31st Of February

by Julian Symons

  “My wife? Yes.” Was this, Anderson wondered, the prelude to a confession?

  “She had gaiety. That’s a great quality in a woman. My wife, now – she lacks it. Never well, you know. A nervous condition. The doctor can’t find a cure for it.” VV spoke with a touch of pride. He leaned forward and said gently, almost lovingly: “Why don’t you take a holiday, Andy?”

  “You haven’t eaten your nutmeat? Didn’t you like it?” the waitress asked accusingly. Anderson shook his head. “It’s very good for you. What sweet, please? Prune mould is recommended.” They ordered prune mould.

  “A holiday,” Anderson said vaguely, and then: “You called her Val.”

  “That was only a manner of speaking. I hardly knew her, of course. You need a holiday, Andy; you’re not looking the thing. Let the office do without you for a couple of weeks.”

  “Did she ever write to you? You’d know her handwriting if you saw it, wouldn’t you?”

  VV’s spoon dipped into a confection of a purplish colour and blancmangish texture with a strip of arsenical green running along its spine, and then was carefully put down. “I don’t understand you. What are you trying to say? I’m telling you that you need a holiday, Andy. Don’t make it too hard for me.”

  As though he were outside his own body, Anderson could hear his voice, shrill: “What do you mean?”

  “It’s being talked about. You’re losing your grip – only temporarily, of course, but people get to notice. There was something Rev told me about a desk calendar—”

  “Rev? That snake?” Anderson cried. He heard himself and was appalled. “You want to get me out of the way, is that it? And what about the letters?”

  “The letters?”

  “You’d send them on, I suppose, Post Restante. But I’m not going. You can put them on my desk as usual. There’s nothing wrong with my work. This is Rev’s plot to get rid of me.”

  VV was trying to be jocular, not very successfully. “Hold on now, Andy. I’m a democrat, but remember Rev’s on the board. If there’s anything you want to talk over, let’s talk about it sensibly.”

  “A plot,” Anderson shrieked. His outswept arm jerked the glass dish containing his own prune mould to the floor. The purplish mould mingled with the red carpet. There could be no doubt that they had attracted attention. One or two of the women were talking urgently to their companions. There was a flurry at the end of the room. The brick-red waitress was hurrying up to them. At the next table a young man writhed round in his chair and asked politely: “Were you asking for a clergyman?” Anderson stood up. Below him and, it seemed, small, as if seen through the wrong end of a telescope, VV’s face stared in astonishment and distress. The waitress confronted him, a solid wall of flesh, her face redder than before with annoyance. “You haven’t eaten–” she began. Anderson stepped aside to avoid her and his heel crunched on the glass dish. Pushing aside her statuesque body so that she staggered across a table, he ran out of the restaurant.

  4

  Few interesting or reliable statistics are as yet available regarding the course of mental breakdown. We can chart with certainty the thought patterns only of those unfortunate people who are incarcerated, more or less permanently, in mental homes; but these are extreme cases, and they must surely be unsafe guides to the psychopathological conduct in which every human being now and then indulges. Anderson’s conduct in the restaurant was, beyond doubt, irrational; but it was the result of extreme emotional pressure, and it would not be safe to make assumptions from it about his future behaviour, or about his competence to fulfil his functions in everyday life.

  These reflections passed through Anderson’s mind as he walked aimlessly about the streets of central London, wandering from Tottenham Court Road through Soho, thence down to Piccadilly and into Mayfair. He thought of himself in the third person, so that responsibility for the actions of thin hypothetical Anderson did not concern him. Nevertheless he was concerned, concerned in the sense that he felt a need to trace the illogicality of Anderson’s actions. Such concern led him to ignore the corporeal universe in which he moved and with his mind set on problems which he knew to be insoluble. Anderson’s body cannoned into other bodies, crossed the street against traffic lights, bought a paper and looked at it without noting its contents, and behaved generally like a rudderless boat. Some people when drunk lose all surface knowledge of their intentions, and yet are able to fulfil them. In much the same way Anderson, after an amnesiac interval, found himself standing outside a small hairdresser’s shop in Melian Street, near Shepherd Market.

