Curtain Call

by Anthony Quinn

  A bus had just halted, and Tom said, ‘Come on then.’ Before she could reply he had hopped onto the platform and was holding forth his hand. He seemed to her suddenly boyish, standing there against the pole, and the bus was already pulling away when she darted up to join him.

  9

  JIMMY, WHOSE STRIDE was imperious before he had to use a stick, now found himself skulking, there was no other word for it, like one of those men who hung about disreputable bookshops in Soho. He was in the Chronicle building, just off Fleet Street, and had somehow got lost on his way to the arts department. His plan to slip in and out unnoticed had collapsed straight away. The chap at the desk had given him a very peculiar look, possibly because the slouch hat he wore was so obviously an attempt at disguise.

  He stopped a copy boy hurrying down the stairs and learned that Lambert’s office had been relocated to the fourth floor. Dammit – so much for his ruse to avoid the lift. By the time he got up there he was wheezing like an old horse. It was the asthma, exacerbated no doubt by the weight he kept putting on. He found the office at last, and knocked on the open door.

  Lambert, glancing up, called out a greeting, then frowned as he examined his visitor’s shadowed face. ‘Christ, is that a black eye?’

  Jimmy, entering the room, didn’t immediately reply. He parked himself on the horsehair sofa, removed his hat, and folded his hands over the head of his cane. ‘Domestic accident,’ he said curtly.

  ‘I wondered what was up,’ said Lambert, with the faint approach of a smile in his eyes. ‘Not like you to miss a deadline – two of ’em, in fact.’

  ‘I was operating out of one eye. As a critic I generally prefer to use both.’

  Lambert had stepped around his desk for a closer appraisal of the damage. ‘Phoo . . . that’s a proper shiner, isn’t it?’ He paused, and smirked. ‘Bit old for brawling, aren’t you?’

  Jimmy looked away in disdain. ‘As I said, it was an accident. At home.’ His tone was coldly dignified, though to his own ears it still lacked conviction.

  ‘Right, yeah,’ Lambert said, in the sceptical way that infuriated Jimmy. He had been holed up in his flat for days, shielding himself from the public gaze. Necessity had at last forced him out. The bailiffs were threatening another visit, and he needed to raise money quickly. In the usual run of things he would have sent Tom, but securing an advance from the paper required documents to be signed – or countersigned, or whatever it was – in person. It was humiliating, of course, to come cap in hand to one’s employers, particularly for someone as well remunerated as he was, and he had made a private resolution that his accountant’s letters must no longer be ignored.

  A secretary had arranged the paperwork, to which Jimmy now appended his signature. He was conscious all the while of Lambert’s insinuating presence as he stooped over the desk.

  ‘Looks like someone’s in Queer Street.’

  ‘What?’ said Jimmy, mishearing.

  ‘You. Hard up.’

  Jimmy felt himself breathe again. ‘I’ve one or two creditors to pay off,’ he replied, not that it’s any of your damned business.

  Lambert, lighting a Woodbine, stared into the distance. ‘How does it go? “Annual income twenty pounds, annual expenditure nineteen nineteen and six –”’

  ‘“Result happiness” – yes, thank you, Mr Micawber. May I?’

  Lambert picked up the buff envelope from his desk and handed it over. ‘Are you going to count it?’

  Jimmy’s instinct as a gambler was always to count it, but he didn’t want to give him the satisfaction. ‘I’m sure it’s all there,’ he said, sliding it into his breast pocket. He was nearly out the door when Lambert said, ‘By the way, Barry asked you to call by. He’s on the third floor.’

  Jimmy scuttled off, irritated by this unforeseen diversion. Barry Rusk was one of his oldest friends, a man of like age who had started out as a hack before rising through the ranks of the paper. His was a classic newspaperman’s face – lined – and from the distracted expression on it today Jimmy surmised he had not been called in for a pat on the back.

  ‘What happened?’ asked Barry on seeing Jimmy’s swollen eye.

  ‘Oh, you know . . . ’ He sighed, though Barry’s raised eyebrow suggested a fuller answer was required. ‘I had one of my little adventures.’

  Barry, who understood the code, shook his head. He rose from his desk and closed the door of his office against the hubbub outside. ‘Honestly, Jim – I don’t think you quite understand the danger you’re in.’

