Getting It Right (14 page)

‘Which was your friend; the one with the beard or the one with the spikey hair?’

‘Spikey hair?’

‘Is he working class, like you?’

‘He’s like me, but I don’t think we’re working class – we’re more bourgeois than that.’

‘Sort of lower middle?’

‘More or less. I don’t know about Harry’s dad, but I suppose mine
was
working class – at any rate until he got his own business.’

‘So you’ve moved up a class then. Are you going to keep your accent?’

‘Why not?’ It was odd; he’d never thought of it like that.

‘I want to move
down
,’ she said.

He felt she was looking at him again and said: ‘I think you say a lot of things just for effect, don’t you?’

‘Not only for that. But it would be pretty stupid if everything I said wasn’t meant to have any effect at all. There are people like that but they’re ghastly dull.’

He decided to drop that for the time being.

‘Why aren’t you eating?’

‘I don’t like eating much. I mean, I don’t much like eating anything. But I rather go for bones. I like gnawing.’

‘Gnaw it up then,’ he said.

It was cool on the terrace: there was a pleasant background of music – Billie Holiday – unmistakable even at such low volume, and the dwindling numbers on the terrace were leaving
them in peace. He discovered after a few mouthfuls that he was very hungry and was tackling some very good fish with cucumber round it and also watching Minerva stripping the skin off her drumstick
with her small, white teeth, when he felt a hand on his shoulder, looked up with a start to see Stephen’s face looming down at him.

‘Sorry to interrupt, but there’s a minor crisis and I told Joan I’d find you. It’s just a touch urgent.’

He put his plate on the tiled ground, got to his feet and said to the girl – who looked as though she was poised to come with him: ‘You stay, I’ll be back.’

Stephen held his elbow, almost as though he expected Gavin to escape or lose his way, while they went through the big room, and into the passage.

‘What’s up?’

‘It’s Winthrop.’

‘Why didn’t you get Harry?’

‘He wouldn’t be enough. Anyway, I don’t want him to get hurt.’

They had, predictably, Gavin felt, reached the study/library door which was shut.

Stephen said: ‘The thing is to be perfectly calm, but firm. And tough,’ he added: he was trembling. He opened the door, shoving Gavin ahead of him into the room.

The room – although it had other people in it – seemed to be full of Winthrop. He stood, at one end of the big chesterfield, leaning slightly forward, with a hand on the end of its
arm and its back; he stood easily poised on the balls of his feet, and his gaze, menacingly intent, was fixed upon Spiro, who seemed to have shrunk, to be much smaller than Gavin remembered him and
who was half crouching at the other end of the sofa with his hands also upon its arm. His eyes, which looked enormous in his ashy face were fixed upon Winthrop and at irregular but fairly frequent
intervals he uttered a strange little grunt – half conciliatory, half denying – which sometimes exploded into a high-pitched nervous giggle. Seated at the huge desk, wielding the gold
telephone, was Joan whose voice sounded almost brazenly calm.

‘No, darling, just one of the usual parties. No, I told you, it was a lamp falling over. They were playing some weird acting game, I think: listen, supposing I call you back, I’m so
longing to hear how the plans are going for Bobby’s yacht – ’ here Spiro’s giggle ended in a shriek of terror as Winthrop made a move towards him. ‘Sorry, I
didn’t absolutely hear what you said. No, darling, I told you – they’re playing that silly acting game – hold on a minute I’m going to talk to you from my bedroom
– much quieter – ’ She motioned to Gavin to come and hold the receiver for her, saying: ‘It’s Dmitri: he hardly
ever
calls me, and I must at least find out
where he is. Put it back when you hear me,’ and went into her bedroom, shutting the door behind her.

