Mr Romance

by Mr Romance (retail) (epub)

  ‘It’s a restaurant review,’ I said, ‘by Belcher of the Sunday Leviathan.’ I glanced at Marvel but he looked away.

  ‘Well, read it!’ father demanded.

  ‘The Stuffed Owl, 159 Theobald Street,’ I began. ‘Since suffering a refurbishment at the hands of its owner, the barmy Bertie Bollinger, this deplorable restaurant with its cold, chrome fittings and walls of porcelain tiles now conveys all the atmosphere of an empty public urinal. The intolerable Italianate menu of past days has been swept away in favour of full-blown Frenchification…’ And here the print was so badly soaked with blood that I couldn’t follow it. ‘…The waiter served my Toulouse sausage,’ I continued, ‘with all the reluctance of a man who has just been forced to butcher and sell his own daughter… the offending article looked like a turd and smelt like the rump of a wet dog toasting before an open fire… secures the award as the most expensive restaurant carrot… a madhouse designed by a man who drags his knuckles when he walks… ’

  ‘Enough!’ Marvel cried, snatching the paper from my hand. ‘Enough!’ He thrust the scrap into his dressing-gown pocket and threw himself at the sofa where he sat with his shoulders hunched and his hands between his knees.

  ‘But why did they send it to this address?’ father asked. He glared at Marvel. He scowled at me. He thought he might be the victim of some elaborate hoax.

  ‘Mr Marvel is Belcher,’ I explained. ‘The famous restaurant critic. He writes for the Sunday Leviathan!’ Everyone knew Belcher although no picture had ever been published. The man was a legend. The scourge of chefs and scullions. A plague on preening restaurateurs and unctuous oenologists. A thorn that never failed to catch in the throats of gullible gastronomes. He was feared and revered in equal measure. A paramour. A philistine. An enemy of the connoisseur. The stomach’s gallant saviour. A man who made other restaurant critics look like snivelling sycophants.

  ‘That’s all very well and good,’ mother remarked soberly. ‘But that doesn’t allow him to receive bodily parts through the post.’

  ‘How did they find you? How did they know you were here?’ I said, turning to Marvel again.

  ‘Someone must have recognised me. A waiter most likely. Waiters are a cruel and cunning breed.’

  ‘That waiter from The Snooty Artichoke… ?’

  ‘One of a kind from a thousand hell holes,’ he said, wagging his head. ‘I must have been followed. They must have been watching the house.’

  ‘They went to all this trouble just because you didn’t like the look of a sausage?’ mother said. She was very impressed. She had never imagined that cooking could provoke such passion.

  ‘That’s nothing!’ Marvel grumbled, waving a hand at the butchered head. ‘It’s merely to serve as a warning. At the Royal Chutney they came at me from the kitchen with knives and poultry scissors. At the Pampered Plaice they tried to set my table on fire with a blasted flambé pan.’

  ‘You must have said some terrible things,’ father said, peering again at the dreadful parcel of flesh and bone.

  ‘I merely expressed an opinion. No more than an honest opinion.’

  ‘What are we going to do with him?’ I asked.

  Father shook his head. The situation was quite beyond him.

  But Marvel understood the terrible consequences. ‘I must leave at once!’ He moaned. ‘I shall have to disappear again. The devils won’t rest until they’ve done me a serious mischief.’

  40

  ‘But where are you going?’ we demanded. We had crowded into his little room to watch him packing his cardboard suitcase. He shrugged as he folded another frayed shirt.

  ‘Do you have any family?’ mother asked from the armchair.

  ‘None to my knowledge.’

  ‘You can’t walk the streets,’ I said.

  ‘I can’t stay here!’

  Danger everywhere! His enemies prowling the streets, watching the house, waiting for him to show his face. Flog him with cheese wires. Gouge him with graters. The man who dared pour scorn on the soufflé.

  ‘I still don’t understand,’ father grumbled. ‘If you hate dining to such an extent, what made you become a restaurant critic?’