  Jimmy tried to make his chuckle sound devil-may-care. ‘Wouldn’t you say I’m wearing the evidence?’

  ‘I’m not talking about that, though God knows why you’d want to hang around people who’d spit in your eye as soon as look at you.’

  ‘Ah. What “danger” do you mean, then?’

  ‘There was a luncheon on the top floor last week, hosted by our dear proprietor Lord Swaim. The usual thing – high matters of church and state discussed over smoked haddock and Meursault.’

  ‘Oh. Shame I wasn’t invited,’ said Jimmy lightly.

  Barry gave him a level stare. ‘Your name came up, actually. You know Swaim likes to regard his newspaper as a bulwark of moral values, British probity and all that. Well . . . rumours have reached His Lordship’s ears of a prominent writer in his employ who’s been keeping some low company. He’s concerned that if the man’s behaviour became public knowledge it could damage the paper’s good name.’

  Jimmy felt a claw squeezing the inside of his chest. Swallowing, he said, ‘How much does he know?’

  ‘Enough that you should worry. He knows that you bat for the other side.’

  ‘What? How on earth –?’

  Barry’s frown was pitying. ‘People talk, Jim. You know that. It’s not like you’ve been a model of discretion. I dare say there’s a nice story behind that shiner you’ve got there . . .’

  Mention of it caused Jimmy to raise a protecting hand over his brow. He thought he should hear the worst. ‘So he wants me out?’

  ‘Well, he got very exercised – quoted our old King, as a matter of fact – “I thought men like that shot themselves.” Fortunately the editor managed to calm him down – spoke in your defence, described your column as one of the most prestigious in Fleet Street, beloved of our readers, et cetera. You ought to be grateful to him. He got you a royal pardon.’

  ‘Good old Bostock. He always liked me.’

  Barry shook his head. ‘You’re not off the tumbril yet. If Swaim gets wind of any more of your antics, your feet won’t touch – I mean it. Bostock defended you because you’re a big name on the paper, but he won’t risk his own neck to save you. If I were you I should lie low – and for God’s sake keep it in your trousers.’

  ‘Yes, of course, you’re quite right,’ muttered Jimmy, feeling chastened. Barry had never told him off like this before, it really wasn’t his style. That was a warning in itself. They talked for a few minutes longer before Jimmy sensed that Barry was waiting for him to leave – perhaps to embark straight away on his regimen of prudent behaviour.

  He emerged from the building in a state of low-level panic. He had become so used to walking the high wire of his sexual proclivities that he had almost forgotten how suddenly the line might snap and pitch him into the abyss. Despite what Barry said, he had been discreet, relatively speaking. If there were whispers about his errant ways nobody had yet pinned anything on him. Unlike other inverts with a reputation to protect, he had never been arrested, or blackmailed, or – until last week – roughed up. Well, now he knew there was a first time for everything . . .

  His adventure had been entirely on the spur of the moment. Having dashed off an amusing little squib (‘Who Reads Film Criticism?’) for the weekend paper he called in at the Criterion for an early-evening plate of oysters. It would tide him over until his late supper with Peter at the Nines. In observance of his new austerity drive he ordered a half-bottle of the Muscadet. That went down quicker th
an a homesick mole, so he had another. Rolling out into the crowds around Piccadilly, he caught an autumnal whiff of petrol and roasting chestnuts in the air, with a layer of something else beneath: possibility. He crossed the road and called in at the blazing Long Bar in the Trocadero, a favourite hunting ground, but this evening so raucous he could barely hear himself think. He made for Soho instead, his step growing purposeful as the streets narrowed and darkened around him. As soon as he glimpsed the iron railings on Broadwick Street and its beckoning sign, GENTLEMEN, he felt the old thrumming in his blood, a sensation of delight that was inseparable from fear. Does a mouse resist the cheese even when it sees the trap? He walked past, then stopped and waited.

