A View of the Empire at Sunset

by Caryl Phillips

  21

  A Strange Bird

  Her new boardinghouse was frigid, and because the maid had left for the day, there was nobody she might ask to lay a fire in her room. She wrapped a thin blanket around herself, knowing that if it got much colder she would most likely have to disturb the sour-faced landlady. After the news of her father’s death, she had sensed that Mabel was having difficulty accommodating her depression, although her friend never said as much. However, rather than risk things between them descending into argument, she had decided to pack her bags and move into a cheap second-floor room that Ethel had found for her. She pulled the blanket up to her ears and blew out her candle, for the smell of jasmine was suddenly too overpowering. Ethel occasionally called her a strange bird. “You’re a strange bird, Gwennie, but you’ll soon pick everything up.” Mabel would usually laugh, and then finish her friend’s sentence. “Except men, that is.” But she never did pick anything, or anyone, up, which seemed to frustrate Mabel. “You’ve got to stop pretending you’re a virgin, as that frightens them off. And you always look half-asleep, has anyone told you that?” Eventually she began to think of herself as not only a strange bird but a bird with a broken wing. In the middle of the long, cold night she realized that she was dreaming of Ethel, who, of course, was the only one of them who could really sing or dance. She saw Ethel in Leicester Square, where the unruly crowd were pushing and shoving one another in order that they might get a glimpse of the famous actress as she stepped out of a motorcar with her young swain. Ethel had everything now: a first night, money, glamour, and a puppy of a man on her arm who seemed both compliant and grateful. She was happy for Ethel, but she wondered if behind the smile that she was giving off, and behind the glitter of her fancy dress, this was still the same kind and considerate Ethel she had known. As the well-wishers began to surge forward, she found herself being jostled in the opposite direction until she fell out of the back of the crowd. She picked herself up off the pavement and understood that she was now standing alone. While most people continued to look at Ethel, there were some strangers who chose now to stare at her, but, unlike Ethel, she didn’t smile back.

  22

  Suede Gloves in One Hand

  After the second show on Friday night, and as she made ready to drag herself back to her digs so she might nurse her cold, she momentarily stopped just inside the stage door, and that’s when she met his eyes. He was standing uneasily on the pavement among the unseemly scramble of gentlemen who sported top hats and carnations in their buttonholes, all of whom were attempting to purposefully loiter, but this shy-looking man’s quest to press his claims upon a soft-eyed, bonneted stage girl appeared to her to be halfhearted. She had just eased her way past the doorman ( “Good night, George”) and out into the incessant drizzle of yet another Southsea evening, when the man stepped in front of her. He nervously ran his eyes over her from head to foot, and as he did so, she noticed the way he held his suede gloves in one hand and leaned against his cane. She was sure that he had no use for a walking stick beyond affectation, but she listened politely to the middle-aged man’s stuttered proposition that she might join him for supper, and without understanding why, she agreed to accompany the handsome stranger. At the somewhat raucous supper party that he escorted her to, he was soon ignoring everybody except her. He ate very little, then fastidiously squared his knife and fork on the plate and pushed it to one side and asked where in England she hailed from, but before she could answer, he enquired as to whether she had enjoyed a long career on the London stage. She had, of course, encountered men like this before, although this gentleman appeared to her to be a little more unsure than most. Clearly wealthy, and with mature good looks and a tinge of grey about the temples, the man occasionally grinned like a Cheshire cat, but he did so as a substitute for sharing anything substantial with her. She listened to every other sentence, for she understood that this man’s conversation didn’t truly involve her, and his discourse was, in fact, little more than a short detour on a path towards once more discreetly raising a hand and ordering more Champagne.

