For Love or Money

by Tim Jeal

  She went into the hall and phoned for a taxi. She’d only be a quarter of an hour late. Perhaps ten minutes if the man hurried.

  The door bell rang and she ran down the stairs. She gave the driver the address and asked him to hurry. Soon they were speeding past South Kensington Underground Station. He was doing so well she’d give him a really good tip.

  *

  David jumped down from the railings. He was alone in the empty park. He could make out in the darkness the outline of the children’s swings and slide. When he’d been ten or twelve he’d come to London for three weeks with his mother. They had come to be near his dying grandmother … there had never been times for walks, but once or twice they had come to Kensington Gardens. He’d wanted to try the slide then but his mother had said that the other children looked too rough. He started to walk in the direction of the playground. More railings; he swiftly put a foot into the slot above the lock on the gate and pulled the other foot on to the top between the spikes. Another second and he’d be down. He jumped, there was a sharp ripping noise … hell … oh well, it didn’t matter … only a small tear in his trousers … He climbed to the top of the slide and let himself go. It didn’t seem as long as it had looked from a distance … might try the miniature roundabout. Holding on to one of the bars, he started running round … ought to be fast enough now; he leapt on and lay back on top of the the thing. He held on with his feet hitched under the rim of the round metal boss in the centre. He let his head hang down right over the edge. As his hair streamed, he looked out behind him, the lights of the park merged in an unbroken line as he spun around. The trees, too, lost their individuality, their irregularities destroyed; the lights of the houses on the edge of the park had tails like shooting-stars. It would be much easier to see people like that … perhaps that was why George and his mother drank. Hello, good-bye … hello, good-bye … no need to say anything else. No features … only blurred faces … no knowledge of secrets …

  Alone, the only person in two square miles of empty park, David felt suddenly a god. What could any of those millions of people sitting down to supper behind those flashing lights mean to him? What possible effect could they have on him. This must be what it’s like to be God … just passing lights. How could fate or destiny care about the acts of these faceless millions? The roundabout was slowing down and as it did so the magic disappeared. Far above him David could make out the red and green lights of an aeroplane. He got off and walked a few giddy steps, one of the multitude again. How many counties could the pilot see? He thought of Crofts and Chadwick, Miss Price and Andrew Matthews. All of them confined in Devonshire and here was he answerable to nobody by himself in London. He felt the same irresponsible freedom that he had experienced on the train. What did it matter when he got back to the flat? He wouldn’t go back now … he’d buy himself a dinner first. He had a pound and his ticket back to Devonshire was already paid. He climbed out of the playground and started in the direction of The Round Pond and Gloucester Road. And on those far-off walks with his mother he had watched other children sailing boats, but it had been the kites that had really fascinated him. One afternoon he had sat near a quiet white-haired man, sitting in a deck-chair holding a large reel of twine in his lap. Occasionally he had let the reel spin out more twine. The kite was almost invisible, a tiny speck of red in all that blue, far above the week-end crowded park. The picture was still frozen for him like a lantern slide. Why did somebody so old still fly kites? David had looked at him more carefully as though the answer might be externally apparent. But his face gave away nothing. Perhaps it was the freedom of the kite … its escape from all the people below. Perhaps his thoughts passed up the string like bits of paper until he was almost there too. At last David had dared ask a question,

  ‘How far away is it?’

  ‘Over Hyde Park Corner I expect.’ The old man smiled a secret personal smile.

  ‘If you cut the string would it go on for ever?’

  ‘I’m afraid it would fall straight down.’

  *

  Freedom … David walked on thinking … it was all very complicated. He was beginning to feel cold and hungry … there had to be people.

  He found a snack bar near the main gates of the Gardens. Egg, bacon and chips seemed a good idea. After supper he’d look for the flat.

  *

  Sally stood outside the door of George’s flat, she pulled a small mirror out of her bag and looked at herself … not bad; she patted a few stray wisps of hair back into place and rang the bell.

