by A. J. Cronin
Chapter One
The Irish Mail train was late, causing me to spend almost an hour in the dank beastliness of Euston Station. But at last it came in, the engine puffing and snorting as though it had climbed Snowdon en route. And there was Desmonde walking down the platform, carrying a limp hand bag. We both wanted to embrace, but refrained and shook hands.
‘Is your luggage in the van?’
‘No, I have it here.’
‘Splendid, then we can start from scratch.’
‘Give me your arm, Alec. I’m still rocked in the cradle of the deep.’
‘It was rough? As usual?’
‘Tempestuous.’
I had come to the station by bus, unwilling to throw my possessions in Desmonde’s face. We quickly found a taxi and sat facing each other as we rattled off.
‘You look terribly fit, Alec.
‘You do too, Desmonde,’ I lied cheerfully. He was still entrancingly handsome as ever, but sad, and of course tired.
‘And your dear mother?’
‘Well and happy. She has a nice little flat on the seafront at Hove, just three minutes from the church. Of course, when my boys are home she is always with us.’
‘Where are you taking me?’
‘Home. It is just a little house in Kensington, but nice, quiet, and within a few paces of the Gardens.’
He wanted to know more, but, as always, was too well bred to ask. And presently we drew up at the little white house I loved so much, one of a quiet row, totally free of traffic noise. I got rid of the taxi and opened the front door with my key.
I took him upstairs to the guest room that opened on to the garden of the house.
‘You can park here, your bathroom’s just there. Now, how about some food?’
‘Absolutely not, Alec. I’d love a good wash, then lots and lots of talk.’
I smiled, put my hands on his shoulders and gave him a good shake to break down the constraint that lay upon us. After all, it was a very long time since we had last been together. Then I went down to the kitchen to see Mrs Palmer, my especially good ‘daily’, who had consented to wait beyond her usual four o’clock departure.
‘Everything ready for your dinner, sir … The chops on the grill, the spuds are peeled and ready, the salad made and in the fridge with the apple tart.’
‘Thank you, Mrs Palmer. And it was kind of you to stay over.’
‘It’s a pleasure sir, for the likes of you.’
She picked up all her gear and went off, saying: ‘Your mail’s on the hall table, sir.’
Upstairs, I glanced at my letters, which seemed promising, then went into the drawing-room. Desmonde was already there, standing, looking about him.
‘Oh, come, Desmonde, stop looking and sit here beside me.’
‘I can’t, Alec, it’s such a lovely room, everything, everything, and your pictures …’
I took his arm and drew him on to the settee beside me. But still he kept looking.
‘That lovely Sisley, the early Utrillo, the Mary Cassatt, that lovely little violety conversation piece, is it a Vuillard?’
I nodded. ‘Madame Melo, the actress, and her daughter. But do stop, Desmonde, you’re making me frightfully uncomfortable.’
‘I can’t stop, Alec, I’m enjoying it so much and, my God! I believe that’s a Gauguin over there! Pont Aven, just after he came back penniless from Tahiti.’
‘Good for you, Desmonde. Yes, he had not enough to buy a real canvas. That lovely thing is painted on burlap. Of course, I had it rebacked in New York, where I bought it. And it’s housed in a genuine Louis XVI frame, stripped, of course. Now about you, Desmonde, what…?’
‘Just one more, Alec, that lovely thing, of the Seine, I believe.’
‘I don’t mind talking of that masterpiece, Desmonde, for it’s my favourite. It’s the Seine at Passy, the last scene painted by Christopher Wood. A letter from his mother is on the back.’
‘Just before … at Salisbury Station, wasn’t it?’
‘Yes … What a loss!’
Desmonde was silent, then said:
‘You seem to be alone here, Alec.’
‘Yes, I am. My dear little wife and my two brats, both boys, are down in Sussex.’
‘At an hotel?’ Desmonde asked, studying the photograph on an adjoining table.
‘Of course not. I have an old shack down there. We use it a lot.’
Idly, Desmonde asked: ‘That’s a lovely old Georgian house with heavenly old brick stables made over into a loggia and with a view, it seems, of the Downs. Whose is that?’
