Curtain Call

by Anthony Quinn

  Jimmy, out of Stephen’s earshot, was in heated whispering remonstration with László, who had dug in his heels over something. It continued, off and on, through the serving of braised pheasant with chestnut purée. The evening, which had begun at a hearty volume, was approaching a roar; even Carmody’s boom had been drowned out. Only when László saw that their argument had left Stephen isolated did he rise from his chair and, with a little bow that blended apology with grievance, went off to the Gents – allowing Jimmy to pounce on the vacated seat. He had the air of a man who had just got his way.

  ‘Hope my friend wasn’t boring you,’ said Jimmy airily. ‘He means well, but he drones like a bagpipe.’

  ‘He wasn’t boring me at all. In fact I was greatly enjoying his company.’

  Jimmy, hearing a thin note of reproof, changed tack. ‘A friend told me that you’re doing some work at the Nines.’

  ‘Yes, I’ve been hard at it. A mural. Are you a member there?’

  ‘No. The friend I mentioned once invited me to join, only to discover that there was a considerable amount of resistance to my election. Same thing happened with the Garrick. And I imagine I am eligible for blackballing at several other clubs around London.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear it,’ said Stephen leniently.

  ‘The critic’s fate,’ said Jimmy, trying a cavalier shrug. ‘It’s probably to do with some idiot actor I once offended, extracting his little revenge.’

  Stephen, realising only at that moment who Jimmy was, couldn’t resist saying, ‘Perhaps you’ve come across a friend of mine. Nina Land?’

  ‘Of course. I’ve followed her with great interest, ever since Fire in the Hole.’

  ‘She’ll be pleased to hear it.’

  ‘But let me ask you something,’ said Jimmy, changing gears with a clank. ‘I dare say you’re much in demand?’

  ‘I have a fair bit on, with one thing or another.’

  ‘Well, here’s the thing. I turn sixty next year, and have been minded to mark it in some way. I now know what it should be. By an unforeseen stroke of good fortune I find myself this evening seated next to the very man I should choose for the job – if I may, the Van Dyck de nos jours!’

  ‘A portrait of yourself . . . I see.’

  ‘Well, they say nobody ever raised a statue to a critic, but I don’t see why there shouldn’t be an oil painting of one.’

  Stephen looked steadily at him, wondering if his conceit was a kind of joke, a balloon to be popped with some self-deprecating remark. But Jimmy’s expression was untouched by any humorous intent. Before he could reply he felt someone clap his shoulder, and turning he found Carmody beaming down at him.

  ‘Wyley! Been meaning to collar you – I wanted to thank you for that very generous cheque.’

  Stephen would have preferred to keep his charity a private matter, but he supposed Carmody’s loud expression of thanks was intended pour encourager les autres. A sudden loud crump made him flinch, and the flash of a camera bulb whited the air; the photographer had timed it to catch him in a handshake with Carmody. ‘When do you plan for the Marquess to reopen?’ he asked.

  ‘Oh, all in good time,’ said Carmody in a more confiding tone. ‘We’ve got a fine tailwind of support.’ Surveying the vicinity of the table, he now gave a brief wave to the scar-faced man who had been watching Stephen. ‘Have you two gentlemen met? Stephen Wyley – William Joyce.’

  Focusing somewhat blearily on this introduction, Joyce lifted his chin in acknowledgement. His well-spoken voice was at odds with his pugilistic aspect. ‘So you’re a contributor, Mr Wyley?’

  Stephen nodded. ‘Gerald here has been very, uh, persuasive. And the cause seems a good one.’

  ‘The best – the best,’ replied Joyce in correction. ‘We must defend our great institutions. It is the British way.’

  Stephen thought this rather grandiose language to use about the theatre, though drink had clearly stoked up his mood. At this moment László resumed his seat at the table next to Jimmy. His return had been noticed by Joyce, whose brow creased into an amused frown. ‘This fellow has been an object of curiosity to me all evening,’ he said, as if László were some exotically plumed creature. ‘I would surmise from your accent that you are – Austrian?’

  László gave a little shake of his head. ‘A close neighbour, sir – Hungarian. Though I was raised in this country.’

  ‘And your name?’

  ‘László Balázsovits.’

