31st Of February

by Julian Symons

  “Haven’t we got a date for tonight?”

  “We haven’t. I’m busy.”

  “What about a drink?”

  “I’m sorry. I told you I’m busy.”

  There was another pause. “I want to see you, Andy.”

  Somebody opened the door. “All right,” Anderson said. “I’ll come in in five minutes.”

  “Am I interrupting something?” Wyvern asked. “I can come back.”

  Anderson waved him to a chair. “Not a bit. What’s on your mind?”

  “I dunno. Bloody old Hey Presto, I suppose. What do you think of that scheme? Tell me honestly, if there’s any honesty among account executives. I’ve got the boys working on half a dozen different ways of presenting that face in the shaving mirror idea, but they all look pretty corny to me.

  “Ours not to reason why,” Anderson said absently. Was he mistaken in finding something strange about Wyvern, a suppressed excitement in his manner, a hint of uncomfortable revelations about to be made? Wyvern’s long legs in corduroy trousers were stretched out against the carpet, his lopsided smile seemed to have a special meaningfulness. Anderson slipped his right hand into his jacket pocket. The telephone rang. He pulled out the letter and placed it on the desk, looking all the time at Wyvern.

  “Switchboard, Mr Anderson. Mrs Fletchley’s in conference. They’ll tell her you’re in the office as soon as she comes out.”

  “There’s another thing,” Wyvern said as Anderson put down the receiver. “Do you know where VV got his bright idea from that he’s thought up all of a sudden? I’ve found the identical layout presentation – face in mirror, product name up above and slogan below – in an old Saturday Evening Post, used by Topmost Shaving Creams. What do you know, eh? Doesn’t it stink?”

  “We all know there’s nothing new.” Anderson began to play with the sheet of blue writing paper on which Val’s letter was written, curling it up in his fingers and uncurling it, looking steadily at Wyvern.

  “Nothing new – it’s bloody well dishonest, and you know it.”

  “Dishonest – come now.” Anderson opened out the letter carefully and began curling it the other way.

  “Perhaps it’s not in a way – I know what you mean, old cock. You mean VV probably doesn’t realize his own dishonesty; it’s just something that’s stayed in his mind. And you’re quite right, of course; if there’s one thing advertising men do better than taking in the public it’s taking in them-selves. This whole bloody hullabaloo shows that.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Why, nobody but an advertising agent would believe this story about a magic cream extracted from the juice of whatever it is. That stinks, too. Don’t tell me there isn’t something phoney about Mr Divenga. With that beard!”

  “But –” Anderson raised the letter coiled round one finger and tapped his smooth chin with it. The house telephone rang. Molly’s voice said: “Five minutes, remember?”

  “When I’m free.” He put it down.

  “I know, I know,” Wyvern said amiably. “Don’t tell me. It works. It’s the most revolutionary etcetera that homo sapiens has ever invented to ease his spirit in the era of the atom bomb. I see it. But I still don’t believe it.” During all this time Wyvern had not appeared to notice the letter in Anderson’s hand. Now he suddenly said, almost with embarrassment:

  “What the devil are you doing with that bit of paper, Andy?” Anderson hesitated for only a second. “That bit of paper, as you call it, is a letter from Val.”

  “A letter from Val!” Wyvern stared and then said:

  “Poor old Val. It was a damned shame; the sort of thing that makes you wonder what life’s all about. You know what – I was remembering only the other day that silly toast we used to drink.”

  “Shorter days – longer nights.”

  “That’s right.” The suppressed excitement had gone from Wyvern’s manner, if it had ever been there. He now looked simply uneasy. “Forgive me for saying so, Andy, but it’s no use harking back. We all do it, I know. I often wonder what would have happened to me if I’d left home when I was twenty-one. My mother wasn’t bedridden then, and I could have done it. If I had done – but you see it’s no use harking back. Get rid of memories, destroy letters, otherwise they haunt you.”

  “Haunt you?”

  “When I was out in the desert I used to look up at the stars and think about my mother, make decisions about what I’d do when I got back. I was going to leave home and make her an allowance. I was going to get out of advertising for good. And there you are – look at me now.”

  Anderson was not listening. “This letter arrived yesterday morning,” he said.