‘That’s the Old Rectory, and of course it belongs to the Vicar. Very decent chap. And just up the road is Mellington Church. Genuine Norman, you can see the long and short brickwork. I can’t tell you how lovely it is. One of these days I’ll show you.’
‘Thank you, Alec. Perhaps the Vicar will let us stay at the Old Rectory.’ Then he said: ‘Alec, you are as always, the best and dearest friend a man could ever hope to have. But for God’s sake, because of the abysmal failure I’ve made of my life, don’t try to minimise the success you’ve made of yours.’
‘Stop it, Desmonde! Your success is just ahead of you.’
‘I won’t stop it. You put yourself through school and university on a shoestring. You’ve no money, so you have to find work as an assistant. It’s hard work, often you’re up at night, but you manage to pass your exams with flying colours, and in no time at all, you have a most successful practice. Before long you sell out, and now here you are, a best-selling novelist. You’ve really worked a miracle. And I … I am a kicked-out priest, deserted, thank God, by my bitch of a wife, with no more than thirty quid in my pocket.’
‘Please be quiet, Desmonde.’ I moved closer to him and put my arm round his shoulder. ‘I’ve been infernally lucky. And now we’re going to work a miracle for yon. Tell me, what did Bedelia B. say when she came back?’
‘She said quite a lot, and once you get used to her, you rather like her. Well, here it is, straight. They are definitely committed to making a film based on the life of Enrico Caruso. It won’t be called that, of course, but some bloody tripe like The Golden Voice, or The Voice That Breathed o’er Eden. Anyway, they have an excellent script all ready, but the original idea of using Caruso records has been ditched, all the old records are terrible, besides, even if they were usable, the result would be transparently mechanical and feeble. So they’re urgently looking for someone to act the part and sing, if possible, like Caruso. Little Bedelia thinks it’s made for me, and mind you, she is no fool, and she knows Hollywood inside out. She seems to like me, why God only knows, and is going to try to land me the job.’
I took both Desmonde’s hands and wrung them.
‘There’s your miracle Desmonde. What a heavenly opportunity. It’s God given. With a start like that nothing could stop you. Now I promise you this, Desmonde, I’ll do everything to help. Of course I’m coming with you. I’ve some business of my own to do out there. We’ll go shopping tomorrow. I’ll take care of everything, tickets, reservations, accommodation, everything.’
‘I must first go to see my little one. She’s with Madame, in Switzerland.’
‘We’ll do that en route. Join the boat at Genoa.’
I still held his hands. He raised mine and kissed them both. I saw with distress that he was fighting tears.
‘Alec, you are so eternally kind to a washed-up bloody wreck of a fellow, and I love you for it as I always have.’
‘Enough, Desmonde. Come and help me get up the dinner.’
We went downstairs to the kitchen where I switched on the electric grill and lit the gas under the pot of potatoes.
‘I thought you’d rather eat in than out, tonight. Are you hungry?’
‘Voracious, now I’ve ceased to rock and roll. I was in the vomitorium half the voyage.’ He was sitting at the kitchen table. I joined him.
‘Wonderful ideas those old Romans had to regain their appetite.’
&
nbsp; ‘But painfully, surely.’
‘Do you remember old Beauchamp and the cake? He had such an appetite he must surely still be alive.’
Desmonde smiled. ‘ He did nourish himself assiduously. But I’m afraid the dear old Mother Superior must be gone.’
‘Oh, yes. She’s certainly in heaven. Desmonde, I’ll never forget the scene when you sang to her. From that moment you were destined for the movies.’
‘I’ll never forget the stumpy little hockey player. What a sport she was. And what buttocks!’
When the potatoes were ready I poured them and turned off the grill.
‘Let’s feed here, Alec. Such a fag carrying everything upstairs.’
‘Wouldn’t dream of it. Go up to the dining-room. You’ll find the table already laid.’
He looked at me indecisively for a moment, then obeyed. Quickly, I put the food into the little dumb waiter, sunk into the wall, and joined him upstairs.
‘Where’s the grub, Alec?’
I pressed the button on the wall, there came a faint whirring, immediately two panelled doors sprang open; and there was our dinner.