  ‘I thought I wasn’t going to be able to come …’ She let her bag slip and ran into his arms.

  George disengaged himself and shut the door.

  ‘Well, you don’t appear to be at all surprised … aren’t you going to ask me why I very nearly couldn’t come?’ She knew he liked it when she pretended to be cross. She slipped out of her coat and let it fall to the floor in a blue heap.

  ‘I always like you when you pout … anyway you’re here and that’s all that matters.’

  As George led her into the sitting-room Sally forgot about her sister and her grief which she had thought of telling him about. She walked across the room in front of him; before she reached a chair he patted her tight little bottom. She sat down and gave him her most virginal smile. George looked at her … the little minx … but she seemed better-looking than he could remember her ever having been. There really was no denying it, he was a lucky devil … why, there’d be any number of younger fellows who would give their eyes for a girl like her. Across the room she was sitting primly in her arm-chair with her legs neatly tucked up under her.

  Most of the decorations in the flat had been chosen by Sally. The dove-grey carpet, the lilac curtains, the unostentatiously patterned wall-paper, even the pictures—mostly flower prints—had been chosen by her. Sally looked around her; perhaps it was a little effeminate for a man’s flat but it must be a pleasant change for him after home. She had visions of smoke-filled rooms and open fires, hunting horns on the walls. It might all be very grand in a large house with the huge portraits and everything but it couldn’t be homely really. How could that woman who had spent all her life in draughty mansions know anything about the snug intimacy of the ideal-flat interior? Of course, she’d had to be very careful to see that everything was tasteful. Men like George expected that. Not that she would have wanted a musical cocktail cabinet or anything like that, not really anyway. And he’d shown how much he had liked it all by buying a lovely set of white-painted imitation Chippendale chairs, with blue velvet seats to go with the carpet.

  Sally’s father had been crushed to death in a munitions factory during the war. She had been eight at the time. Her mother had gone out charring to support her family, so Sally had been left with her two brothers all day during school holidays. They had ignored her with ruthless efficiency. This, combined with the assault of a slightly older boy at school, had left her frightened of men in her own age group. True, her broken engagement had been to a man of twenty-five, but that was probably why it hadn’t worked out. And although one didn’t like to be at all snobby, he hadn’t been a real gentleman. Dick had been so inexperienced and fumbling somehow … no assurance or poise. He’d never known about the right sort of restaurants. One time they’d driven around Soho for almost an hour before he’d seen one he liked the look of, and then it had been little better than a snack bar. It had been so embarrassing too when they’d gone to smart places; he never knew how much to tip and once asked for Nuits St. Georges thinking it was a white wine. George had laughed like anything when she told him that. But it wasn’t really funny, it was a bit sad. And Dick was so mean too … he wasn’t doing badly but he still lived with his mother … at his age living with one’s mother … All because he was mean … On one of the few occasions that they ate at a really exotic club, she’d ordered smoked salmon with scampi to follow and after that coq au vin … said he wasn’t hungry and didn’t want more than ravioli and coffee.

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nbsp; George had gone out into the kitchen to fix up dinner … he hadn’t told her what they were having … it was to be a surprise … He really was sweet … it was probably because he had seen so much of life. He had fought in the war and been wounded. He’d lived with a demanding older woman and looked after her and understood her children. Only a man of real nobility would have sacrificed his life for a woman like that … why, he’d told her that pity alone kept him with her now. How he must have suffered; if only she could make up for it. Only a gentleman … But she wasn’t ashamed of her humble origins. She’d had to work, mind you, and there was nothing to be ashamed of in that. One had to work if one was going to be able to leave all that behind … not every little tuppeny-halfpenny shop girl would have been able to attract a man like that … be able to talk to him. But she’d done pretty well for herself … personal secretary to the managing director of a large department store meant a good deal of responsibility. Breaking with her mother had been difficult. That was the trouble with definite ties … one long sacrifice.

