A View of the Empire at Sunset

by Caryl Phillips

  Some moments later, she noticed that her companion had slipped down a little in the seat and his head was now swaying in time to the lurching of the vehicle. The views of the world beyond their taxi were becoming increasingly disturbing, and for a moment she toyed with the idea of touching Mabel’s friend on the arm and waking him from his slumber. She didn’t wish to kindle any emotion within the man, however, and so she clung to the door handle as they rose and crossed a small wooden bridge, which deposited them even deeper in the heart of London’s filth. A whistle rent the silence and a gangly man burst into view, his arms and legs moving in seemingly random formation, and then the man ducked hurriedly into an alleyway and passed out of sight. She heard voices raised in anger, and again a whistle burst through the night air, but nobody else appeared. Her gentleman friend opened his eyes and turned now to look at her, and by squinting slightly, she was able to detect a self-conscious smile on his face. “It was very unkind of me to disregard you in this way.” His face was disguised in shadow, so it was difficult for her to see his full expression, but now that he had spoken she felt somewhat safer. To be fair, he didn’t appear to be judging her, or silently laughing at her, as some of Mabel’s other men friends had done, but she knew that it was foolish of her to have agreed to dine with this man in the first place, for she wasn’t in the right frame of mind to spend time with anyone.

  How long would it be before he would let her go back to her room in Bloomsbury? She didn’t want to appear ungrate ful, but the tedious meal and now this strange journey were already more than enough adventure for her. How much further, she wondered, before these roads spat them both out into the countryside below London? Her companion leaned over and ever so gently removed the pin from her hat, and then lifted the bonnet from her head and set it down on the seat in between them. “There,” he said, “surely that feels better?” If he had taken hold of her dress and stripped it violently from her body she could not have felt more naked than she did in the wake of his gesture, but then the vehicle stopped and she could see that they were now on a broader street that was blessed with some illumination from gas lamps that were bracketed onto a large brick building. She guessed that they were outside a public house, for music was spilling from the building and out into the street with a clamorous confidence with which she was familiar, although it felt like an age since she had last stirred herself to attend an audition, let alone set foot on a stage. The driver turned off the engine and she was relieved that it appeared as though they might well be about to enter company, for her gentleman would now be subject to the scrutiny of other eyes.

  As he stepped from the motorized taxi, Mabel’s friend extended a helping hand, and her attention was once again temporarily captured by the worn condition of the engraving on the gold band that decorated his wedding finger. As the driver shut the door behind her, she looked around and saw an unshaven man sitting on a low wall staring steadily at them both. His hand levered a brown bottle to his face and he drank deeply before once more lowering the bottle. It was then that she noticed the man’s chin jutting out with a defiant confidence that directly contradicted the evidence of his situation, and then, with a movement that seemed comically contrived, the man cautiously lifted his hand to the brim of his cap and touched it in a gesture of both greeting and humility. Behind him the noise of music unexpectedly rose again as gusty pub voices began to sing along to the piano, but her escort ignored the pandemonium and simply took her arm and nodded in the direction of the Star and Garter. “I believe we might secure a nightcap here, unless you would prefer somewhere a little quieter.”