‘What a topping idea.’
‘You won’t get maids running up and down these Victorian stairs, nowadays. Our Mrs Palmer is extremely good, but she would jib at that!’
We sat down to dinner, simple but good. Desmonde polished off two chops with commendable ease, and a good thick hunk of pie.
‘I can’t offer you wine, Desmonde. We don’t go in for it here.’
‘This Perrier is awfully good.’
‘Another slice of pie?’
‘Just a little bit. It’s delicious.’
When he had finished I said:
‘Now the prescription is, hot bath and bed, so that you’re all rested and fresh for tomorrow.’
I put the dishes in the waiter and sent them down for Mrs Palmer’s attention in the morning. Then we went upstairs.
‘Have you got everything you need? Pyjamas, tooth brush, razor, etcetera.’
‘Everything, thank you, Alec. And my room and bathroom are lovely.’
‘Good-night then, Desmonde. Sleep well.’
‘Good-night, my dear Alec.’
Chapter Two
Next morning I got up at my usual hour, seven o’clock, took my cold bath and my usual half walk, half run up Victoria Road and across the gardens to the Carmelite Church, just in time for the eight o’clock Mass.
On the way home I picked up the paper and fresh rolls. Mrs Palmer, never failing, was already in and had my coffee ready, steaming hot.
‘I think Mr Fitzgerald would probably like his in his room. I’ll take it up, Mrs Palmer, in about ten minutes.’
When I had glanced through the paper, hoping, without success, for some mention of my new novel, I took the tray Mrs Palmer had prepared, added my second cup of coffee, and went up to Desmonde’s room. He was awake, but still luxuriating. I placed the tray on the bedside table while he raised himself on an elbow.
‘What a kind idea! I haven’t had coffee in bed for at least a hundred years.’ He drank. ‘And such good coffee. Did I hear you go out?’
‘My usual morning prowl. Up to the Carmelite for eight o’clock Mass.’
He seemed to shrink slightly, but forced the words out.
‘And to Communion.’
‘Of course. That’s routine too. And a jolly good start to the day.’
He was silent, then said:
‘I’m obliged to tell you, Alec, that I have broken completely with the Church. I never go. Never. I consider that the Almighty has given me a beastly rotten deal.’
‘Didn’t you rather set it up for Him? Anyway, I’ll bet you a new prayer book that you will go back one day. Now, it’s a lovely morning and we’re not going to waste it discussing theology. Get dressed and we’ll get going on the town.’
Within half-an-hour Desmonde came into my room, fully dressed. I had put on my dark suit, black shoes and bowler hat.
‘I say, Alec, are you something in the City?’
I laughed. ‘On my first visit to Hollywood, a very important woman, she had just written and produced The Big House, took me quietly aside. I was all tweedy, with coloured shirt, flowing tie and suede shoes. “Alec, don’t for heaven’s sake dress like an author, you’ll get nowhere. Dress like a business man.” I’ve taken her advice.’
We went downstairs and out. The morning was delicious, fresh, lovely and sunny. The prunus in the little front gardens of the quiet road were already in heavenly bloom.
We walked to the end of Victoria Road and took the No. 9 bus at the stop outside Kensington Gardens.
The gardens were green and lovely, some early nurse-maids already abroad with their prams. Green, too, and in fresh foliage, was the park, then past Marble Arch and into Piccadilly with its wonderful shops. What a lovely city London was in that era: uncluttered by traffic, the lively buses springing along, the pavements clean, uncrowded, the policeman on his beat, the milkman on his round, the whole enlivened by a sense of honest activity, beauty and order.
We got off at Burlington House and turned up left into Savile Row.
‘Now your work really begins, Desmonde. All we’re now going to do is frightful foppery, but all the people I know do it, so I’ve just fallen into line.’
I did not take him to my usual tailor, but to Bluett’s, a younger house I sometimes patronised.
‘Ping’ went the door as we entered, a delicious, reassuring old-fashioned sound matching the rich smell, and sight, of good cloth, bales and bales, on the long heavy mahogany table, and the deferential gentleman with the inch-tape round his collar.
‘I believe you know me as a customer?’
