No Laughing Matter

by Angus Wilson

  He was eating a soggy pie filled with nuggets of gut and drinking a lukewarm pint, when Towneley came in. He saw him start and turn back. He amused himself by letting him get to the door before he called:

  ‘Dodo, what in the hell?’

  So Dodo pretended to be surprised, and out it all poured – the rare Sunday office duty, the need to check an interview with a chap who lived in Bloomsbury, otherwise Sunday always saw him down at Merstham, if not the wife cried blue murder (the skinny and sour-faced variety she’d be). Anyway, as if he cared. He listened, however, as though the boring rigmarole were a stop press confession of Bukharin.

  ‘Well, so you’re here, anyway,’ he said at the end of it – he almost added ‘my dear old pal’. ‘I’m turning you in some of my diary since you liked it, Dodo.’ But perhaps because he smarmed in letters, Dodo Towneley turned out to be one of those chaps who could be rude to your face.

  ‘Not if it’s your usual bellyache about the Communists done up in another form, you’re not, Q. J.’

  ‘I resent that, Dodo.’

  ‘Then you’ll just have to resent. Have the other half?’

  To control his rising fury Quentin merely nodded, and drank silently for some minutes. Then Towneley in a voice full of old friendship, old sweats together and a lot more hypocritical muck: ‘But tell us about the war itself, Q. J. Good Lord, you’re one of the few that’s been there who knew what war was like when he went. All these other chaps were conchies in ’14.’

  That a so-called radical editor could talk against conscientious objectors in that sneering hearty way made Quentin clench his fists until the knuckles were livid. For a moment he retreated into blackness, telling himself he mustn’t hit the man. Then suddenly – it must be too little food, tiredness or what – he was alone, miles from anyone, the darkness hadn’t left him, he was cut off into night, he would never be two again. He fought his way back to hear Towneley say:

  ‘You all right, old boy?’

  And, yes, he was; but he knew he mustn’t let Towneley go, must find something to touch, to amuse him, to stop him saying ‘no’.

  ‘Yes, how right you are. The extraordinary innocents that one met on the Teruel front! Observers they often called themselves. I think they gave the Spanish more laughs than annoyance. I hope so. A Danish Red Cross Liberal! Have you ever met a Danish Red Cross Liberal?’ He’d got Towneley laughing already. ‘Well this specimen was called Mogens Mohn. Oh, that’s nothing unusual in Denmark. It’s just Bill Smith. But the things he said. I think the best was, ‘Mr Matthews, do you think we shall meet with a genuine atrocity?’

  He concentrated on getting a funny Scandinavian accent and let the words build up for themselves. Anyhow it had Towneley laughing in the aisles.

  ‘Oh, marvellous! For God’s sake, write that up for us. Have another pie? Or better still, Q. J., a spot of lunch. What about Soho?’

  No, not Soho, but a spot of lunch would be very nice. Just the two of them.

  *

  Watching P. S. on top of a ladder, placing a sprig of holly over the John Nash downscape, her breath caught suddenly with love for him. At first she hadn’t found it easy to allow him the long-trousered suit that he had worn this holidays, but now it seemed only to underline his boyish figure, his fresh, healthy, smooth boy’s skin. Senior had a strange pattern of his own now – daily life at the office, regular hours – something that belonged to a world she knew nothing of, for Hugh had always been popping backwards and forwards from class, and even old Billy Pop had worked (if you could call it that) at home. And this hols Middleman spent all his time organizing the Peace Pledge group at Ramsgate – he actually liked strangers really. So that she’d been closer in this last ten days to P. S. than for years – long walks, afternoons shopping, cinemas, a trip up to Town, a wonderful time. He’d, told her how terrific he thought it was of her to follow Frau L. that evening when they’d all sat by, manlike and not known how to cope; he’d said that, all things considered, the Frau would have a happier Weihnacht in the boarding house she’d gone to until the Quakers were ready for her.

  ‘You old hypocrite! What you mean is that we shall have a jolly sight better Christmas without strangers.’

  He’d blushed and then squeezed her arm. Now, as she saw him self-consciously hitch his long trousers with a man’s, almost a sailor’s, gesture before coming down the ladder, she thought let the whole thing blow up so long as I don’t lose him. Then with a shudder of her straight shoulders, she knew that she must make an act of contrition, get this straight with God.

  ‘Look, darling, just put some over each of the pictures here. But be careful of the ladder. I’ll be back in a mo. I’m just going to have a word with Daddy.’

  She always knocked on the door of Hugh’s den; it gave him time to look busy. As a matter of fact he was. He insisted on getting the reports off before Christmas, although for some poor mothers of little idiots it would be better, she always said, to wait until after the New Year – but, then, look at beastly income tax!

  ‘Can you spare me a few moments, darling?’

  And with his usual courtesy – that he had handed on to the boys – he said: ‘My dear, my time is always yours!’

  Yet she must hope that the day would never come when this was true.

  She sat down: ‘I’ve been thinking …’ she said, then she shut up, for if contrition was to be made it must be complete – God always knew.