Gavin did as he was asked. This meant going either round Winthrop or round Spiro. He chose Winthrop, whose attention flickered from Spiro for the split second while he registered that Gavin was,
in fact, simply going to the telephone. It was, however, long enough for Spiro to make a lunge round the sofa towards the door – a fatal error since the moment that there was less than the
length of the sofa between them Winthrop sprang upon him and with the powerful certainty of a leopard seized him by the throat. Spiro’s voice was cut off in mid-shriek, and Gavin, aware of
Stephen’s plaintively ineffectual protests, moved instinctively to try to stop Winthrop. This was no use at all; Winthrop simply removed one of his hands from Spiro’s throat to send
Gavin spinning across the room until he fell against the cornice of the mantelpiece and collapsed among the artificial logs in the fireplace. Although he was not knocked out, pain and shock
overwhelmed him; his eye felt as though he had been hit by a cricket ball; his darkened vision doubled and a display of fireworks seemed to be set off from inside his head; his mouth tasted of
thick salt and surges of pain, as dazzling as the beam of a lighthouse, regularly swept his right shoulder. He made an attempt to heave himself into a sitting position and as he did so, his
shoulder thrilled with a pain so sudden and sickening that he was on the edge of fainting, but at the end of it, through the cold sweat and distance, he was aware that something that had been put
out by his fall was now back. Gingerly, he made a second effort to sit up.

Things had changed; they had probably changed very quickly, but he had not seen them happening. Winthrop now had Spiro by the scruff of his jacket collar and had literally turned him upside
down. Spangled on the maroon carpet were what looked like pieces of jewellery and, as Gavin watched, Winthrop gave Spiro yet another experienced little shake and a couple of coffee spoons, gold,
with enamelled backs, fell from his pockets. Gavin became aware that Winthrop through clenched teeth was emitting a stream of imprecatory abuse.

‘. . . you fucking little fly-blown piece of shit, where are your morals? Answer me that! Dirty little crap-ridden wog, didn’t your arse-holing bitch of a mother teach you anything?
I’m surprised at you – ’ he went on but not more mildly, his surprise simply galvanized him into starting to beat Spiro up – ‘think you can
come
to this
country and
waltz
about sticking your filthy fingers into the
private
belongings of a lady who’s kind enough to have you to a
party
– you got no morals you
fucking little reptile –
and
what’s more – you mother-fucking little creep – you got no more integrity than a louse.’ He shook him again, but this time
nothing fell out, and Winthrop let go of his ankle, at the same time kicking him sharply in the midriff so that Spiro lay winded, his intermittent wailing gasps stopped. In the silence that very
briefly followed, Gavin became aware the audience no longer consisted of Stephen and himself. Harry, his arms tightly folded, stood by the door, and Minerva, still holding the turkey drumstick,
beside him. Stephen, clucking, had edged forward and, on his knees, was picking up the various pieces – a charm bracelet, a gold watch, earrings and the spoons.

Before anyone seemed to have a chance to move or speak Minerva rushed over to Winthrop and threw her arms round him.

‘Oh, darling, I could have told you he was a creep!’ she cried. ‘I never take things out of people’s
houses
! I
knew
you’d see through
him!’

Winthrop made some brushing movements to get her off him as though she was a fly, but she wasn’t a fly and – in spite of the drumstick in one hand – she clung.

Then he said: ‘Piss off – whoever you are.’ He picked her arm off him like a bramble; then leaned over Spiro who had been lying in a foetal position moaning softly, but who was
beginning to show signs of movement. Before he could do or not do anything, Minerva bent down and rapped him smartly on the head with the drumstick and, like a clown in a silent film, Spiro
instantly fell back motionless, as though knocked out. ‘I hate you – you cringing little queer!’

‘Who do you think you’re speaking to?’

‘Oh, not
you
, darling Winthrop. I expect he blackmailed you, isn’t that what awful people like that are always doing? Look at me! Don’t you remember?’

Gavin, who felt that things were managing to take a turn for the worse, noticed that Joan had come back into the room and was towering quietly by the bedroom door and that Stephen was
rearranging all the objects he had picked up on to an enormous black glass ashtray.

‘That ad we did where you weren’t ever alone because of your pipe. I was one of the girls who got locked out, don’t you remember? And afterwards we met at the coffee machine
and you were talking to somebody else about this party, so I thought I’d come to it, and when I said I’d see you there you said okay. So here I fucking
am
.’

‘Don’t you use that language to me. It’s disgusting: it’s not right.’

‘You use it. It’s what
you
say.’

‘That’s different.’

‘I don’t think you are in at all a good position to criticize other people’s behaviour. Gavin and I were jolly shocked at what you did with Spiro in there.’ She indicated
the bedroom, and was momentarily disconcerted to see Joan.

‘Do you
mind
?’