  A waiter dimmed the lights, and a cake that was illuminated by two dozen candles was carried aloft by the chef to the grand table at the centre of the room. Her dining companion joined in the general applause and encouraged her to put her hands together. Then, as he leaned back in his chair, the gentleman’s face became clouded in shadow. It was as though darkness had suddenly descended, although a thin band of light from the chandeliers managed to illuminate his tired eyes. Over the clatter of the waiters gathering up their plates, he asked her, “Do you regard London as home?” She swallowed slowly before answering, but the man appeared to be lost in a dream world, and so she waited. Eventually he sat forward in his chair so she could once again see his face, and he brought both of his hands together as he announced that it was probably time for him to excuse himself and take his leave. “I’m afraid it has been a long and difficult week.” He pushed back his chair and then gently took her hand. “Come, let us go.” The sudden upsurge of noise from the centre table, as a young girl blew out the candles on the cake, provided a distraction which enabled the man to unobtrusively weave his way through the tables and hurry them both in the direction of the door. “I take it you have lodgings in Southsea?” Yes, she had lodgings. Weekly digs in a seedy backstreet with a drunk of a landlady who insisted on being called “Ma.” It had stopped raining, and she stood together with her suitor on the pavement and watched as a motorcar splashed through the puddles and drew up before them. “I shall call on you in London, if I may.” He paused and then gestured to the driver. “My man will convey you to your lodgings. I shall walk and clear my head.” She turned to face her swell and waited for him to wish her good night, but an enigmatic smile fleetingly disturbed the gentleman’s face and then he nodded slightly and began to walk away from her.

  23

  Romano’s

  A week after the conclusion of the company’s Southsea engagement, she was back in London and dining at Romano’s. She knew that to anyone seated at one of the other tables it would immediately be clear that she was a relative stranger to the man with whom she was taking supper. He had explained to her that Romano’s was busy every night of the week, but at present it was particularly crowded, as the London stage was able to boast an unprecedented number of musical shows running at a dozen different theatres. This was a Saturday night, and without a reservation nobody—ostensibly not even a member of the royal family—could be sure of a table at Romano’s, yet when her gentleman ushered her through the door and out of the mid-evening shower, Mr. Romano himself promptly appeared before them. Having diligently mopped the sweat from his brow with a folded handkerchief and snapped a quick bow to her as the lady of the party, the small, swarthy man with a large moustache per sonally escorted them to a corner table and snatched up the RESERVED sign before holding the chair for her, ensuring that she was the first to be seated. As she looked all about herself, she continued to feel apprehensive, for she couldn’t imagine the crossroads where her life and that of her gentleman stockbroker might conversationally intersect. In fact, the stockbroker and the chorus girl sounded like an abbreviated summary of the plot of one of the many musical comedies with which London appeared to be so enamoured.

  Having cleared their supper plates, the waiter refilled her patron’s glass, which he lifted to his lips, and then her gentleman gazed directly at her, but she lowered her eyes and wouldn’t meet his own. “Are you still hungry?” She shook her head, which was now beginning to feel dizzy as a result of the wine. Why, she wondered, was this man able to tolerate long periods of silence without displaying any anxiety? From the table behind them laughter began to spill, unhinged from meaning, and she wondered what lessons, if any, she could import from the wreckage of her friendship with Harry Bewes that might enable her to better comprehend her present circumstances. And then her stockbroker finally began to question her, one arrow after another. “Are your family truly beastly to
the blacks?” “Do all of you stage girls have your eyes set on titled men?” “Come along, young lady, it won’t do to keep an honourable chap waiting.” He smiled. “Well? Lost our tongue, have we?”