  The brass-trimmed interior of the pub was overly bright and crammed with people singing and playing cards, all of whom were caught up in a joyful atmosphere that bore no relation to the misery of the world that lay beyond the venue. The man held on tightly to her arm and steered her towards a door at the far end of the public bar. Once they passed through the door, a brawny brute with a ruddy complexion anticipated their needs. “A perch for two, sir?” He quickly led them to a table by the window and produced a cloth from his apron which he flicked onto the tabletop as he encouraged them to sit. “Beer for you both, and will there be anything to eat?” She shook her head and then watched as the fellow passed through a set of swing doors which led into what she inferred was the kitchen. Their entrance had disturbed a dog sleeping beneath the neighbouring table, and the mangy hound looked up at them. In this part of the pub people neither played games, nor did they listen to music, but its strains were clearly audible. The unwashed clientele huddled over their drinks and, unlike the dog, showed no interest whatsoever in the newcomers. But why bring her to such a place? Did he really imagine that she might enjoy an evening in this frightful pub? The swing doors were flung wide open and a boy, no more than ten years of age by her reckoning, set down two glasses of foaming beer before nimbly scooting away. Her gentleman lifted his glass to his lips and encouraged her to do the same, and for the first time it occurred to her that this man might well be lonely, but it was no business of hers. As she replaced her glass on the tabletop, she noticed the elderly couple at the next table clamber unhurriedly to their feet and lean into each other as they began to dance to the muffled music from the public bar. They moved together, their arms circling each other’s waist, their feet scuffing through the sawdust, their two clouds of beery breath becoming one as they forgot themselves. She guessed that their embrace marked the end of a day of labour on some market stall, a day that had most likely commenced before dawn in the darkness of a noisy London back street. Now they were able to press up against each other and, bathed as they were in sweat, feel the cool calm of a familiar body. She knew what it was that she was watching, but she dare not call its name. She stared as the couple turned slowly before her eyes, for she had not expected such passion to show itself tonight; and not here, in this place, south of the river.

  On the return journey north neither of them said a word. The motorized taxi had waited for them, and although she had felt content watching the dancers turning silently as one, after a second glass of beer her gentleman was ready to leave. It had begun to rain, and as they approached Westminster Bridge, her eyes followed a homeless old woman who trudged, with a bundle across her back, up the incline, but as the fatigued apparition stepped into a cone of light, she could see now that the sour face was actually that of a child, and her heart sank. She listened to the mournful bellowing of a foghorn as an unhurried vessel eased its way downriver towards Greenwich, and she asked herself, Is all happiness extinct in this city? Once again it occurred to her that she should simply renounce this place and go back to her island and leave behind the haunted faces of London, for, after all, her efforts to establish a life for herself trapped towards the rear of a stage had proved futile. Really, why stay? And then she felt the touch of the man’s hand on her own. He leaned in and kissed her, with his beery breath, before asking if she wished to take a turn in Regent’s Park, but she understood full well what he was asking of her. A curtain would be pulled to and she would be expected to submit to this man as they joined the parade of carriages and motorcars crossing the park in the darkness. She looked closely at him, but there was something pathetically halfhearted about his suggestion. After a short while he spared her the embarrassment of having to respond. “Tired?” She nodded. The couple would still be dancing together in the pub, she was sure of this, but she was equally sure that as the night progressed their feelings for each other would only deepen.

  35

  The Deadline

  They are now sitting together in his study, and she is fully clothed. An hour earlier she was lying back on his bed in the lace underwear that he liked her to wear, but as he started to unbutton his shirt, she began to scream, and he immediately asked her to please get dressed and follow him out of the bedroom. On entering his study she had demanded a glass of water, and then she began to count out the pills as though they were confectionery. He eventually persuaded her to return the pills
to the bottle, replace the top, and hand the infernal thing over to him. “Thank you,” he said as he placed the bottle on the highest shelf of the bookcase. He stares at her, unable to understand why her normally accommodating behaviour has, of late, become hostile and sometimes hysterical. Sadly, he now accepts the fact that he has little control over the woman he has moved out of her Bloomsbury room and into his Temple flat. She glares at him and then suddenly she smiles, but he is unsure of what exactly it is that is amusing her. She begins to giggle and then addresses him. “It’s hopeless, isn’t it?” He waits for her to continue, but she momentarily has trouble remembering his name. “Max?” At this point her laughter becomes uncontrollable. “Pour me some whisky, Max.”