  She finished the remains of her drink and went over to the drinks cupboard to get herself another.

  No, the present arrangement was the best possible … limited domesticity without any rows. If you see somebody twelve times a year you’re not likely to quarrel. She did see others every now and then … and yet George was very close … almost a father … rather a naughty one.

  George was standing in the doorway.

  ‘Dinner is served, madam,’ he bowed obsequiously. Then, coming over to her chair, he ran a hand over her knees and under her skirt. He reached the smooth warm skin above the stocking tops and playfully tweaked the suspender so that it slapped back on to her leg.

  ‘Naughty … butler’s don’t do that sort of thing I’m sure,’ she pouted. But there was nothing crude about the way he did things like that. He made it seem so natural.

  George withdrew his hand quickly … no point in getting worked up with dinner still to be eaten. The advantage of having it twelve times a year was that when the time came, my God one wanted it. If she knew what it was like to feel such lust … if only … He watched her walk over to the door in front of him; couldn’t be enlarged prostate at his age but the thought of that silky skin moving, rubbing under her skirt made his breath catch and produced an almost painful ache in his chest.

  Ridiculous … almost middle-aged and with a none-too-hidden paunch. Not much to do with love … too blunted he thought sadly … they say it isn’t the same without love, must be the most enormous confidence trick ever to keep adolescents off it. In an hour he would be in the warm hutch of lust and forgetfulness … or something pretty near it. Not bad that ‘warm hutch of forgetfulness’ and yet it was damned difficult to forget entirely … must be too practical, too aware of consequences. But who the hell would be able to forget … when even the bed one was sleeping on was paid for by her. Everywhere he looked she was there in some material manifestation. In a life like mine the shackles are always there. Even in my arms she is Sally White from The Fulham Bazaars and I am George and getting fat and tomorrow will be Sunday with fatter papers.

  He sat down at the table in front of the lobster salad he had prepared. The single candle in the centre of the table cast sparkling reflections on the dark polished surface.

  ‘His lordship’s being very quiet this evening. Can I join in?’

  ‘I was thinking about the warm hutch of forgetfulness …’

  ‘You sound just like a book … Did you make it up?’

  She was so unspoilt, so spontaneous … George didn’t feel that he could boast…

  ‘Read it in some magazine I think.’ How many men would have sacrificed the reward of merited admiration?

  ‘Oh, the lobster is good, it really is …’ She leant across the table intimately. Her words seemed wrapped in a seductive softness. How well she had done her hair and that frilly dress … takes one back a bit. Suddenly he had an idea, he got up and walked over to the sideboard. From the bowl of roses there he picked out a particularly dark-red bloom and breaking off the stalk near the top came up behind her.

  ‘Shut your eyes,’ he murmured; she obeyed. Deftly he slipped the rose into the soft hollow between her small breasts. She opened her eyes and looked down modestly.

  ‘You are in a funny mood tonight.’

  ‘Staid old George can get up to some pretty good tricks, eh? … You wouldn’t think it, but I once got a bit tight and pretended to commit suicide to scare them all.’ He sat back and nodded as though with satisfaction.

  ‘You never … I mean, they must have gone off their heads … Weren’t they hopping mad when they discovered?’

  ‘No, they took it pretty well. You should have seen Ruthie … cried like a baby … I can tell you, there’s been no trouble since then.’

  If only fiction could become fact. Still at least Sally would never know. There she was only a couple of feet away … Her skin above the black dress looked brilliantly white, emphasised by the deep colour of the rose. Just like an old-fashioned Valentine with the lace and the rose. Her arms looked like the slender limbs of a young girl … Must have had too much wine, getting maudlin … George jerked himself back to reality with the sudden awareness of a young and naked body beneath her dress. Not even that could entirely blot out Ruth and Trelawn, but they certainly seemed further away.