  Taking his pipe from his mouth, ‘Whatever you think is worth hearing.’

  ‘Before that woman … before Frau Liebermann left she told me a few home truths. She said that there must be a war – if we were to survive that is. And if that happens, of course, the boys – Senior and Middleman will have to go, won’t they? And they may be killed.’

  He sucked in his teeth in disapproval. ‘My dear.’

  ‘No, Hugh, don’t let’s pretend. It’s true isn’t it?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. There could very well still be peace. And with honour.’

  ‘Precious little, I should think. Anyway, if it comes …’

  ‘Oh, if it comes, we might all be blown sky high.’

  She frowned perplexed, for a second or two. ‘That’s all rather newspaper talk, isn’t it? But for the two boys there is real danger.’

  He lit his pipe again. ‘No more than for any others.’

  But she ignored this. ‘And the Frau implied that I make it all much more difficult for them if I try to hold them. It’s true, isn’t it? isn’t it?’

  ‘My dear….’

  ‘Oh, of course, it is. The Frau was perfectly right.’ She got up and, bending over his table, took up some reports. ‘Aitcheson, J. M. Purkiss, Rodney, Boyle, Keith: I only faintly know who they are.’ She stood over him. ‘That house near Exeter hasn’t gone, has it? Let’s go down in the New Year and see it. We can take P. S. before term starts.’

  He looked up at her, puzzling. ‘Daisy’s decided that if we move, they’ll retire.’

  ‘She’s right. But don’t let that worry you, Hugh. If we go there and I think we should – war here near Dover would be courting suicide – then I want to be the Headmaster’s wife. To get to know, to look after,’ she let the reports fall from her hands on to the table, ‘Aitcheson, Purkiss, Boyle. P. S. will introduce me.’

  He took her hand. ‘You’re sure? Purkiss has enormous red ears with chilblains.’ He laughed.

  ‘Chilblains! How disgraceful! They’re quite unnecessary these days! Oh, dear! What a lot of work there’ll be.’ She squeezed his hand, and left him.

  Down in the hall, P. S. with cheeks swollen like a holy cherub, was blowing up balloons. She came and put her arm round his waist.

  ‘Mrs Pascoe,’ she said, ‘You must let them go. There must be war or God help you.’ She laughed. He frowned in bewilderment above his bulging cheeks, but then she added, ‘Arnold, come here, du wicked kleiner.’

  He burst into laughter and the balloon sank.

  ‘Oh, really, Mummy.
You’ve got the Frau completely.’ And they both laughed. She mussed up his hair with her hand.

  ‘But not you, darling, not der kleinster Pascoe. You’ll be safe in our lovely combes, you’ll like that won’t you?’ She smiled at her son’s perplexed face. But she wasn’t really talking to him. God knew what the bargain was.

  Bright and early, before the alarm, before seven thirty, Alfred rang.

  ‘Oh, thank God,’ he said. Had she not known him, she would have thought fresh tragedy was upon them. ‘I was frightened to death you’d have gone out.’

  ‘Well, I haven’t.’ She felt snappish.

  ‘I just wanted to hear your voice before I go. And to tell you that it’s all right, Glad. Not a moment’s more worry. The cheque’s in the post for you. Five weeks to the dot as I said. So perhaps you’ll have a bit more faith in your old financial wizard in future.’

  To hear his gaiety and certainty flooded her with a relief she had not known for what now seemed centuries.

  ‘There have got to be risks, you know.’

  It didn’t seem worth contradicting.

  ‘Where on earth are you off to this time?’

  ‘I’ve got to run over to Holland. Bloody nuisance! And Doris is a bit seedy. But there’s a man I must see there. And if he comes up with what I hope he does, there’ll be no more selling of antiques for you, my darling. Caviare off golden dishes, that’s what you’ll have and like it.’ She didn’t answer, so he said, ‘Well, there it is, your Christmas present. God bless.’

  She bathed luxuriously, dressed with lingering indulgence. She was agile again, hundreds of pounds of worried, anxious stifling fat seemed to have gone from her. She put her brown tweed skirt and coat and her beaver fur away at the back of the wardrobe, they were a no longer needed disguise, as the daily racing for which she had worn them in the last fortnight had been a disguise to keep his name out if the worst…. But now it wouldn’t. She had known him long enough, with all his tricky ways, to know when he was speaking the truth. That was what partnership meant. She should have known it. Hearing Alf’s voice today – confident, youthful again, cocky old Alf-made her ashamed for her fears. Well, now, with Sylvia gone and Christmas here, for some hard work; unless the ‘Closed’ notice had put people off.

  If not that, something had done so, for all the morning there was no sale, but for two fire screens to an old buffer for his daughter; however, the more time, relaxed time at last, for the neglected account books. And then, just before lunch hour – Herr Ahrendt. She knew at once from the shifting glance of his sloping goat’s eyes that something was wrong.

  ‘But what does it mean, Miss Matthews? What does it mean? No Mrs Heathway, no Miss Matthews. Closed. What does it mean? My wife tells me they have stolen our picture. You must forgive her, please, she is quite ill and not young and then, you know, she does not like to leave Germany, she is not like me, a Jew.’