  The late-October night had drawn down its blinds. A dreary street lamp threw a cone of light by which one could survey the anonymous visitors filing in and out of the public lavatory. It took Jimmy’s trained eye to distinguish between the ones who called in for a piss and those furtive few who had other things in mind. That pale-faced youth, for example, the one with the sliding eyes who had disappeared below a few minutes ago, he’d had a proper air of mischief . . . Jimmy glanced left and right before quitting his lookout post and descending smartly down the steps. The stench of ammonia mingled with detergent started a throb in his trousers. A dingy bulb lit the long room and its reeking enfilade of urinals along one wall, where a single figure was occupied, eyes straight ahead, a slight tilt to his back. A fierce stream of urine could be heard hissing against the porcelain. Jimmy went to stand at the next one along; the man, indifferent, shook his peg and buttoned up. Without so much as a glance he departed, his steps receding upwards to the street. It seemed he was alone, though he felt certain that his quarry had not exited the place.

  Behind him were three cubicles, two of them with the door ajar. The last one stood seductively closed. Jimmy liked a touch of coyness, it lent the illusion of having to earn his fun. He sidled over, and with a cough as his introduction he pushed at the door, which was unlocked. The youth, straddling the toilet bowl, gave him the once-over.

  ‘Thought it might be you,’ he said with a snicker. ‘Seen ya outside. I thought, ’e’s a dirty dog. Am I right?’

  Jimmy wondered what sort of reply was expected. ‘Well, I’m –’

  ‘Yeah, a right dirty dog,’ he continued, rising to his feet as he appraised Jimmy. He was a shortish, wiry youth of about nineteen or twenty in a brown wool suit. Jimmy had liked his shifty, vulpine gaze, though he hadn’t noticed the discoloured scar down the side of his jaw. In one quick movement the boy grabbed him by his coat front and shoved him down onto the seat he had lately occupied. The force of this little manoeuvre caused Jimmy to bang his head against the thick iron pipe running up to the cistern.

  ‘Ouch! My dear fellow –’ Jimmy began laughingly, and stopped on catching a glint of something steely in the boy’s hand. This was not what he’d had in mind. The boy casually brushed his cheek with the knife’s tip. He leaned forward and patted down Jimmy’s breast pockets, then fished out his wallet. He opened it, and pulled a face at its meagre contents. Pocketing the money, he began examining the rest. Jimmy’s hand tightened around his walking stick.

  The boy drew out a card and read: ‘“Press pass . . . Mr James Erskine . . . the Chronicle.” Ha, a journalist, eh? Maybe you could write about me.’ He threw the card away, and picked out another. Emboldened by his distracted look, Jimmy sprang forward, whirling his stick through the air and catching his opponent a sharp blow on the forearm. The knife clattered on the floor. He was nearly past him when the youth recovered his balance and swung a fist that connected explosively with his eye. Jimmy felt a white starburst of pain shoot through him as he crumpled onto the toilet floor, and thence into unconsciousness.

  In the days following this incident Tom had telephoned Princess Louise Mansions repeatedly and received no reply. It was so unlike Jimmy to withdraw from company that he went round in person one afternoon, only to be told by the porter that Mr Erskine was ‘indisposed’, and had given instructions that he wasn’t to be disturbed.

  ‘What’s wrong with him?’ asked Tom, knowing how much Jimmy feared to be left alone.

  The porter shrugged. ‘Ain’t seen hide nor hair of ’im, sir. Though he must be around,’ he added, ‘cos I took delivery of his wand this morning.’

  Tom was puzzled, until the man pointed to the back wall of his office, where a new walking stick was propped.

  In the meantime he had resolved to hand in his notice to Jimmy. The decision was long overdue. They had been together nine years, and he knew it would be better to quit while they were still on speaking terms. When he had started, his duties had been clearly defined: editing, proofreading, liaising between his editors and publishers, deputising for him when he went on holiday. Perhaps he had been too efficient in the job, because Jimmy eventually had him running his diary, his finances, his housekeeping, his travel arrangements. His life. Nor had he been remunerated for this ancillary work. He had squeezed one meagre pay rise out of him four years ago – or was it five? That business over the typewriter was really the last straw . . . He acknowledged his own share of the blame in allowing him to get away with it.