  “Yesterday morning! But, Andy, Val died more than three weeks ago.”

  “That’s exactly what I’m getting at. I found this letter on my desk yesterday morning.”

  At last he had spoken out, and for the first time he had told another human being the incredible truth. The moment remained in Anderson’s memory through a pattern of colours. The green carpet, the brown panelling on the walls, Wyvern’s stone-coloured corduroy trousers, the white hands resting on them that tightly pressed his knees. He felt, with a kind of triumph, the tension in the room. Something significant had happened, something more significant still would happen in a moment, a gesture would be made or a word spoken that had the quality of a revelation.

  The house telephone rang. Molly. He snatched at it and shouted: “I said when I’m free.”

  “This is Rev here, Andy. You sound het up.”

  “I’m sorry, Rev. I thought—”

  “That’s all right. I know you’re up to the eyes. Can you come in just for a minute? It’s just a little job to be done.”

  “Right away.”

  He replaced the receiver, and the moment had gone. Wyvern was standing up, a long thin figure looking down with the oddest expression on his face. “I wanted to know if you had any other Hey Presto ideas we could work on, but we can talk about it some other time.” He stopped at the door and said: “If I were you I’d forget all about that letter. I wouldn’t tell anyone else about it.”

  When Anderson left his room to go in to see Rev he heard the sharp rings of the house telephone, but he did not go back. The little job that Reverton wanted done was, as he had said, only a little job: what he had omitted to say was that it was a job he was supposed to do himself. The job was connected with the Crunchy-Munch account. Vincent’s had obtained the Crunchy-Munch advertising on the strength of a slogan invented by VV: “First you Crrrunch it Then you Munch it – that’s CRUNCHY – MUNCH.” This slogan, with a few variations, had been the basis of Crunchy-Munch advertising for several years. Now they had suddenly become dissatisfied with it; and although every bar of Crunchy-Munch was sold on the chocolate ration, they had begun to worry about the effect of the advertising on their sales when sweets were unrationed. “Shall we be ready to go full steam ahead,” the Crunchy-Munch advertising manager had asked, in one of those metaphors favoured by all advertising men, when we get the green light?” He was paid a handsome salary for worrying about such things, and it was customary to send him a yearly memorandum, which had become a sophistical exercise in evolving theories about the effect of various advertising approaches on the techniques of sweet-selling, if it ever became necessary to sell sweets. The purpose of this memorandum was to give the Crunchy-Munch advertising manager something to occupy his time, and also to present a picture of the situation which implied both that a continual jockeying was taking place for future leadership in the confectionery field, and that in this race Crunchy-Munch, thanks to the mental agility of their advertising agents, were always leading by a quarter of a length. This year, however, the memorandum would be a little different; it would have to justify the new scheme which was to be discussed the following morning. Reverton suggested that, since Anderson was in charge of the new scheme, he should write the memorandum, too. “It’s not the kind of job I like to delegate,” Reverton said with a s
hake of his square sensible head, “but I’ve got so much on my plate I think I’ll just have to. Anyway, you’re right on top of the new scheme, Andy; you’re the man to write the memo.” Reverton paused and added casually: “By the way, what is the new scheme?”

  “We’re putting up two ideas.” Reverton raised his eyebrows. “One’s Lessing’s and one’s mine. The studio is working on them now. They’ll be on the table tomorrow, for you and VV.”

  “Two schemes, eh? Differences of viewpoint?” Reverton said mildly.

  “Just two ways of presenting it. When will you want the memorandum finished?”

  “If we pass the scheme through tomorrow, Andy, early next week for the memo. Can do?”

  “I suppose so. I don’t know when I’m supposed to work on Hey Presto.”

  Better hand it back, then, if you haven’t got time for it. Mustn’t let anything stand in the way of Hey Presto. I was going to give you the dope, but it can stay here.” Something in the way in which Reverton tapped the papers on his desk, the readiness with which his own mild grumble had been accepted, seemed curious to Anderson. He felt, with no obvious reason, that he had fallen into a trap.

  “That’s all right,” he said; “I’ll manage.”