  He looks at her closely and concludes that she really is a fine-looking young woman, although clearly not to everybody’s taste. He assumes it is the exotic part of her nature that contributes to her allure, but in some rural parts of England she might well be mistaken for the slow girl in the village. Her eyes, for instance, are perhaps a little too close together, and he often observes her sitting perfectly still in a trancelike state of wonderment, with her lips slightly parted. Once again the telephone rings out, but he ignores it, for he knows that his impatient employer is expecting the revised article before midnight. Unless the woman can be persuaded to calm down, he shall once again miss his deadline, and this time there will certainly be talk of his newspaper moving him on.

  Three months ago they began their arrangement. He surprised himself by making moderately improper overtures at their first dinner together, and shortly thereafter he asked her to end her unregulated friendships with other men and consider moving into his flat. He boldly announced that there would no longer be any need for her to pose nude for so-called artists, or waste her nights drinking at the disreputable Crabtree Club. He told her that he too was prepared to forgo casual friendships with females, and in this way they might build a future together. But she has deceived him, and tonight, after she put on the lace underwear, he could no longer help himself. However, instead of complying with her entreaties and taking possession of her with quiet force, he simply stood over her and unleashed his accusations, which were met with frenzied hysteria and her subsequent childish attempt to swallow pills.

  He hands her a glass of whisky, and she takes the drink, but her eyes don’t leave his face. He speaks quietly. “You have let me down.” He is repeating himself, for he knows that she heard this same line in the bedroom. “I felt safe and content with you, but what am I to do now?” She refuses to answer, and so he crosses to the window and looks out into the night, where he sees a lad turning the corner with a package under his arm. The gaslight is fully illuminating his young face, and he notices the carefree bounce in the fellow’s step. He immediately understands that his employer has sent this boy to collect the article, and most likely drop off some research for the weekend column, and so he steps back from the window and waits for the knock on the door.

  “Well,” she says, “aren’t you going to see who that is?” He watches as she gulps down her whisky. Again there is another knock on the door, which she takes as a signal to hold out her glass. “I would like another drink, please.” As he pours more whisky, she begins to laugh at him. “You needn’t worry, I’ll soon be gone, and then you can get on with your work.”

  “Don’t talk like that.”

  “Give me back my pills.” She gestures with the full glass and spills some whisky onto the rug. “My pills!” she demands.

  “Please keep your voice down.”

  She raises the whisky up high as though greeting him across a crowded room. “Cheers,” she says, before lowering the vessel, and then with her finger she traces a circumspect circle around the lip of the glass.

  When he first met her at the Crabtree Club, she had a drink in her hand, and while the other girls appeared eager to talk or dance, her whole body seemed to be bent over the bar and focused on her whisky. Shyness, he assumed, which was partly what attracted him to her, but two weeks after he began seeing her, Percival Whittaker, the Home Affairs editor, called him into his office and asked him to please close the door behind him. During the preceding week he had twice delivered copy late, but it would be difficult for him to confess to Whittaker that he was having some trouble with a mercurial girl who appeared keen to be mauled, with or without tenderness, and who seemed reluctant to allow him to disentangle himself from the muddle of the bedsheets. The editor smiled at him with his nicotine-stained teeth, and stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray that sat on top of a pile of old newspapers on his desk. As Whittaker started to speak, it was clear that the man was trying to make their meeting appear to be more conversation than admonishment, but his intention was clear. As his editor spoke, the man’s face temporarily hidden behind wisps of dying smoke, it occurred to him that he was actually frightened of this new girl, and his reluctance to attend to his work had less to do with her charms and more with his having imported a dangerous lion into his life. “Well, Max, what are we going to do about your late copy?” His editor looked at him over his half-moon spectacles, but he wasn’t sure how to respond to Whittaker. Surely he wasn’t the first bachelor reporter whose infatuation with nightlife and saucy girls had caused a dip in the efficiency of his work. However, after a few minutes of apparently affable conversation, it became clear that his editor was simply letting him know that the problem was his to solve, and warning him that he should do so quickly.

