The Other Passenger

by John Keir Cross

  The old man paused and gazed mistily through the window of the pub to the Church Hall opposite, with its Wayside Pulpit message plain to view. He chuckled and sipped at his beer.

  “Alas,” he went on, “there’s always a Worm. The woman knew, from her glass, that beauty fades. She knew that her baby was almost two, and that there must be an end soon to the heap of trophies accumulating on her dresser at home. And she was seized with a sort of panic. And a defiance, too, God help her. It seemed to her she was being robbed—something was slipping past her and she could not grasp at it. There were long nights of despair when she lay staring into the darkness while her husband snored dully by her side, with no knowledge of the weeping anguishes that were going on in the same bed with him. Yet it was that very hoggishness and indifference of her husband that in the end gave the woman the idea. One night, as he snored, she thought angrily: ‘What does he care, lying lumpishly asleep! He and his wretched researches, his injection into harmless guinea-pigs!’ Then she stopped short and drew a long shivering gasping breath. No matter how stupid a woman is she is bound to know something about her husband’s work. And this woman, married to a biologist, had certainly, most devilishly certainly—heard of Glands!”

  I think I must have gone a shade pale at this point in the story. Korngold laughed and ordered a double whisky. He waited till I had sipped at it copiously before he continued, in a suddenly low and serious voice:

  “Of course, no matter how shallow you are, when you really set your mind to a thing you can do it. This woman—well, there are books, you know. And she experimented—she experimented mercilessly, on guinea-pigs, rabbits, rats—oh, anything. And in the end, out of the depths of her stupidity and determination, she succeeded in discovering what, I suppose, scientists have been struggling after for centuries. Her husband would probably have given his right hand to have discovered what she discovered. He, poor man, died at about this time, blissfully unaware of what was going on clandestinely in his laboratory. I don’t think the woman even noticed he had died—she was too pre-occupied, too altogether single-minded. And of course—”

  The old man shrugged. I stared at him in horror.

  “Lord, Lord!” I muttered. “You mean—oh my God!”

  I drained the whisky glass and stared out of the window. And I, too, had my eyes on the words of the Wayside Pulpit board.

  “But surely,” I said at length—“surely the development—”

  “She can do some things,” said Korngold. “She can read, for instance. She can’t talk very well. But then, she hardly needs to, does she? Her life is spent at baby shows.”

  “And that woman?”

  “The mother?” He shrugged again. “I don’t think she notices that she doesn’t get prizes any more—all the judges up and down the country are wise to her. But it’s her life, you see—quite simply it’s her life. To show off that beautiful, beastly thing . . .”

  I tremblingly lit a cigarette. And when it was properly alight, screwed myself up to the question above all others that I wanted to ask.

  “But—how long, Korngold? For heaven’s sake—how long?”

  “I told you I was fifty-seven,” he murmured, after a pause. “Thirty years ago I judged my first baby show. And I gave the prize to—well, why say it? I told you this was a fairy tale and you could apply it as you wanted. For my part”—and he suddenly smiled and straightened himself, “for my part I must get back to the hall now. I’ve work to do, you know. Come with me, Bob—it’ll do that cynical old heart of yours good to see some honest baby-flesh . . .”

  So there I was in the train, you see. Quite quietly mad till I got to town. And my relations said:

  “And how did the funeral go, Bob? Poor Aunt Elspeth. Poor, dear old soul!”

  “Oh fine,” I said. “It went beautifully. She looked awfully calm in the coffin—awfully calm, I thought.”

  We sighed. And I thought of my poem—A Mad Song. And then, suddenly, of the last vision of all—what I had seen as I turned, unable to bear it all any longer, and stumbled out of the hall, away from Korngold and the phalanxes of the babies. I did not dare look at the woman with the pram as I pushed out through the press of mothers. But how could I resist looking into the pram—for one horrid fleeting moment?

