Angell, Pearl and Little God

by Winston Graham

  ‘What sort of a bet?’

  ‘If I can see out of both eyes next Saturday, you come with me to the dogs.’

  ‘Seems to me I lose anyhow.’

  ‘You’ll win, dear. I promise you. Little God’s honour.’

  They stared at each other a minute. ‘Little God,’ she said. ‘What a groovy name. D’you think people ought to burn joss-sticks to you?’

  ‘Dead right,’ he said. ‘You ought. Sitting cross-legged in that skirt.’

  She smoothed the skirt with long red-speared fingers. ‘Fresh, aren’t you?’

  ‘Kind of. But I like it. I think it’s great. I think you’re great.’

  ‘Thanks, I’m sure.’

  ‘So will you come?’

  ‘I’ll think about it.’

  ‘Be a chick. I’m O.K. really. You’ll like me. House-trained. Good watch-dog. Only need exercising once a day.’

  She raised her carefully depilated eyebrows. ‘How fresh can you get … Blow now.’

  ‘Is that a promise?’

  ‘Blow now.’

  ‘A bet anyway.’

  ‘O.K., O.K. But blow.’

  As he moved back to the punch-ball Godfrey saw that Jude Davis had come back into the gym.

  Godfrey’s fight with Alf Sheffield on the Thursday was unexpectedly easy. Sheffield, a West Indian of thirty, was slightly on his way down; but he was still a man with a good name and a following among the coloured population of Whitechapel and Hoxton. But, as happens once in a while in the life of most boxers, he was mentally and physically unfit on the night. Somebody said he was having wife trouble. At any rate he was sluggish and without stamina and made no use of his extra height and weight. He was down on one knee in the first round, down for a count of five in the second, and down twice in the third, from the second of which he was counted out. The suspicious might have thought it fixed, seeing this lithe well built Negro going down before the thin white man, and there were some boos. Godfrey did not take his win modestly and Jude Davis, watching him shake double hands to the crowd, took off his glasses to polish them and avoid the sight.

  On the Saturday Godfrey, who had seen Pearl and told her all about his win on the Thursday, escaped from the Vosper flat in time to take Sally Beck to the White City. It wasn’t that he was all that keen but she was a bit of fresh and she had a look in her eye. Afterwards they drove back in the Jensen to Sally’s flat, where Godfrey found out all about her belt and buckle skirt.

  Afterwards, when he got back, he looked in and at first thought Flora was asleep but her colour was so bad that he telephoned for the doctor. Her breathing was funny, too, deep with an occasional snore. Protheroe, Matthewson’s partner, came and said Lady Vosper was in a coma. Miriam was sent for but had gone out of London for the week-end. Protheroe said he would make arrangements for Lady Vosper to go into hospital in the morning, but Godfrey reminded him that she had wanted to stay at home and said he could manage. Protheroe left, saying he would arrange for a nurse to come in first thing in the morning.

  Godfrey sat out the night, nodding by the electric fire, memories and fantasies passing through his brain like smoke. That left hook that took Sheffield on the side of the chin: a real honey which had bruised his fingers, Sheffield was only sitting up when Godfrey left the ring; Sally’s naked body arching under him, much smaller and slighter than Pearl’s, the bones of her hips standing out, more avid than Pearl, more practised, but coming quicker; the smell of her scent still on his hands; old Flora, really on her last legs now; but different from the others; a bit of class, that was it, a bit of subtlety and polish, like driving an old Rolls. Another victory in the ring; it wouldn’t alter his ratings but it would do him no harm. The short jab on the button in the second round, a lolly-pop, a classic, the weight, the footwork, the timing; Sheffield had looked glassy even when he got up. What would happen to the Jensen; be sold probably; driving the Jensen had been a valuable prop, impressed them all; soft, he’d lived soft with Lady V, soon it would be harder; but he was making good money; free soon, free, when this old bag rattled off; get a place for Pearl to come to – and Sally; or maybe not Sally, don’t get in wrong with Davis. That day at Norwich; God, the old girl could drive; rummy, how many games of rummy he’d played with her these last two months. Funny how much he’d wanted Pearl. Still did, though not the urgency. You can never tell. Little bastard, get the potatoes out of here, else you get no supper, there’s twelve sacks to go and not a bite till you’ve done! Foster-father Arnold, back in the days at Yarmouth. Nine years ago. Someday go and settle with the old bully. The British Boxing Board of Control suspends Godfrey Brown for a period of twelve months, suspension to date from … Temper, temper, his one failing. Take the money, Flora said, two hundred pounds in tenners; he’d taken it, it was in the P.O. in his name, little nest egg, along with another hundred he’d put by; but it wouldn’t buy a Jensen. Not even a Mini; he’d need a car. Get something hot from one of the yards, something they wanted to get rid of for a hundred or so. Brown, G., for stealing, six strokes of the cane. Funny, you could take it on your chin without minding, not on your backside. Pearl was lovely in spite of her size – all over, shaped well right through, better shaped than Sally.