  They stood together on the Strand waiting for his driver to pull up the motorcar, and as they idled, he gallantly held an umbrella over her hat to prevent the arrangement of artificial flowers from wilting in the light downpour. Despite the hubbub of people arriving and leaving, she was struck by the relative peace of the London street after the ferment of Romano’s. “To my club, then?” It sounded to her more of a statement than a question, but she couldn’t be sure, so she smiled, as this seemed the safest thing to do in the situation. The car arrived and the driver quickly emerged from behind the wheel and opened the back door so that she might slide in and onto the cushioned seat. For a moment she sat alone as the man scampered around to the other door, which he then opened, allowing his employer to join her. “My dear child, are you comfortable?” He spoke without looking in her direction. “I don’t imagine it will take us too long.” With this said, the motorcar began to move off, and he turned towards the window. She began now to wonder if she should have politely declined this evening’s invitation, and she found herself thinking longingly about her cheerless overfurnished second-floor room, with its peeling white paint and the cracked pane of glass in the single window. Yet she remained convinced that there was kindness in the eyes of this older man, and she trusted that in the end everything would be alright and at some point she would, indeed, return safely to her room.

  Through the open door she could see that adjoining their private wood-panelled nook was a chamber which contained a bed. They ate cheese and figs, and Lancey unstopped a cut-glass decanter and introduced her to his club’s special port, whose taste she found bitter and unpleasant. As though answering a question, he informed her that he had never married, although some years earlier a Miss Violet Hambro had led him a merry dance for a few seasons before jilting him. Apparently, when the lady finally rejected his proposal, Miss Hambro feigned surprise that he was even interested in girls. He laughed heartily at the absurdity of such an error, but she wondered why he was telling her this tale. In the wake of his disastrous proposal he admitted to having momentarily fallen into a sorrowful state, but his family had encouraged him to regain his mettle. According to his mother, the silly Hambro child was confused, having just lost her own mother, but if the poor foolish girl didn’t want her son, despite the fact that he had managed to overlook her plainness, then her son was to remember that there were plenty more fish in the sea. Lancey laughed and shared with her his surprise that his mother was familiar with such colloquialisms, and then he once again confirmed that he wasn’t married, although she had demanded no such explanation from him. Her eyes began to drift in the direction of the slightly open door, and as they did so, her gentleman leaned in and attempted to kiss her, but she pulled back, despite the fact that a delicate sensation of pleasure quivered through her, for she liked this man. “I do believe you may have developed a gentle ardour for me, am I correct?” She smiled coyly, and then the thought struck her that perhaps Lancey was only now realizing he was attempting to engage his chorus girl in a game whose rules she was not yet familiar with.

  24

  An Oddly Vertical City

  She watched as Lancey stepped out from between the sheets and picked up his dressing gown from the chair next to the bed. He draped it about himself before quickly disappearing through a door which she assumed led to a plush bathroom. She lay back and stared at the ceiling and wondered just how much of a disappointment she had been. Yesterday evening, when he asked about her previous experience with men, she had ignored his question, but he must now know that she had had no prior experience. She closed her eyes and reminded herself of how well the evening had begun. She had followed Lancey’s instructions and his car had delivered her to his grand house in Mayfair’s Charles Street at 7:00 p.m. precisely. A well-dressed manservant opened the door and ushered her into the drawing room, and a few minutes later Lancey entered and seemed delighted to once again have her company and expressed admiration for her appearance. The same manservant eventually escorted them to the dining room, and after supper they returned to the drawing room, where Lancey poured himself a brandy while she drank whisky. Mabel had told her what to expect. “He’ll beat around the bush a bit all sly like, and then you’ll have to reckon for yourself whether it’s something that you’re ready for.” Long before arriving at his Charles Street house, however, she had already made the decision.