  She was reading, that exquisite small thing. I even saw the name of the book she was reading. It was—final horror!—Proust: A la Recherche du Temps Perdu . . .

  It was before the calm, quiet mood came on me. I was quite hysterical, I suppose. At any rate, I hardly knew till I had done it that I had torn down the text from the Wayside Pulpit board.

  “Except ye become,” it said . . .

  Thou’rt mad, thou’rt mad,

  Old straw-i’-the hair . . .

  “Poor, poor Aunt Elspeth,” my family said. And I muttered foolishly, over and over again:

  “She looked awfully calm in the coffin—oh, awfully calm, I thought . . .”

  The Last of the Romantics

  He came into The Parrot every afternoon. He was very old, very mild-looking, with wide blue eyes. He wore a high cravat with a jewelled pin. His hair swept back from his pink forehead—very soft hair, it was, and silvery. He looked like the traditional musician—the waiters and some of the regulars even called him Maestro­.

  But most of the clients—and particularly the sentimental ones—called him The Last of the Romantics.

  He ordered tea for two every day. They knew him in The Parrot, of course—there was no question of anyone looking askance because he had no companion. They brought him a little white pot and two cups. He set them out most elaborately—one for himself and one at the vacant place opposite him. Then he poured—but into his own cup only. He stirred gently, with a slow, quiet, deliberate movement. Then, with a dignified smile, he raised his cup to his lips, inclined his head very slightly to the empty place, and sipped the special delicate brew The Parrot was famous for.

  Then he did a curious thing. The Parrot was one of those restaurants with a special little lamp for each table—if you wanted it on you pulled a small chain with a hook at the end of it. The old man, after he had drunk his first cup of tea, and before he poured out his second, lifted the empty cup from the vacant place opposite him. And, still with the dignified smile on his lips, he hooked the handle on to the end of the lamp chain. Then he watched it dangling there, slowly revolving, for the rest of his tea-time . . .

  “It must be a very romantic story,” sighed little Miss Patillo.

  For three afternoons in succession she had gone to The Parrot with Thomson Purbeck. The first afternoon she watched The Last of the Romantics with surprise: the second afternoon she sighed deeply: the third afternoon she delivered herself of her judgment. It was, of course, typical—she was incurably a sentimentalist: perhaps just a little soft. That may have been why Purbeck had chosen to have an affair with her. He liked little soft yielding things—it gave him, he claimed, a great joy to disillusion them.

  He chuckled now at little Miss Patillo’s remark. His long nervous fingers plucked at a corner of a menu. He lounged back in his chair with his shoulders hunched.

  “It depends,” he said, “on what you mean by romantic.”

  “Well—don’t you think there must have been . . . something, Thomson? You know what I mean. He was in love—terribly long ago, of course. And they used to come here every day for tea. And then one day she didn’t come—she died, perhaps. Something like that. Or maybe their parents didn’t approve of the match. And every day since then he has come here—alone—to the same table. And ordered tea for two, just like he always used to do . . .”

  “I adore you, Patsy,” said Purbeck, looking solemnly into her wide eyes. “I simply adore you. You’re wonderful. In three days! . . . And what do you suppose he is, my sweeting? What does he do for a living?”

  Patsy stole a quick and elaborately furtive glance towards the old man at the table across the restaurant.

  “He’s retired now,” she said
triumphantly. “He was a—a schoolmaster. Or—or something in the Civil Service! But he’s retired.”

  Purbeck threw his head back and laughed aloud.

  “Glorious, glorious!” he cried. “And I bet if I asked you, you could tell me the girl’s name and what her father did and the age of the minister who was all booked up to marry them! Darling Patsy!”

  He leaned forward suddenly and took her hand.

  “Thomson,” she said, “be careful! There are too many people.”

  “I could eat you, Patsy,” said Purbeck. “Mouthful by mouthful—very slowly and deliciously—thirty-two chews to each bite, the way Mr. Gladstone recommended. I’d have those sparkling eyes in a cocktail, on the end of little sticks—like cherries.”