  He woke with a jerk. Flora had moved or muttered something. Her breathing had changed, become easier. One good thing about an electric fire, it didn’t lose heat or need stoking. He got up, staggered with sleep on his way to the bed. She was awake or had come out of her coma or whatever it was.

  ‘Godfrey,’ she said.

  ‘Yes, ducks?’

  ‘You’ve been a pal. Stuck by me. Made this last year. Can’t say more than that.’

  ‘Like something to drink, luv?’

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘Can’t say more than that.’

  And then she died.

  Chapter Five

  Miriam arrived from Eastbourne on the Sunday morning, and her husband in the afternoon. They gave Godfrey until midnight to get out. Everything he took with him they scrutinized to see if it was his. He moved to a bed-sitter in Lavender Hill. There it took him the best part of a day to sort out all the belongings he had accumulated through Flora’s generosity. He reckoned he had four or five hundred pounds’ worth of stuff without counting watches or cufflinks. Then there were quite a few odds and ends in his room at Merrick House. He reckoned he hadn’t done badly out of the old girl, all things considered.

  He went to the cremation at Golders Green, and it was quite a turn-out. A bunch of people with titles and fancy names. Even Angell, but not Mrs Angell. It was the first time he had seen Pearl’s husband since heaven knew when. They had had that talk over the blower one day in November and he had been sassy and Angell had been pretty sharp – that had been the last communication. Angell looked as pompous and as bloated as ever; no wonder Pearl wanted to leave him. But it was a pity to lose the meal ticket. All that cash. Maybe she would see sense – stay on with fat Wilfred and take her pleasure with Little God. When he really got in the big money, Godfrey thought, it might be different. Pearl would be one of his most prized possessions.

  It wasn’t really until about the Thursday that something hit him. He had been having a casual work-out in the gym, and he glanced at the clock thinking he ought to be back before Flora got in a tizzy. Then he realized there was no Flora to go back to. Of course it was not Flora he was missing, it was the luxury car and the luxury flat; but all the same there was a gap in his belly and after changing he went into Lyon’s Corner House in Piccadilly and tried to fill it. He stuffed himself on steak and chips and bread and butter pudding – instinctively copying Angell to allay hurt – but the food didn’t go to the right hole. He came out and mooched along to Leicester Square and went to the pictures. When it was over it was dark and the hole was worse. Christmas was near, and the traffic was jammed solid up Regent Street with cars coming to see the lights.

  Last Christmas Flora had had Miriam and her husband to dinner, but on Boxing Day she had gone with him to
a Jacques Tati film, and afterwards they had had coffee and sandwiches and had talked for upwards of two hours about cars and boxing and hunting. One of the things he would miss was the talking. He’d never talked to anyone like he’d talked to her and he’d never listened to anyone neither. He’d learned a hell of a lot from her. It was like having a sort of sporting aunt that you could argue with about all sorts of things. He’d never had an aunt, or an uncle for that matter. Only a lot of lousy officials and a God-damned foster-father.

  He didn’t fancy Sally somehow, he didn’t all that much fancy Pearl. He wanted something new to help to cut out the memories, so he went to the Lyceum and picked up a girl who was willing enough afterwards. But in the end she didn’t help much more than the steak and chips. He got home to his bed-sitter about three and threw himself down in his clothes and went straight off to sleep.