  There was nothing remarkable in the shop’s appearance. A sign over the door said in letters of faded gold, ANTOINE’S, and in smaller letters LADIES’ AND GENTLEMEN’S HAIRDRESSING. Two flyblown windows offered toothpaste, powder and lipstick. The door was closed, and the pane of glass in it opaque; but Anderson had been here before, and knew what he would find inside. Like an echo, as he stood on the pavement, words came into his mind that he had read long ago: In dreams begin responsibility. He pushed open the door and was in a narrow passage between plywood walls. A door to the left said GENTLEMEN, a door to the right said LADIES, and from behind these doors came the clip of scissors and the murmur of voices. At the end of the passage a young man sat behind a counter on which was displayed shaving cream, toothpaste, face powder and razor blades. The counter, like the front window, was dirty. The young man, on the other hand, was very clean. His dark glossy hair was waved, his nails were manicured, and there were two rings on his fingers. He was playing a game resembling Diabolo, in which he threw up a marble-sized ball and caught it in a small ornamental cup. A spring in the cup released the ball to varying heights, but he invariably caught it. Anderson waited. When the young man had thrown up the ball three times and caught it with unfailing dexterity he gestured toward the counter and said:

  “Was there something?”

  “Lily.” This was the first word Anderson had spoken since leaving the restaurant, and it came out harshly.

  “If you’re wanting flowers you’ll do better round the corner.” Anderson cleared his throat. “My number is MM51. Is Lily free?”

  The boy paused with his fingers on the spring. “Just now she’s busy. Was there anybody else?” Anderson shook his head. “All right, MM51, you said.” He picked up a telephone by his side, spoke into it inaudibly and said: “You know where to wait?” He gestured at a red curtain behind him.

  With his hand on the curtain Anderson paused. “That’s a clever trick. You must have put in a lot of practice.”

  “And where does it get me?” The boy flipped up the ball again. Anderson passed to the other side of the curtain, let it drop behind him and walked upstairs. Miss Stepley met him at the top. She was a neat woman of forty-five with greying hair. She wore a white coat, and looked like a doctor. She said pleasantly: “Lily’s engaged. Will you come into my room? I’m afraid we’re rather busy today.” She opened a door and stood holding the handle. Anderson was about to move past her into the room when he stood still, immobilized by something extraordinary that he saw. It was, at least, Anderson’s impression that he saw this thing: at that moment he believed fully the evidence of his eyes, but perhaps, he thought afterward, he had been mistaken. He was standing on the landing and Miss Stepley was in front of him, holding open the door to her room. A long passage lined with red plush stretched ahead, and the passage was dim, because there were no windows and the only light came from small fittings set into the ceiling. The door of a room just down the passage opened and a girl came out. Anderson had seen her before; her name was Marjorie. She nodded to him as she handed a small card to Miss Stepley and then pushed open a door neatly labelled REST ROOM. That was not the extraordinary sight: but when Marjorie left the room she did not close the door completely, and through the gap a man’s figure was visible. The man sat on the edge of a bed with his hair disarranged. He was engaged in pulling on some full-length underwear, and he looked up, with an expression of annoyance on his
slightly flushed face, at the open door. As the man looked up Anderson saw, for a moment, his face; only for a moment, because Miss Stepley quickly moved across and closed the door. There was nothing extraordinary, either, about seeing a man in that room; the extraordinary thing was the man’s identity. For the man Anderson thought he saw in the room, pulling on winter underwear, was Mr Pile.

  “This way,” Miss Stepley said brightly. Her room contained a large desk, filing cabinets, a table, four spindly chairs. On the wall were a number of machines that looked like time clocks, Miss Stepley looked at the card given her by Marjorie, and pressed a lever on one of the clocks.

  “That looks like a time clock.”

  “It is a time clock. We have one for each of our girls.”

  “Really? That’s a new idea, isn’t it?”