  She laughed—a shade uncomfortably. And glanced to the mirror on the wall beside her to see that her lipstick wasn’t smudged.

  “Don’t be silly, Thomson,” she said. “You are silly sometimes—you say such silly things.”

  “Patsy, dear,” he went on, “if you only knew it you’ve given me the most wonderful cue of my whole life. If I waited a thousand years I’d never get a cue like that again. I’ll always adore you for it—always. After we’ve been to bed together once or twice we’ll probably drift apart, we two—you’ll find me with another woman one day. Or we’ll have a lovely scene and you’ll accuse me of mental cruelty. Maybe you’ll cry for an hour or two—I hope you do: I like to feel that a good woman is shedding tears for me. Then you’ll recover and marry someone very solid. And later on you’ll remember me as something in your life that was a little bit haunting—and, shall we say?—pleasantly unpleasant. You’ll possibly even shudder. But I, Patsy—I shall remember you with everlasting gratitude as The Girl Who Gave Me The Perfect Cue!”

  She giggled.

  “Silly,” she said.

  “No, my love—I mean it. And to prove it, I’m going to tell you a story.”

  “You mean about—him?” she asked eagerly, nodding briefly at the old man, who was now sipping his second cup of tea and watching the empty cup revolving on the lamp chain. “Oh Thomson—I knew I was right! I knew it was romantic!”

  “Yes, you were right,” he said. “And you were right on other counts too. You were right about his being a retired Civil Servant. And you were right about the love affair, and the pair of them coming here every day for tea. And you were even right that she died . . . But darling, I’ll begin at the beginning. And then, remember, I’m going to eat you, very slowly—and starting with your left ear lobe as a sort of hors d’oeuvres . . .”

  He chuckled again. Then he lit his pipe, chewed thoughtfully at the stem of it for a moment or two, and began, in a very low voice, while little Miss Patillo leaned closer and closer across the table towards him, so that she could wallow in every word.

  “In those days,” said Purbeck, speaking very much as the Story-Teller—as if Patsy were a child, almost, “—in those days, you must understand, The Parrot was a much smaller concern than it is now. It was very attractive, of course, and it had its regular clientele. Among them was our old friend across the way. Very much younger, of course—it was while he was still working as a Civil Servant. He had his regular table. And every day he ordered—just as he does now—tea for two. Only in those days—”

  “She was with him!” burst in Patsy eagerly.

  “Yes, dear. She was with him. You must picture her—as I am sure you do—as a very beautiful woman. She was tall and she was dark—she had lovely smooth black hair, with a middle parting, gathered in a little hard bun at the back. Her neck was lovely—white and soft. She dressed exquisitely. And, of course, the Maestro­—the old boy—well, putting it simply, he worshipped her.”

  “I knew it,” cried Patsy.

  “Of course you knew it, darling,” said Purbeck softly. “I’m not really telling you a story—I’m only confirming a whole lot of things you know by that wonderful instinct of yours. But it passes the time, dear—it passes the time . . . I suppose you know about the other man too?”

  “The—other man?” gulped Patsy, a little crestfallen. “Oh! . . .”

  “Oh yes—there was another man. Not a very pleasant man. His name was—well, let’s call him Richardson, just for the purposes of the story. And let’s call the woman Valerie—it wasn’t her real name, of course, but it suits her very well, as it happens. Right then—there you have the set-up:—The Maestro, madly in love with Valerie—bringing her here to The Parrot almost every day for tea and sitting staring across the table at her as if she were a goddess: Richardson somewhere in the background, very handsome and very suave (I’m sure your instinct tells you he was very handsome and very suave, my darling), and then the beautiful Valerie herself, tall and exquisite. And in love with—now who was she in love with, Patsy? Eh?”

  Purbeck paused. His pipe had gone out. He relit it, smiling at Patsy through the smoke as she stared at him impatiently.