  In the sitting-room with Sally on his knee they had drifted still further. As his lips touched her grape-smooth cheek and the circle of her surrounding fragrance overwhelmed him, he forgot. The soft pastel shades of the room seemed infinitely restful and delicate. The warmth of the fire kissed the dove-grey carpet; the lilac curtains blotted out the street.

  *

  Ten minutes must have passed … George heard the incongruous jangling of the door bell from another world. Would he answer it? There might have been an accident in the street … a fire in another flat … no alternative. Sally got up from his knee …

  ‘Won’t be a moment.’

  The Angel of Death would have been more welcome to George than the sight before him. He started back as though from the deadliest of vipers. Where was Moses now …?

  The street lamps gave off a dim light but this spectre was all too apparently human. David’s breath came in small steamy clouds clearly visible in the cold night air. David smiled.

  ‘I didn’t like to telephone because …’

  In a flash of apocalyptic light George saw what had to be done … the only thing … his breath came more easily … the stone in his stomach weighed less. His legs were no longer wax under a tropical sun. He was aware of the existence of his tongue again.

  ‘You must be famished … long journey … nice little pub round the corner … ham sandwiches … back in a minute … wait here.’

  ‘But I’ve just eaten and anyway I’m under age for pubs. I can’t drag you out at this hour of night having just turned up on you without a word. If I can just come in for a moment I’ll explain …’

  David looked at George with alarm … he had obviously been drinking. It really was just his luck to have come on one of his nights. He went on anxiously:

  ‘It’s all quite simple, you see …’

  ‘Of course it’s simple … now look, no nonsense … I know you haven’t eaten … just being polite … no need for that … I’ll be back …’

  George floundered back into the flat through a wall of water … at last he saw the sitting-room door.

  ‘Behind the sofa … disaster … no time … I’ll … later .. you can come out when you hear the door,’ he whispered incoherently.

  He’d left open the flat door. He saw the sitting-room door was open too. She was about to speak … how loud? … must stop her. She was standing a good six feet away … nothing for it. He dived towards her and caught his foot on the edge of one of the white Chippendale chairs. The thick dove-grey carpet absorbed a good deal of the noise, but not all.

  She was struggling fiercely as they both hit the ground …
George got a hand over her mouth. He started to drag her behind the sofa. She was kicking out viciously with her high-heeled shoes. One of them flew off, narrowly missing his head. He pinned her down safely out of sight. Her eyes were wide with horror. He must have gone mad. Oh God … George was hissing at her with a finger over his mouth, then he was whispering again.

  ‘He’s here … outside … here … stay … I’ll explain … later.’

  Sally obeyed with the blind terror of an animal hypnotised with fear. George emerged from behind the sofa still on his hands and knees. He felt desperately weak. Suddenly he saw the shoe in the middle of the floor. With the last supreme effort he hurled himself on top of it. He looked up just as David appeared in the doorway.

  ‘I heard a noise so I thought you must have fallen down … and when you didn’t come back I felt I’d better …’

  David’s alarm redoubled as he saw George writhing across the floor evidently trying to reach an arm-chair.

  There was one thought in George’s mind: he had to get rid of the shoes under a chair. With his back to David he managed to do so undiscovered.

  He might be having a fit … what did one do when people had fits? But George made a miraculous recovery. He was on his feet again. David saw a nasty-looking cut on his forehead; he must have done it when he fell. He’d never seen him so bad before.

  ‘Are there any bandages in the house?’

  ‘About that little pub … really very close … a bit of elastoplast and I’ll be fine.’

  ‘No,’ said David with authority. ‘You’ve had a great deal too much already.’

  George sank into an arm-chair and fired his last shot: ‘Well, if you won’t let me have a little brandy at the pub you’ll have to go to the all-night chemists at Piccadilly Circus and get me a sedative. I’ll never sleep otherwise.’

  David was shaking his head. Quite suddenly George was crying; the effort, the shock, the pain, the indignity had all overcome him. What was there left? He felt himself the prisoner in the dock just before the black cap is put on. Nothing could save him now. If only it could all be over. The tears had stopped.