  “Absolutely. After every engagement a girl fills in a card like the one which Marjorie handed to me. It tells us the length of time for which she was engaged. By clocking in on this machine we can tell her working hours each week. By comparing that with fees paid we can also asses her hourly rate of pay. Of course, the recorders reveal a number of other things, too, like peak periods and slack times. We can tell which girls aren’t pulling their weight in the organization.”

  “What happens then?”

  “We warn them. This is a free enterprise organization, and there is no room in it for inefficiency. The customer is always right, and if a girl’s earnings drop it is because she has ignored that elementary fact of economics. If she shows no sign of improvement—

  “You turn her out to look after herself.”

  “Good gracious, no.” Miss Stepley looked shocked. “What do you take us for? This is a business like any other, and we recognize our responsibilities toward our staff. Besides, it is not in our interest that girls should be on the streets in competition with us. No, the organization finds them jobs elsewhere. Girls who have no particular talent in our profession may make excellent assistants behind a shop counter.”

  “Don’t you find that girls ever try to cheat you out of money?”

  “Unhappily, yes,” said Miss Stepley with real distress. “It’s very difficult to obtain a thoroughly satisfactory staff-management relationship. But we obviate that difficulty as far as possible by arranging payment in advance. If, after that, clients still offer gifts to our staff, we can’t stop them doing so. But it is an antisocial practice like tipping, and we hope before long to have educated our clients so that they realize our fee covers a full service from the staff. And by the way” – she ruffled through a card index – “you’re MM51, aren’t you? I see you’ve paid us three guineas on previous occasions. Would you care to —”

  Anderson placed three pound notes and three shillings upon her desk. “Does MM mean anything?”

  Miss Stepley looked up from her cash box and smiled briskly. “Speciality masochism, quality mild.”

  “And everyone’s known by a number?” she nodded. “Then it’s no use asking you who it was I saw through that open door – he’s just a number, too? I thought I knew him for a moment, but I don’t think it can have been the same person.”

  “He is simply a number to us. But in any case it would be a breach of professional ethics to discuss one client with another.”

  “Yes, I suppose so. You seem to have everything excellently organized.”

  “Love is a business like any other,” Miss Stepley said solemnly. “It was high time somebody understood that.”

  “It’s rather unromantic.”

  “But hygienic. Frequent staff inspections are carried out. We deal with reality here. Romance can be left to the women’s magazines.” There was a buzz from the switchboard by Miss Stepley’s side. She put on a pair of headphones. “Yes, Lily. I have another appointment for you. Category MM. Can you receive him?” She smiled brightly at Anderson. “Lily is ready for you now. Room 5.”

  Anderson went along the corridor to his appointment.

  Afterward Lily said: “Ten minutes to spare. Got a fag?” She lay on the bed naked, smoking, a big blonde Cockney girl.

  Anderson passed his hand over his face, which felt slightly numb. He felt empty in mind and body, curiously light-headed. “Do you like it here?”

  “It’s all right. Only, of course, you’re not free like the way you used to be. It’s like living at home.”

  “Really? I should hardly have thought so.”

  “You don’t see what I mean. They’re always going on at you, wanting to do things for your own good. Makes you sick, sometimes. We get three evenings off a week, see, and we have to be back by eleven or our pay packet’s docked. Then there’s the pension scheme – they dock so much for that. Very good it is, but I’d sooner have the money. Then if you ever pick up a man outside there’s trouble if Step gets to know about it. So I generally just go to the pictures with one of the other girls. I love the pictures, don’t you?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “I saw ever such a nice film last week, an old one; it was on at our local fleapit. Mrs Miniver, it was called. Walter Pidgeon and Greer Garson. Have you seen it?”

  “I haven’t, as a matter of fact.”

  “Oh, you ought to. They’re ever such nice people, Mr and Mrs Miniver, and it’s the war you see, and—” Lily’s voice went on. Anderson closed his eyes and wondered why he had come here. What the relation between his urgent bodily need and that awful scene in the restaurant? His mind shied away from thought of the exhibition he had made of himself.