  “Darling,” he said at length, “alas, all women aren’t like you. There are very few of them that feel the way you do about things. And Valerie certainly didn’t. Oh—not in the least bit. She was a curious woman—very sensual, for one thing. These pale dark women usually are. I don’t suppose the likes of you can quite understand these things. I mean, you wouldn’t understand if I told you that while Valerie was sitting here letting the Maestro make love to her—while he was talking marriage and building up magnificent plans for them both at that very table over there—all that time, darling Patsy, Valerie was going home in the evenings to——”

  “To Richardson!” gasped Patsy.

  “You’ve guessed it,” said Purbeck. “The instinct again. She was living with Richardson, dearest. She was his mistress. And all the time there she was, letting the old boy go on and on . . . I don’t know how these things happen, Patsy. They just do. People get into ruts—they form habits. Maybe Valerie wanted to break away from Richardson—maybe it was just one of those habitual fleshy ties, you know. She wanted to start up afresh with the Maestro, perhaps. And she just couldn’t quite break the Richardson habit. Maybe it was that. Or Richardson may have had some sort of hold over her. I don’t know. I can only speculate about this part of the story—there’s always one part of a story, you know, Patsy, when you can only speculate. The things we can never really understand—not one of us—are human motives. We can only say objectively that such and such a thing happened. We can only, in the last analysis, relate events.”

  “Did—did the old man know about Richardson?” asked Patsy.

  Purbeck shook his head.

  “Not him. At least, not till—— But I’m anticipating, as they say in the books. I was really only at the point where I was telling you about Valerie’s relationship with Richardson. I suppose she tried to break things off with him—charitably one must suppose that. There were probably scenes. She possibly told him she wanted him to let her go so that she could marry the Maestro. And he, I expect, sneered at her and said oh to hell with leading a decent life, and then that probably led up to a really big scene, so that it was quite inevitable that——”

  Purbeck paused again, smiling at the tense Patsy.

  “What was quite inevitable, Thomson?” she asked. “Oh, Thomson—don’t be silly! Please! What was it?”

  “Of course,” said Purbeck slowly. “I’m only supposing it worked that way, my dear. It may have been something else. She may have been a vicious woman—women of her type often are. She may have been deceiving the Maestro with Richardson quite callously and deliberately. In fact, when I think of it—I mean, when I look over at the poor old soul there . . .”

  He broke off and looked across at the old man at the other table. He chuckled again.

  “Poor old devil! Poor, poor old devil! . . . Coming in here for all these years and ordering his tea for two! . . . Sentimental, eh? Or maybe——”

  He shrugged. For a moment he seemed to have forgotten Patsy’s presence. She tugged at his sleeve to remind him.

 
“Thomson—please! Oh don’t be silly! What happened, darling?”

  “Eh? What happened? . . . Oh—of course. The story. Well, my love—the famous instinct. You were right. You really told me the story, you know—right at the beginning. Valerie—— Well . . . Valerie died.”

  There was something in Purbeck’s tone that filled Patsy with horror. She looked at him for a moment intently, her little plucked brows drawn closely together.

  “You mean—that Richardson killed her? Oh Thomson!”

  “Not quite, my love. Just a little slip on the instinct’s part—just the tiniest slip. It was slightly more complicated than that. Oh, it was a famous scene, my dear! The Parrot thrived on it—that’s how it really got going. It was notorious for weeks. Of course, it’s all very long ago now—it’s all forgotten about. But people used to come crowding in here—just to stare and be morbid, you know . . .

  “You see, dear, one day, when the Maestro and Valerie were having tea there, at that very table, and he was talking about the future and their marriage and all that sort of thing, the door opened and in came a couple of plain clothes policemen. And they marched straight over to the table, and one of them put his hand on Valerie’s shoulder, and then, of course, with the old boy sitting there listening, it all came out—every word of it. That was how he heard about Richardson—after it was all . . . I mean—after she had——”