the jumper down, so that the upper part of her anatomy can be plainly seen.

  “What’s the matter with you?” she asks. “Why are you looking round—are you scared? You little so-and-so! There’s nobody in the flat. You can look if you want to.”

  “Scared of what?” asks Julian, and laughing: “Scared of you?”

  “Now you’re talking,” says Queenie.

  And Julian takes his hat and coat off, and sits down. “I am tired.”

  But Queenie doesn’t give up, so she says, stroking his hair: “I’ll get you a nice, long drink. What would you like—brandy and soda? Or whisky? I’ll have one with you.” And she rushes over to a cupboard, takes out a bottle of whisky, unwraps a siphon quickly, two glasses, and shttt! “I’ve made yours extra strong. That’ll warm you up, dear. . . . Not so quickly, not so quickly! Whew! You drink like a fish, don’t you? It always makes them tired. Slowly. . . . Now, doesn’t that make you feel good and warm? And now”— she settles down on Julian’s knee—“you’ll give me a cigarette?”

  Julian hands her a cigarette and lights it for her.

  “Ah,” she says, “it’s warm in here . . . don’t you want to take your coat off? Loosen up a little?”

  “Oh, it’s all right,” says Julian.

  Queenie tries something else. “Have another drink—I’ll get into something comfortable.” And she walks behind a screen, pulling off her jumper over her head as she walks. “Ah, that’s good,” she sighs, “stuffy clothes all day.” And she throws the jumper, then the skirt, over the screen. And then an elastic belt. Finally, her stockings. “Now I shall put my little kimono on, and you’ll tell me all your troubles, won’t you, dear?” and there is a soft gurgle from the wash-stand.

  “You aren’t in business?” she asks, still busy at the old-fashioned wash-stand.

  “Why do you ask?” says Julian, and puts a few pound notes on the table.

  “I didn’t mean that,” says Queenie, rather hurt. “But you always want to know who your friends are and what they’re doing.” And tying the sash of her kimono: “Not that it matters. But you look different.”

  “Listen,” says Julian. “Don’t ask me questions. I only came up here . . .”

  “Because you liked me,” says Queenie, pulling the thin flowered silk tightly across her strong, massive, large-nippled breasts.

  Julian ignores this common, self-flattering remark, and after a pause: “You probably think I’m no good, but I’m just damned tired, and I only want to talk to you.”

  “Aren’t you feeling well?” asks Queenie in a motherly tone. “Got a headache?”

  “Oh, no, I’m feeling all right. But you see, I can’t sleep. I can never sleep. I’m nervous, worried, and so tired. To-morrow I have a very strenuous day ahead of me. I have to get up early in the morning and drive down to the country—it’s quite a long way out.”

  “Yes,” says Queenie, soft and comfortable. “But an outing will do you the world of good. Going with your sweetheart?” As there is no answer, she shakes her head in despair: “I can’t make you out.”

  Julian suddenly jumps up, almost upsetting the little table next to the sofa. “I’m going with my brother, because, you see, I have a brother! To-morrow I take him to the country. He doesn’t know anything about it.” Julian is visualising the whole thing. “I jump down from the car, grab him quickly, and——”

  “Aren’t you funny?” says Queenie, slightly frightened, but still smiling.

  Julian, almost ecstatically: “Oh, I can see it! Bubbles! Big bubbles coming up. First, big ones, then a few small ones—little tiny bubbles, and then no bubbles any more, and it will be smooth again—just a few ripples, and nobody will ever know.”

  “Oh, you’re frightening me,” says Queenie.

  “Am I, indeed? Why frighten you? Don’t you see it’s the only thing for me to do. I am a genius, and I have a great career before me, so I must sacrifice everything that gets in the way, even my beloved brother!”

  “I really don’t know what you are talking about,” says Queenie, still more frightened.

  “How should you?” shouts Julian. “How should you? You haven’t been in on the story so far. Haven’t I only just met you?” And, quite exhausted, he sits down. “What a long night this is. Slow, dragging hours. . . .”