  ‘Balázsovits,’ Joyce repeated, with an emphasis on the final consonants. ‘A Jew, then.’

  ‘Again, raised in this country,’ said László with perfect civility.

  Carmody, who had witnessed these last exchanges in agitation, now spoke up. ‘Joyce, may I have a moment? – there are some others I’d like you to meet.’

  A nasty daggered silence followed, then Joyce rose from the table. ‘Gentlemen,’ he said, by way of excusing himself, and allowed Carmody to lead the way. Jimmy turned to László.

  ‘That was rather like watching the Gorgon turn on Perseus.’

  ‘A very drunken Gorgon at that,’ said Stephen.

  László, pleased by the attention, gasped out a laugh. ‘But Perseus cut off the head of Medusa, did he not? Our Gorgon remains unslain.’

  ‘I think it might be safer just to avoid his gaze,’ said Jimmy, ‘else we might all be turned to stone.’

  Stephen had followed Joyce’s progress to a distant table, where several men had stood up to be introduced. Carmody was making no bones about presenting him as the guest of honour. With pudding served, diners were now stetching their legs about the room and firing up cigars.

  Jimmy noticed Stephen glance at his watch, and thought he should seize his moment. ‘To return to our earlier conversation, Mr Wyley, I hope we can come to an arrangement regarding . . .’

  Stephen nodded, understanding, and said, ‘I’m booked up for at least the next four months. Perhaps you should consult my gallery –’

  ‘I’d be delighted,’ said Jimmy. He was not to be put off, and Stephen, in a sudden mood of weariness, said, ‘Did you know Millais once said that the only thing he enjoyed about portrait painting was putting the highlights on polished boots?’

  ‘Oh, I quite understand that,’ said Jimmy. ‘The only thing I enjoy about writing is putting in the punctuation.’

  The tables were being cleared, and the bar, located at the end of the long ballroom, was already thronged with men. Stephen thought it strange that the dinner, aside from Carmody’s brief introduction, had ended without a single speech in support of the Marquess. He suggested a last drink, to which Jimmy and László both made eager agreement.

  ‘So Carmody tapped you for a contribution,’ Jimmy said as they waited at the bar.

  ‘He has a way of making it impossible to refuse,’ admitted Stephen, who noticed that László was still skulking around the table they had just left. ‘What’s he doing?’

  Jimmy let out a sigh of exasperation. ‘Oh, for heaven’s – He’s gathering up those discarded bread rolls to take home.’

  Stephen flinched slightly. ‘Is he that – hard up?’

  ‘Afraid so. Hasn’t a farthing to his name.’

  ‘But he was telling me of holidays abroad, and a house in, where was it, Regent Square?’

  ‘Years ago. His father lost all their money in some swindle. László has gone from being a pampered princeling to a virtual indigent within a generation. And yet’ – his laugh was fond – ‘I don’t know a more cheerful man.’

  The object of their discussion was approaching, having cleared the bread basket. The pug-like face, stirred to delight by his recent haul, caused Stephen’s heart to turn over. ‘Well then, that should be our toast – to cheerfulness.’

  László, the paper bag bulging under his arm, was about to respond when, from a knot of men standing behind him, a hissing noise started up. It was led by a man whose company they had already entertained that evening. Stephen had heard the single mutte
red word bandied back and forth among them, and had tried to ignore it. The word, of course, was ‘Jew’.

  Joyce had stepped forward, his face ablaze. He plucked László’s bag of rolls from his hand and tipped out the contents. ‘This is the Jew from Hungary,’ he announced to his party, ‘or rather, the hungry Jew, eating his way through the bread like a weevil.’

  László, startled by this mocking disdain, explained, ‘Sir, the bread was left over on the table. Nobody was –’

  ‘The Lord giveth,’ Joyce continued, not listening, ‘and the Jew taketh away. And still the lesson goes unheeded. Is it any wonder that the economy is in crisis when the country allows Jews to plunder its resources?’

  A braying chorus of support had risen behind him. The mood in the room had become volatile and anticipatory, in a way that reminded Stephen of those moments before the foxhounds are let loose. Interposing himself between László and his persecutor, he said quietly, ‘You’ve had rather a lot to drink. I think you should offer this gentleman an apology, and then get out.’