  “—and the planes are flying in formation and they stand watching them from the ruins of the church. That’s the end.”

  Anderson opened his eyes and saw that Lily was crying. “It’s so sad,” she said. “Have you a handkerchief?” She lay on the bed naked with Anderson’s handkerchief to her eyes. As Anderson put on his shirt and trousers and stared down at her, he felt desire for her again. “Lily.”

  She looked at him and then sat up on the bed. “If you want another appointment you’ll have to speak to Step. Time’s up for this one.”

  “No.” Anderson was not sure that he wanted another appointment, and anyway he was not prepared to spend another three guineas. He finished dressing, walked along the corridor and down the stairs. Outside the red curtain the boy was still playing cup and ball. He did not look up as Anderson passed him. In the street Anderson saw a broad-backed bowler-hatted man in front of him. Something about his figure was reminiscent of Inspector Cresse, but the man turned down a side street and when Anderson reached the corner there was no sign of him.

  5

  The time was four o’clock. It was difficult to return to the office, but more difficult not to do so. Anderson looked up at the sign which read VINCENT ADVERTISING VINCENT ADVERTISING VINCENT and settled his black Homburg hat firmly on his head. Then he walked in and the swing doors hissed behind him.

  Upon his table lay the drawings returned from Kiddy Modes and an envelope addressed to him by VV. He tore open the envelope and read in VV’s sprawling hand:

  Andy,

  What was all that about? Come and tell me when you feel like it. Not today – I’m at a conference all afternoon, New World Coolers.

  VV.

  There was a postscript in small writing: “Dare I repeat that you need a holiday?” Anderson laughed. VV was a good chap. He put the note in his pocket, and looked at the drawings.

  Bagseed had made notes upon every one of them in a gentlemanly copperplate hand. “Collar on this jacket won’t do. Refer to model. JB.” “This dress hangs wrongly. Refer to model. JB.” “Neck of frock incorrect as per our discussion. JB.” The drawing with the gym tunic was marked with a large cross and the word “No” simply. This “No” was also initialled “JB.”

  As he looked at Bagseed’s comments Anderson found himself becoming angry, and by the time he had read the curt letter that accompanied them he felt the kind of fury known only to advertising men who think they are being treated unfairly. He called in Jean Lightley and pointe
d to the drawings. “Do you see anything wrong with these?”

  She saw Bagseed’s comments and gasped: “Oh, isn’t he fussy?”

  He is.”

  “Mr Crashaw won’t like making alterations, will he?”

  “He will not. Write to Bagseed and tell him that we have looked at the drawings and cannot agree that they are of a nature to depreciate the class of goods sold by Kiddy Modes. We are, however, having alterations made upon the lines laid down in his instructions. Yours, etcetera. Then write to Crashaw: ‘Dear Crashaw, Kiddy Modes have shot these drawings back at us with comments made and bureaucratically initialled. Out of our many pestilential clients Kiddy Modes are perhaps the most pestilential of all. As far as I can see their criticisms on this occasion, as on others, are incompetent, irrelevant and immaterial, and can hardly blame you if you decide to throw in the sponge on this job. I hope, however, that you’ll feel able to play along with us and make the necessary alterations. We have to take the rough with the smooth as you know, and Kiddy Modes are just about the roughest there is. They demand just about six times as much attention as any other client of their size. If you can help us out on this occasion it will be much appreciated by me. Sincerely.’”

  Miss Lightley murmured, “That’s very strong.”

  “So are my feelings. Get those typed as quickly as you can and send them up by hand.” When she had gone Anderson took Val’s letter out of his pocket, read it again and put it back. The telephone rang and the switchboard operator said:

  “Oh Mr Anderson, Mrs Fletchley, Mrs Elaine Fletchley, rang twice while you were out. She said it was important.”

  “Try and get her for me, will you? at Woman Beautiful” The house telephone rang as he picked up the other receiver. He put it to his ear and said: “Anderson.”

  “O’Rourke.”

  There was a pause. “What do you want?”