‘Mr Shannon, isn’t it, sir?’
Impassive but inwardly delighted, I said:
‘We would like two suits, if you could oblige us by making them within a week and sending them, without fail, to the offices of the Italian Line in Genoa.’
He thought for a moment, then went through to the work room, emerging with a smile.
‘As you are a customer, sir, I am sure we can oblige you, without fail. I assume the suits are for the gentleman who accompanies you.’
Then the fun began, the long, careful choosing, the equally protracted measuring, the plea for just one fitting, in two days’ time, then we were shown out with the utmost courtesy, Desmonde the potential owner of a lovely herring-bone grey, and a dark, softly bluey-black merino suitable for evening wear.
Bond Street was near, always an interesting, though narrow, thoroughfare, and here, in Turnbull’s, we bought half-sleeve sports shirts, six pairs of socks and half-a-dozen conservatively hued Macclesfield silk neckties.
‘I do badly need some ordinary shirts,’ Desmonde murmured.
‘Not here, Desmonde. Hats first, then shirts.’
Across the street we went to Hilhouse’s where, very easily, we found a dark checked tweed hat, that Desmonde kept on, and a knockabout soft panama.
‘Shall I send your friend’s hat with the panama?’ asked Mr Hilhouse, gingerly holding the battered relic by the brim.
‘Oh, no,’ Desmonde said, hurriedly. ‘Please throw it out.’
‘It’s been a good hat in its day, sir. But now … I’ll burn it.’
‘Are you tired?’ I asked Desmonde, as we stepped out of the little shop. ‘ There’re two more measurings to be done. So I think we’ll now have lunch.’
‘Good idea! I spotted a good looking A. B.C. just up the street.’
‘Silence, Fitzgerald. Do you think I’m going to spoil our day by taking you for tea and buns?’
We recrossed the road and turned into Grosvenor Street. As Claridges hove in sight, guarded by two uniformed giants, Desmonde faltered.
‘I’m not going in there, Alec. Not in these rags, I’d eternally disgrace you.’
‘Come, child, take my hand, and stop howling.’
We entered the magnificent portals and went downstairs. Seated outside th
e restaurant, on one of the settees, and obviously awaiting a guest, was that wonderful woman. Lady Crayford.
‘Well, Alec,’ she greeted us, ‘who is your handsome friend, in those atrocious clothes?’
‘He is Desmonde Fitzgerald, and he’s coming to Hollywood with me, next week. He’s just come off the set and hasn’t bothered to change.’
‘What are you making?’
‘A modern version of Hamlet, madam,’ Desmonde supported me, launching his marvellous smile. ‘I am the third gravedigger.’
‘Weren’t there only two?’
‘It’s a dreadfully deep grave, madam.’
‘Well, do wipe your boots before you go in. I see my guest coming. And do take care of yourself, Alec. Send me an autographed copy of your new book.’
The head waiter had seen us chatting with Lady Crayford so we had a first-class table, when otherwise we might have been shunted to a corner of the long, lovely room. We studied our menus, gold printed on double pages of embossed tasselled board.
‘Shall we be simple and have the table d’hôte? It’s usually awfully good.’
Desmonde agreed. ‘And no wine, Alec, please. Perrier, if you wish. Who is your nice friend?’
‘Sybil Crayford. She’s been terribly kind to my wife and me. Inviting us to her parties and to lunch. Even when we were new in London, and painfully green.’
The lunch, as might be expected, was extremely good. We did not talk much since I had no wish to linger. More work lay ahead of us. Not long after two o’clock we had scoffed the finale, mousse aux framboises à la crème, drunk our coffee and, with the bill paid and the waiter tipped, we were on our way.
‘Do let’s take a taxi, Alec, and tip the head porter. I can’t sneak out of this place in my broken down shoes.’
I obeyed, saying, as we rolled away:
‘Apropros of tipping, there’s a story that a fabulously rich Eastern potentate, who often stayed at Claridges for months on end, never tipped the head porter, but repeatedly and affectionately promised him he would be remembered lavishly in his will. When Mahomet did take him to his bosom the will was read. Guess how much the head porter got?’
‘Half-a-million.’