  ‘Oh, poor Mrs Ahrendt. No, it’s just that we’ve had illness.’

  To her horror Mr Ahrendt struck a little inlaid table with his clenched fist.

  ‘Why are you keeping the truth from me, Miss Matthews? I know that you have taken our picture to Christie and there they say that they think it is a good picture. But you have taken it away before they are sure. What does it mean, please?’

  For a moment, she thought, now it’s all all right, I shall tell him; but then he had been so badly treated that surely he could never trust people; and such people themselves were not able to be trusted.

  ‘Oh, I meant it all to be a surprise for you. It may be a very valuable picture, worth some thousands of pounds. Perhaps by Grünewald, you know, Matthias Grünewald. But I had to have a second opinion. That’s why I took it from Christie’s.’

  Strangely the statement of its value made Herr Ahrendt more hostile. He glared at her.

  ‘Where is the picture, please, Miss Matthews? At once.’

  His anger infected her.

  ‘Mr Ahrendt, you gave me that picture for valuation because for many years I have sold things for you and given you good prices. You told me the picture was probably of no value, but that, if it would fetch anything you would be grateful. Now you come in here….’

  ‘Many years, many years. For many years bad things are happening, Miss Matthews, though you may not know in this England. My wife is ill and old. She depends upon me. Miss Matthews, this is Tuesday. I want my picture back, or a good sale by this Sunday. Or there may happen bad things for you.’

  He turned, swaying slightly – he had become very frail and old – and went towards the door.

  ‘Don’t you worry, you shall have your money. And good riddance,’ she shouted after him – after all if he had known worry and tension, so had she.

  She saw him walking to and fro in front of the shop window for a few moments. Once he seemed about to come in. She almost went out to him – the poor old thing! There was no sense in quarrelling. But tomorrow all would be right and, with that, he too would be his courteous old self again.

  The next day when she had ascertained that the letter was not at the shop, she went racing. On her return to the flat in the evening she found a telegram ‘Forgot post letter London. Sent from here. All my apologies love Alf.’ The telegram came from Dublin. She went racing again after that. And finally on Friday night the letter came. It contained a post-dated cheque for £500. There was also a little note of apology from Herr Ahrendt, courteous, old world. She must forgive an old man’s fussing, but Mrs Ahrendt was ill and this was why he must insist.

  *

  ‘I have been settled in now two weeks and all going well. Today Mr Truscott thats the one under Mr Roper told me I done very well and got the packin idear quicker than most and if I go on like this I will get a rise I know the letter said not to bother you and tho it makes me sad and Madge too Arthur says you did right and all for the best but I carnt let all go by without saying thank you for gettin a job was all that I wanted and like you said without it men rot. Madge and Arthur and Stanley and Baby and all send love and so does your pal with the biggest ever – Ted.’

  Marcus closed the letter, avoiding looking at the Tchelitchev portrait and went in search of Jack. Voices – Jack’s, Mary’s, and, he thought, another’s – reached him from the conservatory. At first he thought to turn back, but he stimulated his own anger so that it would carry him through what would now have to be a self-consciously melodramatic entry. Speaking through great scarlet and orange sprays of bignonia, almost subdued by the heavy mingled smells of China tea and gardenias, he said, waving the letter:

  ‘What the hell do you mean by this, Jack?’

  A nervous tick of extreme irritation seized Jack’s thin, papery cheeks. He leaned back in the black leather modern rocking chair, knotting his hands behind his head.

  ‘Shall we battle about it later, Markie? You haven’t said how do to Mary. And you don’t know Hansi Münzer.’

  Marcus grimaced at Mary and bobbed his head in the direction of a young man who immediately stood up, bowing absurdly. The creature was one of the most appalling little screamers, with a silver bracelet, a willowy figure and large, dark, lemur’s eyes – the most un-me person, Marcus thought, and to his amazement found, as his eyes took in the young man’s flirtatious glance, that he was beginning a cock stand. He instantly turned on Jack.

  ‘What do you mean by interfering in my affairs? Teaching me moral lessons!’

  He noticed with a certain pleasure that Mary’s deepset eyes had become hooded as they always did when there was any blasphemy or vulgarity in personal relationships.

  ‘Oh, really!’ Jack’s drawl had the full arrogance that years ago would have frightened him. ‘The young man was most persistent. Telephoning at every hour. It’s all very well for you marching behind red flags, but I was here and had to cope with it. You’d treated him very badly so I thought he’d better have a job. I went to one of the family subsidiaries. He was told not to bother you. He deserves to be fired.’

  Ma
ry was talking now to little Miss Lemur – ‘Do you mean that dreams have a sort of black edge around them that gives them formal coherence like a painting?’

  ‘Oh, the dream, of course, is only one of many fruitful images for the painter.’

  Some bloody Expressionist rubbish. Marcus felt more angry with Jack.

  What bloody right have you to involve me in a lot of paternalistic patronage? If Ted had been left to stew in the juice all you capitalist shits had put him in he might have acquired some sense of class solidarity.’