  Queenie gets up, walks over to the window, pushes aside the curtain: Roof tops, cold chimneys, and a slice of moon. And down the street an electric sign: BRAVINGTON. An illuminated clock above. “Hell,” she says, “it’s twenty-past two already.”

  Julian doesn’t seem to take this in. He buries his face in his hands. “I’ve always wondered what a man felt five hours, four hours, three hours, three times sixty minutes, before he was hanged or shot or had his head chopped off. I always said to myself: ‘Do they feel how time flies? Do they count the minutes? Do they think of their homes and wives, and sweethearts? Or enormous steaks they’ll never eat, of beautiful women they’ll never love, of cars they’ll never ride in, of places they’ll never see?’ And now I know. Time doesn’t fly. But a minute leaves—you see, a little minute: and she excuses herself for staying so long, and makes a few curtseys to the minute who has just entered. ‘I’m sorry, my dear,’ she says, ‘I’m afraid I must be going,’ but she twitters about and she doesn’t leave, and so the following minute pushes her out of the door. ‘It’s my turn. You see, dear, I’m minute-in-waiting!’ ‘You
’re so young, my dear,’ sighs her predecessor through the closing door, ‘and I’m sixty by now.’ And she collapses on the door-mat, just as the other starts dancing on thin, rapid feet. Feet like needlepoints; first it’s a polka, then a mazurka, then a waltz, then a slow tango. Slow, and slower, till another young minute knocks at the door. . . . And this goes on for hours and hours, and you can count the hours, and you call them names, and you know them so well, so well, you can’t stand them any more, so you want to kill them, kill time, kill time——” And Julian reaches for the whisky bottle. Queenie quickly takes it away: “No, no! You go, I can’t stand it any longer. . . . I don’t know what you’re talking about. . . .” and she shoves his hat and coat into his hands: “You’d better go now. . . .”

  Julian gets up. And he stands right in front of her: “Ha, ha! I was only fooling! I’m quite all right. . . .” And he tries to kiss her neck, but Queenie pushes him aside. “No, I don’t want it, you’d better go now! . . .”

  “What do you mean—you don’t want it? You’re lovely, beautiful.” He drops his hat and coat, and . . .

  “You’re mad! Go away!”

  But Julian: “No, I’m going to stay with you. Mad, you say? . . . I’ll show you. . . .”

  She struggles and fights and scratches his face, bites his hands . . . and her kimono lies torn on the floor.

  “Leave me alone . . . let me go!”

  But his hands and his mouth . . . and Queenie weakening: “Don’t . . . don’t. . . .” And her big white body lies quivering in his arms.

  Streets. And streets again. And in closed windows that strange opaque light of an early morning. Very cold. Windows and houses—all sorts of houses—some quite old, with a sleeping garden in front. And no wind stirs the blackened branches of leafless trees. Modern buildings again: very tasteless and matter of fact. Shops on the ground floor; butchers, fishmongers, tobacconists and an odd chemist or two. But all shut, as it is Sunday between seven and eight in the morning. Here is a pub: Hound and Hare, it says in shiny letters. And a street cuts in between, and there is another pub. Port From The Wood. A butcher; a chemist; a fishmonger; an old house. And there is a sign For Sale, and underneath: Apply Withersby and Co., Auctioneers and Surveyors. And another store, and a little church hides like a rabbit among houses and streets. The doors are wide open, like a black hole leading to unearthly peace, service, and devotion. . . . And a few old women with thin old-fashioned umbrellas disappear into the church. . . . Pubs, houses, fishmongers and butchers, and suddenly there is a garden, and behind those houses a dreary old square. And a viaduct. And an early underground train clatters up to the surface to get a quick, brisk whiff of suburban air. A few more people, all very quiet. Subdued, happy expressions on their faces, as they got up early this morning to do something about their weekly conscience. Bosoms and bellies carried defiantly before them. Smug smiles smeared over their lips. And no more houses, now, but fences and wooden partitions. Building in construction. And huge signs. Huge letters. Something about securing a house, garden, garage, without putting down more than a few shillings a week.