  Just before Christmas the news filtered out of the intended development of another satellite town to be sited in West Suffolk north of the river Stour, covering an area bounded by Delpham Brook, Brockley Hall, Witherham-by-Stour and Handley Merrick. In the country as a whole the information created less stir than 1d on the price of sugar; most people had never even heard of the places, and for goodness’ sake overspill population had to go somewhere. The only ones upset were those directly concerned, and with the backing of the West Suffolk County Council the C.P.R.E. and various other bodies, protest meetings were called and the long process began of attempting to stay the hand of the desecrator.

  Wilfred, having done his part, sat back in his solicitor’s office and rather nervously waited for some reaction from Lord Vosper, but none came. In the meantime he was convinced that Pearl’s affair with Godfrey was in some measure continuing. Godfrey, he heard, had been immediately sacked, and this would clearly leave him free to hang about Cadogan Mews at all hours. No one so far as he could find knew where he had gone or how he was living. But pretty certainly Pearl did. The situation fretted him even when he was in the auction rooms; it disturbed his concentration at the office, and Esslin twice had to correct mistakes he made; it went with him into the bridge room so that even a grand slam bid he made only temporarily distracted him; and needless to say it was at its most abrasive during every moment he spent with Pearl.

  Then one bitterly cold and deceptively sunny morning in early January, Miss Lock spoke through the intercom to say that a Mr G. Brown had called and would like an interview. Angell never arranged to see clients before 11 a. m., the first hour being devoted to the post and any matters oustanding, so he was free.

  But what was he free to say, how was he free to act? After Miss Lock’s message he sat for nearly ten minutes trying to concentrate on his post, trying to stay the quickened pulse, trying to rationalize the cold hate knotting in his stomach. It wouldn’t move, nothing would change if he sat there all day. He had to see him – or refuse to see him. At last he pressed the switch.

  ‘Show him in.’

  Godfrey came in in a brown shirt with white tie, a russet jacket without lapels, and light grey flannel trousers with flared bottoms. He nodded good morning in his usual over-familiar way, and Angell stared back, nourishing secretions of hatred.

  Godfrey waited carefully until the secretary had gone. Then he said: ‘I thought I’d come and see you, Mr Angell.’ He put his hands in his pockets, standing loosely like a man used to being on his feet. He waited. Angell did not speak. ‘Because of this Lady Vosper, her will.’

  ‘Oh?’ Breathe slightly easier now, and despise yourself for so doing; hate him for the relief.

  ‘Lady Vosper, she left me some money in her will, but I’ve heard nothing about it since and I want to know what was in the will. It’s only fair to be told, isn’t it. I mean only fair. Lady V says she left me this thousand pounds but these characters McNaughton and his wife, they shut the door in my face every time I go there and it’s not good enough. You’re a lawyer …’

  ‘I’m a solicitor, Brown. But I am not your solicitor. Nor was I Lady Vosper’s. So I can’t help you.’

  Godfrey licked cracked lips. There was a pinched look about him as he came forward, like a memory of his days back in the orphanage before he became important. ‘ I’ve my rights,’ he said.

  Angell said: ‘ I’m not interested in your rights,’ and pretended to make a note on the pad in front of him.

  Godfrey sat down. ‘Mean you can’t help me or you won’t?’

  ‘Whichever way you care to look at it.’

  The hostility was so obvious that in that moment Godfrey guessed that his secret affair with Pearl was somehow no longer a secret from Angell.

  ‘There’s another thing,’ he said, ‘I got stuff up at the house in Suffolk. My togs. Suits, shirts, boxing togs. I go down there day before yesterday to get ’ em. Not allowed in! Some clerk opened the door. Instructions, he says. No one to be let in. Well, what do I do? It’s robbery. Thieving lot. I want my rights.’

  With his little finger Angell picked at a tooth where a filling felt rough. ‘Your rights, Brown, are not my concern, and they never will be. Perhaps you will find some less particular member of my profession to act for you.’ The brutal ingratitude of Pearl welled up in him again as he spoke, the commonness, the vulgarity of this situation in which he found himself. Like a delicately nurtured man flung into a cell full of thieves. One could smell the coarseness of flesh, the sweatiness of lust, the rank odour of the human animal.