  ‘I love food!’ Marvel protested. ‘And there’s the tragedy in a nutshell. It’s the restaurants that I can’t tolerate. It’s the wretched restaurants with their bogus butlers and unwashed waiters and their poisonous pates and overblown wine lists and burnt coffee and gateaux trolleys. I’ve had enough of their sauce Provencal and their broccoli spears and their wet spinach and cockroach-infested candlelight. I’ve had a bellyful of radishes carved into roses and dung heaps made from profiteroles. I’m finished with their celery tassels and vandyked tomatoes and anything called a mousse or croquette!’

  ‘Dorothy!’ mother shouted, flushed with triumph, snapping her fingers at the air. ‘We should send him down to Dorothy!’

  ‘No, no!’ Marvel said, busy clearing his bedside table. ‘I wouldn’t dream of it.’

  He wrapped his alarm clock into the folds of a badly darned vest and tucked it beneath his shirts.

  ‘Why Dorothy?’ I said. I couldn’t decide if she wanted Marvel to escape or merely wished Dorothy to find herself in receipt of assorted animal parts. She wasn’t an easy woman to fathom. It was possible, I suppose, that she merely saw in this twist of fate the chance to throw them together again.

  ‘It’s the perfect arrangement,’ father agreed. ‘She lives alone in the back end of nowhere. It’s a big cottage. It’s quiet and peaceful. Nothing happens. Who would think to follow him there?’

  ‘Do you really think it would work?’ I said reluctantly. It felt wrong. I was pierced with jealousy. They were asking me to balance my love for Dorothy against my love for the mighty Marvel. But unless I devised a superior scheme I could think of nothing to keep them apart.

  ‘I can’t see any problem,’ mother said, pulling herself from the chair and helping Marvel to stuff his suitcase.

  ‘She might find it rather difficult…’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘The neighbours,’ I said, search vainly for obstacles. ‘Think how the neighbours are likely to gossip.’

  ‘Nonsense! She’s a poor, respectable, Christian woman,’ mother said, as if she really believed it. I was lost for words. What had become of the Devil’s daughter, Beelzebub’s bride, the sister of Satan?

  ‘But shouldn’t we give her some warning?’

  ‘She’ll be glad to help,’ mother said confidently. ‘She’ll welcome him with open arms.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Because you’re going to phone and explain it to her.’

  No! I was scandalised. How could she even dare to suggest it? ‘I can’t do that!’ I protested.

  ‘She’s your friend,’ father said darkly.

  ‘What do you think?’ I said, appealing to Marvel for mercy.

  ‘In the light of a dangerous predicament, all things weighed and fully considered, I find myself most obliged to you,’ he said. He paused in his work, glanced up and smiled at me. The old rascal looked distinctly pleased by the prospect of running to Dorothy. Perhaps the memory of her floating, unfrocked and fancy-free, had some influence on his decision. A big, fine, handsome woman. Whatever he thought, he didn’t seem in the least concerned that, in giving himself to Dorothy, he might be required to give himself to the arms of Jesus.

  ‘That’s settled!’ mother said happily, plucking his tangle of shirts from the case and neatly refolding them.

  Supper was finished before I found the courage to pick up the phone. I felt doubtful and confused. How could I explain the situation? What would happen if she simply refused to speak to me? It was a bad business. I dialled the number and Dorothy answered before I’d had time to gather my thoughts.

  ‘Dorothy?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘It’s Skipper.’

  There was a long silence. Was she still there? The line began to fizzle and fill with the distant murmur of other voices lost in
that vast electric night.

  ‘Dorothy?’

  ‘What do you want?’ she said at last. A bad beginning. She sounded frosty.

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Have you told Jesus?’

  ‘Yes,’ I lied.

  ‘Then ask Him to forgive you,’ she snapped.

  ‘Wait!’ I shouted, fearing that she might cut me dead. My breath blasted into the mouthpiece. I had to make myself understood.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘I love you!’ I blurted. ‘I love you and whatever you think, I didn’t mean you any harm.’

  ‘Is that it?’

  ‘No. Something happened to Mr Marvel.’

  She hadn’t expected such a sudden swerve in the conversation. ‘Is he hurt? Has there been an accident?’ Her voice changed and she seemed concerned.