  The mysterious silence ended one Friday morning when he received a note from Jimmy asking him to call at the flat. On his way there Tom carefully rehearsed what he would say, a few sincere, straightforward phrases outlining his decision to leave, his gratitude for nine years’ employment, and his modest hope that he had been of service. There would be no mention of Jimmy’s meanness, his ill tempers, his selfish and graceless behaviour, any of it – they would part as friends. If Jimmy wished to provide him with references . . . no, he would not even ask for that, he would simply shake hands and be on his way. He found that he was whistling as he stepped off the bus. I should have done this years ago, he thought as the porter admitted him.

  Upstairs Mrs Pargiter, the char, answered the door. ‘I’ve just brought ’im his tea,’ she said, nodding towards the living room. This was odd in itself: usually by eleven Jimmy would be blazing away in his office, meeting a deadline.

  He gave a brief tap at the door and walked in. Jimmy was sitting in one of the winged armchairs with a tray across his lap, spooning out a breakfast egg. His eyes were shielded by a pair of dark glasses, which gave Tom an abrupt lurch of fright.

  ‘Oh my God – what’s happened?’

  Jimmy put down his spoon and, with the grave dignity of a dowager removing her lorgnettes, presented his face. Tom stepped closer to examine his black eye, which was now a livid blue with yellow striations.

  ‘You look almost relieved,’ said Jimmy, with indignant surprise.

  ‘I am. When I saw those dark glasses I thought you’d gone blind.’

  ‘For a few days I practically was – couldn’t see out of this one.’

  On the coffee table steam was drifting from a china teapot. He bent down and poured them each a cup, adding Jimmy’s milk and sugar. The invalid took the proffered tea with a mournful air.

  ‘I presume the traditional concomitant sympathy is on the way,’ he muttered.

  Tom made an apologetic motion with his head and sank into a chair opposite. ‘Who did this to you?’

  Jimmy looked away, and sighed. ‘A wanton boy. I could bear the bruising, but he took my pocket watch, too. Had it since I went to France . . . twenty-two years.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Jim, that’s rotten luck. What did the police say?’

  Jimmy stared back. ‘You think I went to the police.’

  ‘Why not? You’ve been –’ He read a mixture of embarrassment and defiance playing over Jimmy’s features, and understood. ‘Oh . . . I see.’ So it was like that.

  As though able to read his thoughts, Jimmy murmured, ‘“I grow old, I grow old” . . . Beastly little thing, assaulting a fellow like me. Thirty years ago I would have boxed his ears.’

  Tom heard a note of self-pity. ‘To be honest, Jim, you’re lucky it wasn’t the police, what with their
tricks. You might be in Pentonville by now.’

  ‘I fancy that’s where my employers would like to see me. I had a rather disagreeable chat with Barry at the Chronicle this week – told me Swaim was on the warpath. Apparently my private life has become a liability to the paper’s so-called reputation.’

  ‘They wouldn’t dare drop you,’ Tom said.

  ‘I’m not so sure. They say he hates queers like Mosley hates Jews.’

  As Jimmy’s gaze dropped a shaft of compassion pierced Tom’s heart. It wasn’t the damaged eye that did it so much as the air of defeat; he’d never seen him look so frail and dispirited. The valedictory phrases that had been on his tongue were beginning to sound untimely, and he knew he would have to steel himself to utter them. It would have been so much easier if he’d done it two weeks ago. Or two years ago.

  Jimmy was gazing in silence at the debris of his breakfast, and out of instinct Tom stood and removed the tray from his lap, brushing off the crumbs with a napkin. He then poured a fresh cup of tea and placed it in his hands.

  ‘There – the cup that cheers,’ he said.

  Jimmy took a sip, then gave Tom a level look. ‘You know, even in my darkest moods, the one thing that’s kept my pecker up – if you’ll pardon the phrase – is the knowledge I could depend on you.’ His eyes had gone moist as he spoke. ‘Thank you, Tom, from the bottom of my heart.’

  Oh hell, thought Tom, who now felt quite the blackguard for the knife he was about to plunge. ‘Well, I just do my job,’ he said quietly. ‘Actually, I’ve been meaning to have a word with you . . .’

  He looked at Jimmy, whose expression had softened into beatific indulgence as he said, ‘I think I know what it’s about.’ Tom blinked wonderingly. Was it that obvious? ‘I’ve been taking you for granted,’ Jimmy continued, ‘and I want to make amends. So I’m going to pay you an extra five bob a week, and I’ll throw in your half for the cost of the typewriter.’