  Controlling his voice he added: ‘ In case you are not aware of this, Brown – and I gather you are not aware of it – when an individual dies a closure is put upon all his or her affairs until such time as Probate has been granted. If Lady Vosper has been so ill-advised as to leave you some money, you will be informed then. Your personal effects, if there is a proper assumption that they are yours, will be returned to you in due course. No good will come of hammering on doors and demanding rights which do not exist. Lady Vosper’s solicitors are Messrs Ogden & Whitley of 9 New Square. That’s all I have to say to you.’

  Godfrey hitched up his tight trousers so that he should not stretch them. He sat taking Angell in. ‘I don’t see what right McNaughton and his wife have to throw their weight about. Lady V told me that they don’t get much; all the property, etc., etc., goes to somebody in Switzerland. So if I’m turned out, why shouldn’t they be turned out? They’ll be nicking things right and left, you can bet your boots on that. Who’s to stop ’em nicking things that belong to me?’

  Angell took his finger away from the tooth. He pressed the intercom.

  ‘Miss Lock, will you ring up Mr Denhurst and see if you can get an appointment for me any time after three this afternoon or before eleven in the morning. Tell him I think a small piece of filling has chipped off.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Godfrey said: ‘You weren’t like this when I called a few months back, were you. Wanted to know things about Lady V, you said. All that.’

  Angell pulled his appointments book towards him. ‘And Miss Lock, bring me in the Mitchell Thomas file. And let me know as soon as Mr Thomas arrives.’ He switched off the box. ‘ I’m not interested in this conversation, Brown. I don’t think we have anything more to say to each other.’

  ‘Did me a smashing good turn once, though,’ said Godfrey between his teeth. ‘I’ll not deny you that. I’m doing well with Jude Davis. I’m ranked now among the feathers. How’s your wife? How’s Mrs Angell?’

  Angell took off his glasses to polish them. This enabled him to keep his eyes down, but it did not prevent his fingers from trembling. Out of the corner of his eyes he could see Godfrey crossing his brown suede boots. He could guess the sort of expression there would be on that hated face. Leering, sneering, lying, lecherous little rat. Damn him in all hell. Might he rot, fade, fall, break his back. If one could kill a man like this, kill him, even hire a killer …

  He switched down the lever again. ‘ Miss Lock, Mr Brown is now ready to leave.’

  Miss Lock came in with the Mitchell Thoma
s file and stood there waiting for Godfrey to get up. Godfrey got up. He stared at Miss Lock, grey hair, grey suit, neat, withdrawn, on her dig., typical middle-aged secretary. He stared at her wondering if she’d ever been laid and what she would be like. His expression was not hard to read and Miss Lock flushed. Angell had taken the file and was thumbing through it, ignoring his visitor, waiting for the moment to pass.

  ‘So long, Grandpa,’ Godfrey said, and went out.

  A terrible silence lay over the office after he had gone. Miss Lock followed him to see if he was really through the outer door, shut it, and returned through her own office to Wilfred’s.

  ‘Mr Angell.’

  ‘Not now, Miss Lock. I want ten minutes’ peace, please, to study this correspondence.’ Angell glanced up and she was startled at his face. Like a man with a bad heart who has climbed too many stairs. ‘Whatever it is will wait.’

  ‘Actually, it’s Mr Birman, sir. He’s waiting to see you, but I didn’t announce him while that – that fellow was here.’

  ‘Mr Birman …’ Angell closed the file. ‘Did he say what? … Show him in.’

  Vincent Birman was also surprised at Angell’s colour when he entered. The whole situation was getting even more complex, for he had recognized Godfrey Brown as he passed through the outer office on his way out. But it was his business never to know more than he was told.

  ‘Well?’ said Angell harshly.

  ‘You all right, old boy?’

  ‘Why shouldn’t I be all right?’

  ‘Oh, sorry, yes. I thought I’d ask. There’s a lot of ’ flu about just at the moment.’

  ‘What is it you want to see me about? My next client is due.’

  ‘I came,’ said Birman, ‘to ask you for a cheque made payable to cash for £2,000.’

  A car started outside, revved up violently. It jagged at the nerves. Birman folded his gloves and stuffed them in his pocket and blew on his fingers. ‘ It’s pretty cold this morning.’