  At that, Joyce thrust his face close to Stephen’s, so close he could see the long discoloured crease in the skin that some thug’s knife had carved down his cheek. His reply came in a sour updraught of alcoholic heat. ‘I’d sooner hang than back down to a stinking Jew.’

  Before he quite had command of himself Stephen reached for Joyce’s collar and was pulling him within range of a butt to his face. But Joyce tore himself away and landed a flailing fist to the side of his opponent’s head. This set-to might have escalated had not several diners jumped into the fray and, amid many fierce obscenities, contrived to separate them. It took some moments for the blood singing in Stephen’s ears to cease; the coaxing, conciliatory voice that he eventually heard belonged to Carmody, who had led him out of the room and into the foyer.

  A couple of bruisers from the hotel’s security staff hurried past them towards the ballroom, from where shouts and imprecations still carried.

  ‘Might be for the best if I call you a taxi,’ said Carmody, clapping a hand on Stephen’s shoulder. Stephen brushed him off.

  ‘What is this, Carmody? I thought you were raising money for a theatre –’

  ‘So we are, my dear fellow.’

  ‘I didn’t see much charity back in there. And I didn’t realise that Jews weren’t welcome.’

  Carmody returned a look from under his brow. ‘We should save this discussion for another time,’ he said coldly, and nodded over Stephen’s shoulder to where Jimmy and László were collecting their coats. ‘In the meantime, you ought to be careful about those you pick a fight with. They won’t all be gentlemen like our Mr Joyce.’

  ‘If he’s your definition of a gentleman then God help us.’

  Carmody’s jaw tightened, and he was shaping to make some hostile retort when he stopped himself. He only said, ‘Thank you, again, for your support. Goodnight.’ He turned on his heel and left Stephen there.

  Jimmy and László were hovering by the door, waiting for him. Their looks of concern were so solemn he felt himself begin to laugh. ‘I believe we were about to have a nightcap before that little . . . interruption. If you’re both still game I know just the place. Shall we?’

  11

  MADELEINE, WHO THOUGHT herself too dull to have many friends, was fortunate in being able to attract friendliness in others. People felt protective towards her, and would go out of their way to help her. Why this should be she had no firm idea; whenever she stopped to think about it she supposed it was because they felt sorry for her. It couldn’t have been because she told jokes, or said witty things, because she hardly ever did. Even certain punters seemed to have a tenderness for her. She sometimes caught a glance from one of them – across a dinner table, or in a taxi, or while he was putting his trousers back on – that seemed, pityingly, to ask, How on earth did you end up doing this? It was a question she still asked herself.

  She didn’t care about the punters. But she was glad to have the affection, and perhaps the trust, of some of the girls. Working at the Elysian, she had got to know a handful of them quite well. Some had been on the game for years and rented their own rooms, down squalid little alleys, or tucked away on the upper floors of a pub or a shop. There were no names under the bell to indicate who lived there: you just had to know which door to knock. She still remembered her surprise the first time Rita, one of the older girls, invited her ‘home’ for a cup of tea, and they had entered a grimy terraced building on Berwick Street she had thought long abandoned; in fact, beyond the reeking doorway was a honeycomb of rooms covering five floors, reached via a narrow staircase that dog-legged on each landing.

  Rita was sitting opposite her now, absently filing her nails. She was an amply proportioned woman in her early thirties, full-lipped and auburn-haired, with a laugh that tended towards the raucous. Tonight she was on duty, which meant wearing what she called ‘full battledress’, a rabbit-fur coat over a tight silk dress, sheer stockings and shoes with large witchy buckles. Her powdered face was offset by dark, thickly lashed eyes that roved busily around the room. They were in the front bar of the Blue Posts on Rupert Street, round the corner from the club. A lot of the girls drank there, as did their ponces; sometimes Roddy would call in, usually to check that nobody from the club was skiving. Rita had put away the nail file and was inspecting her face in a compact.

  ‘God, I’ve got lovely eyes. Reckon they’re me best feature, don’t you?’

  Madeleine smiled her agreement. It was true, she thought, they were lovely, almond-shaped and coloured a sort of underwater green. They had slid from the mirror and narrowed on her. ‘You got nice eyes, too,’ said Rita, a little resentfully, as though she had just noticed the competition. ‘They’re so clear! J’ever put drops in ’em?’