  “Grand. Weight off my mind.” Reverton handed over the papers with a smile and tamped the tobacco in his pipe thoughtfully. Anderson felt, as he had done a few minutes ago with Wyvern that there had been a sudden drop in the emotional temperature. There had been a moment of crisis, and now it was over; but the nature of the crisis baffled him. He expected, nevertheless, that Reverton would pursue the subject of the memorandum, so that the next remark took him completely by surprise.

  “What do you think of Charlie Lessing?”

  Anderson quite frankly stared. “Charlie Lessing? As a copywriter, you mean?”

  “All round. There’s more to being a copywriter than writing copy; you know that.” He waited expectantly.

  Anderson said: “I don’t know just what you want me to say. He’s good at classy copy, stuff with plenty of snob appeal, not so hot when something down to earth is wanted.” He ended almost with a question. Reverton puffed away at his pipe.

  “A nice chap, is he? Easy to get on with?”

  “I get on with him. Some don’t – think he’s a bit superior. Why?”

  “One just likes to keep a finger on the pulse,” Reverton said with quite uncustomary vagueness. “Harmonious running and all that. So you’ll tackle that memorandum after our meeting tomorrow.”

  Anderson said he would tackle the memorandum. Back in his own room he found Jean Lightley and Molly O’Rourke. Jean was standing guard over the two letters he had asked her to type; Molly was at the window, staring out at the figures on the other side of the well, moving about in their little lighted boxes. She looked round as Anderson came into the room, and then turned her back to him and stared again out of the window.

  “Your letters,” Jean said.

  Anderson looked at his watch. “You could have signed them yourself. It’s late.”

  “I thought perhaps – that one to Mr Crashaw – you’d like to look at it.”

  “You’re quite right.” He signed the letter to Bagseed, and then read the one to Crashaw. It was strong, but not too strong. He signed it. “By hand.”

  “Oh yes, Mr Anderson.” She brought out hesitantly:

  “Mrs Fletchley rang through and spoke to me. She’s had to go out and you can’t reach her. She’ll be at a party later on this evening – at the Pollexfens’, she said. She said it was something important.”

  Anderson looked at Molly’s hostile back. “The Pollexfens’ yes; thank you, Jean.” She went out. Without turning round Molly said: “Five minutes.”

  Anderson put down the Crunchy-Munch papers and said with elaborate patience: “I told you I was busy.”

  “Too busy to come in and see me.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Too busy to see me tonight.”

  “That’s right.”

  “But not…” Since Molly was standing with her back to him, addressing the window, Anderson could not hear her.

  “If you’d turn round,” he said, and at that she turned round and showed tears running down either side of her great nose. Her voice was choked.

  “Not too busy to see Elaine Fletchley.”

  “I haven’t seen Elaine.”

  “You’ve been trying to see her. Ringing her up.”

  The tears blotched Molly’s powder. Anderson contemplated her with distaste. “You know why I want to see her. I asked you last night if Val had an especial boy friend. Now I’m going to ask Elaine.”

  “Why?”

  Suddenly Anderson’s control left him. He smacked the desk lightly with the palm of his hand. “Because Valerie was somebody’s mistress.”

  “So what?”

  “And it was somebody in this firm.” Now, Anderson thought, I’ve done it; the cat’s really out of the bag. But to his surprise Molly seemed not to find the news exciting.

  “What does it matter? She’s dead. It won’t bring her back. And anyway, you never loved her.” Molly dabbed at her eyes. “I must look awful. I’m making a fool of myself. I’ve never met a man who didn’t give me a runaround. And do you know another thing – I’ve never failed to come back for more. I’m a fool that’s all, I’m a fool.” She began to cry again, weakly and without conviction. Anderson picked up the Crunchy-Munch papers again, and pretended to study them. “You don’t want to make love to me.”

  “Not at this moment, thank you.”

  “You don’t even want to kiss me?”

  She tottered toward him on her high heels. “Give me a kiss to show you don’t hate me.”

  “For God’s sake, Molly, we’re in the office.”

  “It’s time to go home. Everybody’s going home. Nobody will come in. Just one kiss.”