  ‘Well, no,’ I confessed. ‘But we honestly fear for his life.’ And then I told her the strange, sad story. I told her everything. I told her about his mysterious arrival at the house and my early suspicions and how I had befriended him and his little kindnesses to me and the way we had been evicted from the Snooty Artichoke and the sheep’s head in a box. I told her about his secret life as Belcher of the Leviathan. I dwelt on the dangers. I counted the insults and injuries. ‘They’re attacking him because they’re afraid of what he might say about them!’ I concluded with a dramatic flourish.

  ‘But, that’s terrible!’ she said, with a genuine measure of sympathy. ‘The poor man! Why, they can’t be allowed to persecute him! They mustn’t torment him for telling the truth.’

  ‘And he was strong and of good courage,’ I said. ‘But they rose up against him and he hath escaped with the skin of his teeth. For he is despised and rejected of men; a man of sorrows, and acquainted with grief.’

  ‘Isaiah,’ she said.

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘And we thought you might look after him.’

  She paused for a moment, sensing the trap. ‘How?’

  ‘We could send him down to you on the train. Special delivery. He needs to get away from here. He needs to escape.’

  ‘I don’t know…’

  ‘He has a lot of respect for you,’ I said. ‘He often used to tell me how much he admires you.’

  ‘You discussed me!’ she said, in a hurt tone of voice.

  ‘I disgust myself,’ I said, feeling wretched. ‘But Mr Marvel is not a young man. The sea air would be good for his liver. He’s no trouble. He keeps himself clean. He’d make himself useful around the house,’ I said quickly.

  ‘Does he know how to prune an apple tree?’

  ‘He’d make an excellent gardener!’ I said with confidence. You didn’t need to be a genius to hack a few limbs from an apple tree. He might even have the knack for it. A very satisfactory arrangement. Marvel in moleskin and gaiters, growing his own spuds and cabbages while Dorothy bottled fruit and made Swiss-cheese novelties for her favourite good causes.

  ‘But I barely know him.’

  ‘He’s a gentleman,’ I said.

  ‘I thought you were a gentleman until you took advantage of me…’

  ‘I gave him my bible,’ I said, in a moment of pure inspiration, hoping to cast away her doubts and soothe any fears she might have for her safety.

  ‘You did?’

  ‘For the comfort of it.’

  ‘That was a very kind thought, Skipper, ‘ she said gently. Ah, but she was flattered! She was melting. She was mine.

  ‘And I think he needs a friend in Jesus,’ I whispered.

  ‘Send him down and Godspeed,’ she said. ‘I’ll be waiting for him.’

  41

  After breakfast the following morning I took Marvel down to the railway station. He’d been ready and waiting to leave since dawn. He was dressed in his very best waistcoat and wearing a pair of father’s shoes. He had shaved and managed to comb his hair and he rather looked like an anxious suitor, waiting to be introduced to his partner in some arranged marriage. I hadn’t told him that Dorothy was expecting her guest to be radiant with the love of God, but I’d found it easy enough to slip the bible into his suitcase. He was certainly going to need it.

  We gathered in the hall to say goodbye. Father, in very formal mood, accepted the return of the keys, shook his hand, gripped his shoulder and wished him health and good fortune.

  ‘I’ll return your footwear at the earliest opportunity,’ Marvel assured him.

  ‘There’s no need to trouble yourself,’ father said briskly, fearing another unwholesome parcel appearing on the doorstep. He’d donated a pair of ginger suede loafers he hadn’t worn for twenty years.

  Then mother rushed forward and squeezed him and pecked him and tried to force a slice of fruit cake into his overcoat pocket.

  ‘Something for the journey,’ she whispered.

  Janet, sensing that something was wrong but knowing nothing of the sheep’s head or having the slightest notion of the dangers that surrounded him, now threw her arms around his neck and bravely attempted to plant a kiss. He staggered beneath her embrace and emerged frightened and stained with lipstick.

  ‘I hope you’ll come back and visit sometimes,’ she said and blushed beautifully. ‘I shall miss our game of dominoes.’

  At the same moment Senior Franklin came stamping downstairs, small-eyed, sour and late for breakfast.

  ‘Ah, my comical cockroach, what’s this?’ he demanded, cocking his head and directing his inquiries at me. ‘Can it be that the Marvellous One departeth? I smell mischief! His Venerable Ventosity hath plans afoot to leave our little company.’