  ‘No . . . that’s just the way they are,’ she replied, then added, ‘I like the way you’ve done your hair.’ She knew Rita liked to be complimented on her hair.

  ‘One of Doreen’s girls did it for me,’ she cooed, giving the back of it a little primp. ‘Arthur’s always sayin’ how much he likes my hair.’ Arthur was her ponce, and for the last couple of years also her ‘feller’. Madeleine gathered it was quite common for the personal and professional to merge in the life of a working girl.

  ‘How is Arthur?’ she said, calling to mind a dumpy, twinkling man of about forty-five who displayed a hound-like devotion to Rita.

  ‘Oh, you know . . .’ A smirk played on her lips as she pondered her next words. ‘Did I tell you what happened last week? Had me laughin’ fit to bust.’ Rita loved to tell a story, and Madeleine made an attentive audience. ‘I’d had one of them days, you know – got through about thirty punters in an afternoon, one in, one out. Best take in ages. By the time I got home I was nearly dead on me feet! So I get into bed next to Arthur and tell him the day’s take – and he was ever so pleased. More than pleased. It gets him all frisky, hands runnin’ all over me, sayin’ ooh you’re a clever gel, and this, that and the other . . . ’nuff to make you blush. I told him to give over and let me get some kip. D’you know what the twit said?’

  Madeleine tipped her head slightly, not daring to guess.

  ‘He props hisself on his elbow and switches on the bedside light. Then he stares at me, all solemn like, and says, “What’s the matter? Are you seein’ another feller, then?”’ At this she threw her head back and let loose a throaty cackle. Madeleine couldn’t help joining in, though it wasn’t the story that tickled her so much as Rita’s exuberant delight in telling it.

  ‘So ’ow’s things at the Elysian?’ said Rita, recovering herself.

  ‘Oh, you know,’ said Madeleine, picking up Rita’s own shorthand.

  ‘Roddy keepin’ you busy, I s’pose. How long you been an escort now?’

  ‘Um, a little while. Since April.’

  Rita looked searchingly at her. ‘You mind my askin’, Maddy – j’ever do one of ’em at home? A punter, I mean.’

  Madeleine shook her head.
‘No. I wouldn’t want to.’

  ‘Roddy don’t mention it, then? Could make y’self a lot more bunce if you did.’

  Madeleine thought carefully before replying. The thought of punters at her own place appalled her, but she didn’t want to say as much for fear of giving offence to her friend. If Rita wanted to do thirty men in an evening that was her business – but it wasn’t something she could do herself, and she didn’t want Roddy or anyone else telling her that she should.

  ‘I don’t have your energy, Rita,’ she said, which was at least true.

  Rita responded with a sardonic chuckle, and took a sip of her port and lemon. Madeleine was on gin. Some moments passed in silence, then Rita said, ‘You know Alice, don’tcha?’

  ‘Alice . . . you mean the girl with the odd –?’

  Rita nodded at Madeleine’s uncertain look. ‘Yeah, that one.’

  ‘D’you know what’s wrong with her?’

  ‘Apart from bein’ half crazed on drugs, nothin’ a miracle wouldn’t cure.’

  ‘Drugs?’

  ‘Wakey-wakey pills. Amphetamines, they’re called. You think I’ve got energy – that one can do forty, fifty, in a night!’

  Madeleine pictured Alice now, a rake-thin blonde about her own age whose jokey, high-pitched chatter, amusing for a few minutes, would then wear the listener down. It was like having to deal with a clever but restless child; a little of her company went a long way.

  ‘Anyway, she wanted to talk to you,’ Rita added.

  ‘To me? Why?’

  ‘I could hardly tell – you know what she’s like. Gabbled through some story about a punter she was out with. Seems this feller was askin’ after a girl called Madeleine . . .’

  Her immediate thought was: Tom. She’d been feeling guilty about him ever since she left the party that night with Nina. She ought to have offered an apology at least, even if she couldn’t explain to him why she had to go. He was a nice fellow, gentle, possibly a bit lonely – one of those queers who didn’t really get on with other queers and preferred female friendship. In the end she had rung his office number, but instead of him answering it was another man – the famous ‘Jimmy’, she presumed – whose tone was loud and brusque, and she rang off without leaving a message.