  “Very well.” Anderson got up and advanced toward her round the desk. Her nose at this distance, and under harsh electric light, was revealed as one of ghastly shape and size, almost like a false nose put on for a charade. Was it possible, if one kissed her, to avoid a jarring contact with that forward and hunting proboscis? It appeared not; and yet it had been possible, no later than last night. Very gingerly Anderson’s lips approached the tear-ravaged face. Reluctantly he felt the warmth of her body against his own. He closed his eyes, like a child about to drink medicine, and thus he did not see Molly’s withdrawal from him, but simply felt it in terms of decreased warmth. He opened his eyes again. Molly was staring past him. He turned round and saw VV standing in the doorway, hatted, overcoated, staring at them.

  6

  At one moment VV was standing there before Anderson’s astonished eyes. In the next moment, without speaking he was gone. Had he really been there at all? With vigorous gesture Anderson pushed Molly away from him and opened the door. He ran down the corridor in time to see the door of VV’s room close and present to him so blank an oak face that he was moved by the kind of fear he had known in childhood when he had been found out in wrongdoing and had been locked in his room, not, as his mother impressed on him, as a punishment, but so, that he could “think it out.” He felt at those times a weight of guilt that could be dispersed only by contact with the judge, his mother, even though when he saw her he had nothing to say. So now, with the sense of betrayal strong upon him, he felt it essential to see VV. He crossed the landing, tapped on VV’s door gently and entered.

  The bright, inquisitive, intelligent face that was turned toward him seemed wholly friendly; it showed no consciousness of having witnessed that scene in Anderson’s office a moment ago, no recollection of that appalling luncheon. Anderson felt again, as he had felt several times in the past forty-eight years, that the events in his life somehow failed to be interconnected, as events should be in a life properly organized and rational; the happenings of yesterday, the errors of luncheon, the visit to Miss Stepley’s establishment, seemed to bear no relation to what was
happening here and now. Had these things really happened? If they had, Anderson thought, they must be on the tip of VV’s tongue; they will surely be mentioned. But VV, instead, presented him with two thumbs triumphantly raised. “New World Cooler,” he said. “Everything went like a dream. Approved this, approved that, approved the other – only two small copy revisions. Lessing’s scheme, wasn’t it? Well, it’s very good work. Congratulations all round are in order. Copy, Studio – even the man who took it up and sold it to them takes a bow.” Gracefully VV bowed, and added solemnly: “It’s times like these – intelligent scheme, intelligent client, no squabbling – that make one feel advertising is worth while.” He looked at his watch and showed a rare trace of nervousness. “What are you doing for dinner tonight? Can you come back with me? Belsize Park, you know. Only en famille – but it’s rather an occasion in a way. And we should have time for a talk.” With an upward look, humorous and shy, he said: “We ought to have a talk, you know.”

  Anderson had dined once before with VV and his wife, but that had been in a restaurant. Was it a mark of favour to be asked to dine with him at home? While he was pondering this point, VV said with a small intimate smile: “Better get your hat and coat. And get rid of your – visitor.”

  “I’d like you to understand, it’s—”

  “Not another word. I do understand, my boy. I understand perhaps better than you think.”

  Molly was still in Anderson’s room. She looked at him as if he were a stranger. “Where are you going?”

  Anderson put on his overcoat. “I’m invited out to dinner with the boss.”

  She continued to stare at him. “There’s been a telephone call. It was a policeman named Cresse. He wanted to know if you’d be at home tonight. I told him I didn’t think you would. He said he’d call anyway.”

  “That was absolutely right.” Anderson adjusted his black hat at a jaunty angle. “Did he say anything else?”

  “He said that the air was unhealthy in Melian Street. He said you’d understand.”

  VV’s high spirits were gradually dissipated on the way out to Belsize Park. In the underground train they were packed as close as tinfoil, and he talked about travelling conditions. “I admire,” he said loudly to Anderson as they swayed on the same strap, “the enormous capacity of modern man for endurance. But it’s unhealthy. The real, healthy thing is the capacity for rebellion. I don’t see any sign of that around us.” His waving hand, with a large parcel in it, described a small part of a semicircle and then was stopped by contact with a bulky figure in dungarees. The figure glared. VV glared back, but he stopped talking. After they got out at Belsize Park he was monosyllabic, and they trudged up Haverstock Hill in silence. Then VV said: “Marriage is a terrible thing.”