  He stood before Marvel, puffed out and grinning, flaring his nostrils, sensing some kind of victory. He didn’t have the faintest idea what was happening. And he didn’t much care to be informed of the circumstances. It was quite enough for him that Marvel appeared to be in retreat. He was happy to see the back of him.

  The two men glared at each other for a few moments. Franklin snorted like a stallion and made several circles of his opponent. Marvel growled and held his ground. They were natural enemies. The one cavorting and convoluted, the other square and pragmatic. They threatened each other in equal measure.

  ‘And so to breakfast!’ Franklin shouted suddenly, breaking away from the contest. ‘Hounds stout, horses healthy, earths well stopped and foxes plenty!’ And he turned on his heel and disappeared into the empty dining room.

  We took a taxi cab to the station. The city was already startled awake, the streets filled with thousands of marching people, young men shouting, truck horns blaring, buses smoking, steel shutters rolling on shabby shop windows. Marvel seemed very agitated, crouching low in his seat, watching the faces in the street as if he expected to be molested, dragged from the cab and beaten senseless.

  At the entrance to the station we struggled to force a passage through the rushing flood of commuters pouring through the high, stone arches. Trotting bank clerks, galloping salesmen, swaggering executives and scissoring secretaries. A fast and relentless tide of silent men and women, grey-faced and hopeless, draining into the streets of the city.

  I helped Marvel to purchase a ticket, checked the departure board and carried his creaking suitcase towards the appropriate gate. He paused then, wincing with the effort of walking, while he shifted his weight from leg to leg, trying to ease the pain of his feet trapped in the ginger loafers.

  ‘Do you want a newspaper for the journey?’ I asked him, nodding towards a kiosk, but he shuddered at the thought of it.

  ‘I’m happy enough with a slice of fruit cake,’ he said, as we slowly shuffled forward.

  There were still a few minutes until the departure of his train. I kept a watch on the ticket hall, half-expecting to see a shouting sommelier or a pale and demented pastry chef come charging towards us through the crowd. Marvel’s fear was infectious although I knew that we hadn’t been followed.

  And then he gave out a startled cry, stopped short in his tracks, staggered and stared about him with a wild look in his eyes.

&
nbsp; ‘What is it?’ I hissed, searching the crowd for some sign of danger.

  ‘Flowers!’ he exclaimed, slapping his overcoat pockets. ‘I need flowers. I can’t arrive without a big, bright bunch of something.’

  ‘Wait here,’ I instructed and dashed away in search of baskets, bouquets and arrangements. I wanted roses and fragrant lilies. I found nothing but stems of stale carnations, red and yellow, wrapped in funnels of wilting plastic. I picked the biggest bunch in the bucket and hurried back to him.

  ‘She’ll like carnations,’ I promised, pressing the packet into his hand.

  ‘I’m much obliged. How much do I owe you?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  He stared at the flowers and gave them a little shake, hoping to revive their spirits. ‘You’ve been a good friend to me, Skipper, and I feel that this strange occasion demands an attempt to offer you some short but practical advice,’ he said, peering up at the great glass canopy of the station as if the words he were searching for might be written there in fire. ‘But I’m damned if I can think of it,’ he added sadly, wagging his head.

  ‘You could always write to me,’ I said, as we continued to push forward, but he didn’t look enthusiastic.

  ‘Politics!’ he shouted, suddenly inspired. ‘Never forget that the Left and Right are two wings flapping the same fat turkey. Religion! Choose a god with a sense of humour. Food! Never put anything into your mouth that you can’t pronounce or spell for a doctor.’

  ‘Romance?’ I prompted.

  He shrugged and shook his head. ‘I can’t help you in that department. A man will always make a fool of himself in pursuit of a beautiful woman.’

  The early morning express was already waiting at the platform. The carriages were empty, seats smeared with food, floors strewn with trampled cans and bottles, windows fogged and doors flung open. He hobbled towards the front of the train, clambered aboard with his suitcase and flowers and battled to pull down one of the windows. He suddenly looked very small and lonely. His oiled hair had sprung loose and his shirt collar was starting to curl.