  Tonight he was determined, without any prepared statement, to draw things to a close and launch the girl onto a new path, but he wished to do so without her feeling as though the palm of his hand was resting against her back. The detour into the bedroom had been her stratagem, and he had nobody but himself to blame for his weak submission to her aberrant behaviour. But now, as he refilled his glass and replaced the decanter on the tray, he began to search for the right words. Mercifully, Whittaker’s boy had stopped his knocking, but as he composed himself, he could hear muffled sounds of laughter in the street as late-night revellers passed by. He decided to wait until the noises faded, but the girl’s patience had clearly expired.

  “You know,” she began, “there was somebody before you, but I told you this, didn’t I?”

  “Yes, you did.”

  “You act as though you’re the first, but I’ve been let go before.”

  “But you are still seeing other men. How do you think I feel?”

  “I don’t know how you feel. All of you men have such strange names: Max, Lloyd, Algernon. Maybe that’s what I like about you, Max? Your strange name. There must be something that I like about you.” He watches as she swirls the whisky in her glass as though searching for ice. “But the first man was very different from you. I believed, at least to begin with, that his intentions were quite honourable, but it appears that I wasn’t able to make any real contribution to his life.” She pauses. “The truth is, I never really discovered what his intentions were.”

  He sinks into the armchair opposite her, but the fey girl won’t meet his eyes. She stares instead at the space between her splayed feet.

  “Do you remember when you took me to the races at Ascot and I met your newspaper friends and you included me in the conversation, even though I knew so very little. You gave me money to buy a new dress, didn’t you? And we laughed and you made sure that everybody knew we were together, and I thought that it was always going to be like that day at Ascot, but I’m so naive, aren’t I?” She looks up and pierces him with her eyes. “But in this sense you’re just like the other men with their silly names. In the end I’m not what you want, am I?”

  “That was a marvellous day at Ascot, and there’s no reason why it can’t be like that again. But I’ve told you, you really must clarify your situation with regard to your men friends.”

  He smiles at her, and a smirk slowly begins to appear on her face. Then he notices that she is pouring what remains of her whisky onto the rug, letting it cascade gently from the gl
ass, more dribble than waterfall, and then she begins to study the dark, wet spot as it blossoms between her feet. He shakes his head and stands and crosses to the window, knowing that he should immediately order her to leave his flat, but understanding that it would be unwise to do so. And then he sees Whittaker’s messenger boy, who is standing at the foot of the steps that lead up to the front door and leaning against the iron railings. The boy holds the package in one hand, and his other hand is pushed deep into his trouser pocket against the chill of the night. Clearly the lad is under instruction that he should go nowhere until he delivers the material in person.

  36

  A New Family

  When she saw the bus come to a halt in the traffic around Piccadilly Circus, she stopped running, for she knew that it would be alright and she was now certain to catch it. But then the motorcars suddenly began to move and the bus began to accelerate towards the stop, and so she raised a hand to hold her bonnet in place and began to barge her way through the crowd. Just as the bus was pulling away from the stop, she jumped up onto the step and squeezed in and took up a seat next to a shop girl whose head was buried in a cheap paper book whose sensationalism was evident from the number of exclamation points on the pages that were visible. But who was she to judge? The girl seemed contented, and so she turned to the window and could see that the rain had once again begun to fall and was making the streets glassy and causing the lights of the shops to glisten like fairy lights in the murkiness of this early Saturday evening. Where was everybody going? Home, she imagined, after a day of work or an afternoon spent tramping the streets of the West End shopping for items that were now crammed into burdensome bags that spilled out into the aisles of innumerable buses. Her feet were wet, as she had stepped in a puddle racing for the bus, but she hoped that they didn’t begin to attract any attention, for the smell of damp leather could sometimes be unpleasant. She closed her eyes and listened to the drone of the vehicle as it lurched and then stopped and then lurched again with erratic regularity, and then she once again became aware of the girl next to her eagerly turning the pages of her book and nudging her each time she did so. Eventually she guessed that they must be getting close to her stop, and so she opened her eyes and rose to her feet and grabbed the overhead rail and began to stumble her way towards the back of the bus.