‘No, I don’t – well, of course I mind that. I thought that was disgusting. Unnecessary,’ she added with an attempt at loftiness, which collapsed the moment Winthrop
turned on her, which he did at once.

‘You mean you were actually in there? Fucking
hiding
in there?’

She nodded, but she backed away from him.

‘You ought to be locked
up
! I think you are, without exception, the most disgusting person I’ve ever met in my life! You’re a vulgar, nasty little bitch!’

She stood rigidly beside him, rubbing her eyes with her knuckles, in spite of the fact that she’d still got hold of the drumstick, and Gavin began to feel that everything was going to go
on for ever, when Joan, who had been silent up to now, said:

‘I have a sort of feeling that we’ve rather lost the party atmosphere, and so perhaps we should call it a day. Thanks for collecting the loot, Stephen; no, leave it there. The only
thing I ask, really, is that you shouldn’t leave anybody behind.’

Stephen nodded and went to Spiro, bending down to pick up one end of him, but Winthrop interrupted: ‘Don’t bother with that; he can stand, all right.’ He gave Spiro a casual
kick on the bottom and Spiro shot to his feet, and fell against Stephen, who fielded him with a nice blend of arrest and protection.

Winthrop said: ‘Where’s Noel?’

‘He went down to the car. He’s not quite himself, I’m afraid.’

‘Can you manage him on your own, or shall I come down with you?’

‘I can manage.’

‘If you give Stephen any trouble, I’ll have your balls for research.’

Spiro rolled his eyes and muttered: ‘Ello –
no
,’ and Stephen took him away.

Winthrop walked over to Joan, put his arms on her shoulders and gave her a kiss. ‘Sorry about all that, my love,’ he said, and Gavin noticed that he really did seem to be and that
Joan knew that and liked it. ‘That’s okay,’ she said. Winthrop turned to Harry who, with his arms still folded, had been staring at the carpet for a long time.

‘My bike’s outside. You coming?’ He took no notice of Gavin as well as pointedly ignoring Minerva. Harry’s face quivered; he nodded and, without looking at Joan, said
with a kind of clumsy brusqueness: ‘Thanks for having me.’ Then he looked at Gavin, but before he could say anything Winthrop intervened: ‘Don’t worry about
him
:
he’s ganged up with that tonto little tart – he can take her with him. Come to think of it, Joan said everyone out, and it’s her place – so, everyone out.’ He moved
over to Minerva, placed a hand in the small of her back and steered her straight at Gavin: ‘Go on, then, out!’ As the girl almost fell against him, he felt Winthrop’s grip on his
forearm, and, awful seconds later, they were all four in the lift, out of it, through the plate glass doors and into the street. Harry broke the silence. ‘How’s Gavin going to get
home?’

‘That’s up to him, isn’t it?’

‘He came in Stephen’s car. Perhaps it hasn’t gone.’

But it had. Gavin, who felt as though his personality had been seized and held under some black water by Winthrop’s unpredictable hatred, found his voice and said he’d be all right,
don’t worry about him.

‘Night then.’ Harry said it as clumsily as he’d thanked Joan and followed Winthrop to the bike. They had roared off into the night before he realized that he still had hold of
Minerva’s arm.

They were standing – opposite the building they had come out of – beside the railings of a square garden. A white cherry tree shifted above them in a small breeze
that seemed to have begun with the silence after Harry and Winthrop’s departure, and a flurry of petals fell fast, and then more slowly, round them.

‘What shall we do?’

‘Do?’

‘Don’t be silly. Next.’ She wriggled free of his hand and pressed herself against the iron railings. ‘We could go in there. Look – there’s a little hut we
could use.’

‘What for?’

She turned to face him. ‘A friendly little screw? To soothe us. It wasn’t a very nice party, was it?’

The suggestion seemed to Gavin so preposterous that, at first, it hardly frightened him. He murmured something like ‘No thanks’, and then fear – like an attack of dizziness or
the beginning of being drunk – struck.

‘Are you stoned? You look very odd . . . Odder than usual,’ she added, as though she’d known him for years . . .

‘You can’t get into London squares; they’re always locked.’

‘That simply means we wouldn’t be disturbed. I could almost get
through
these railings, and you could climb over. If you wanted to.’ She clutched the sleeve of his
jacket and, painfully, a bit of his arm. ‘Don’t you like me?’