  As Lancey relaxed with his brandy in the drawing room, he lit a cigar and began now to talk about his business affairs. “I had to call a young man into my office this morning. A lively, jocular fellow from the Midlands, and something of an experiment on my part.” He paused to make sure that the cigar was lit, and once he detected a curl of smoke he resumed his anecdote. “He had made a terrible mess of some figures, and I should really have given him his marching orders, but I simply couldn’t bring myself to do so.” At this point Lancey leaned forward and topped up her glass of whisky. “You see, I was once in this young man’s position, some years ago in America, in New York City, to be precise, a remarkable, oddly vertical city where chaps such as myself are often to be found as temporary, one might say exotic, additions to the business world. Late one morning my mentor, a genial American gentleman named Morgan, called me into his office, where I noticed that seated to his side was the company’s accountant balancing some ledgers in his lap. Of course I knew in a jiffy that I must have made some unfortunate miscalculation, and try as I might to remember what this might be, my mind remained blank and so I was forced to wait until Mr. Morgan gave the accountant the floor. Thereafter, the little man began to complain about some minor accounting inaccuracy which, he claimed, had major significance for the company. Even as he spoke, it was clear to me that the man’s real source of frustration was myself and not my blunder. Here I was, a privileged Englishman, Eton and Cambridge and all the predictable connections, but as far as the little American man was concerned, it was an outrage that I was behaving as though I possessed the necessary skills to assist these Americans in the running of their business. Mr. Morgan listened to the accountant and then turned to me and asked what I thought he should do. I was unsure as to how exactly I should respond; perhaps I should have volunteered to resign on the spot, but it hardly seemed fair to compound my clerical transgression with a further mistake and so I remained silent in the hope that my mentor might spare me the ordeal of making his decision for him. After what felt like an age, Morgan dismissed the malevolent accountant and announced that we two should take lunch together, enquiring if I had a favourite tavern or restaurant. Sure that whatever I suggested would be a disappointment, I allowed Morgan to choose the venue and accompanied him out onto the crowded street of Broadway, where I once again marveled at the tight crush of buildings pressing skywards.”

  Lancey knocked the ash off his cigar before settling himself back into his chair. He gestured towards the bottle of whisky, but she placed a hand over her glass and waited for him to continue, which he did after once more filling and then emptying his lungs. “As we completed our orders and handed the menus back to the waiter, Morgan didn’t waste a moment, for he knew exactly what he wished to share with me. A man, he insisted, will make mistakes in life, for all of us are human—and therefore fallible. Only in the area of female companionship must a man be shrewd enough to always make the appropriate decision. It transpired that his own marriage was arranged and he discovered too late in the day that his wife suffered from a frivolity of mind. The fact was, although the woman was presentable, she was not entirely respectable. He said little more, but it was clear that his marriage had brought him great unhappiness and frustration, and he admired my caution in this department, although he was keen to stress that my personal life was none of his professional business. He was, he insisted, talking with me as a friend. Man to man, as it wer
e. To his eyes, an accounting slipup was of no great importance; he employed chaps to repair such missteps. But the choice of one’s partner required vigilance of a far greater magnitude and he urged me to continue to be heedful. Which is the same advice I gave to the young fellow today. Forget trivial mistakes in one’s work. Look to one’s life and try to avoid making rash errors of judgment in this department.”

  As Lancey poured himself another brandy, she knew that the man seated before her had shared this anecdote with her in order to help her better understand that wariness and tact would inform their friendship. He smiled and offered to find her more spacious and comfortable accommodation and insisted that he wished to pay her an allowance. She knew that Mabel would approve of this development, but it was then that Lancey posed his question about her previous experience with men, and believing that it was unlikely that a man such as this would have any desire to take on the responsibility of a novice, she said nothing and resolved to let the evening follow its course. Her feelings for him were such that she hoped to experience passion, but this would necessitate some zeal on his part and she suspected that his relations with women would customarily have an aspect of the businesslike about them. So it proved, and in the absence of fervour she chose to affect a passivity which she now feared he might well have interpreted as a lack of either interest or effort. In the bathroom she could hear water running and she assumed that Lancey was drawing himself a bath. Suddenly she was deluged with uncertainty. Should she vacate the bed and make ready to leave? Or should she wait until Lancey was dressed and then take a bath herself? The rules of engagement were a mystery to her. As the water continued to thunder, she decided to emerge from beneath the tangle of knotted sheets and put on her clothes. Having done so, she would wait in the chair by the bedroom window, thus neither truly staying nor going but offering Lancey the opportunity to instruct her.