The collected stories (7 page)

'So would I!' I said. Then, I could think of nothing else to say, so I said, 'I am one of your most passionate fans.'

This was my leap in the dark. I had never read a word he had written. I suppose I looked terrified, but you would not have known it from the look on Sir Charles's face - pure joy. He removed his pipe from his mouth and stuffed his finger in the bowl.

WORLD S END

'I'm so glad.'

'I'm not joking,' I said. 'I find your work a real consolation. It genuinely engages me.'

'It is awfully good of you to say so.'

He sounded as if he meant it. More than that, he reacted as if no one had ever said these words to him before.

'We must meet for lunch one day.' He clenched the pipe stem in his teeth and beamed.

I said, 'How about dinner at my place? When you're free.' And Sir Charles Moonman, the eminent novelist and critic, said

to me, 'I am free most evenings.'

'Next week?'

'I can do Monday, or Tuesday, or-'

'Monday,' I said. I gave him my address and that was that. He clapped me on the shoulder in his bluff country doctor way, and I was still somewhat dazed when Ronald came over.

'What are you grinning about?'

'I've just invited Sir Charles Moonman for dinner.'

Ronald was horrified. 'You can't,' he said. 'I'll phone him in the morning and tell him it's off.'

'You'll do no such thing,' I said, raising my voice to a pitch that had Ronald shushing me and steering me to a corner.

'What are you going to give him?'

He had me there. I do a nice shepherd's pie, and Ronald had often praised my flan, but truly I had not given the menu much thought, and told him so.

'Shepherd's pie!' Ronald was saying as Virginia Byward sidled up to me.

'Hello, Mister Insole,' she said. She had remembered my name! 'Has Charles gone?'

Ronald was speechless.

'Charles had to be off,' I said. 'A dinner party - he was rather dreading it.'

Miss Byward was staring at Ronald.

I I know Mister Insole is a writer,' she said. 'But what do you do?' Ronald turned purple. He said, 'I sell worthless books/ and

marched away.

k I hope I didn't say anything to offend him/ said Miss Byward. 'Too bad about Charles. 1 was hoping he'd still be here. I meant to lock horns with him. 1

ALGEBRA

'If you're free on Monday, come along for dinner. Charles will be there.'

'I couldn't crash your dinner party.'

'Be my guest,' I said. 'It won't be fancy, but I think of myself as a good plain cook.'

'If you're sure it's no trouble-'

'I'd be honored,' I said, and then I could think of nothing to say except, 'I am one of your most passionate fans,' the statement that had gone down so well with Sir Charles. I was a bit embarrassed about saying it, because repeating it made it sound formulated and insincere. But it was my embarrassment that brought it off.

'Are you?' she said. She was clearly delighted.

'Your reportage is devastating.'

It was as easy as twisting a tap. I said nothing more. I simply listened to her talk, and finally she said, 'I've so enjoyed our little chat. See you Monday.'

Ronald was silent on the way home until we got to Kennington or The Oval. Then he said, 'Are you a writer?'

At Stockwell, I said, 'Are you a publisher?'

As the train drew into Clapham Common, he stood up and said, 'You're shameless.' He pushed past me and ran up the escalator.

That night Ronald slept on the chaise and the next day he moved out of the flat and out of my life.

I had not known how easy it would be to make the acquaintance of Sir Charles Moonman and Miss Byward. It had only been necessary to learn a new language, and it was one that Ronald either despised or did not know. When I went broody about Ronald's absence over the weekend I remembered the guests I'd invited for Monday and I cheered up.

But on Sunday I began to worry about the numbers. Three people did not seem much of a dinner party and I kept hearing myself saying, 'I like the intimate sort of party.' So I invited Mr Momma, too. Mr Momma, a Cypriot, was a house painter who lived in the top-floor flat. He never washed his milk bottles, so Ronald had named him 'Inky,' which was short for 'inconsiderate.' Mr Momma said he would do a salad.

On Monday I went to the library and got copies of Sir Charles's and Miss Byward's books. I was setting them out, arranging them on tables, when the phone rang. I must have been feeling a bit insecure

world's end

still because I thought at once that it was either Sir Charles or Miss Byward who had rung to say they couldn't make it after all.

'Michael?'

It was Tanya Moult, one of Ronald's authors. I should say one of Ronald's victims, because he had strung her along for years. She was working on a book about pirates, women pirates, and Ronald had said it was just the ticket, a kind of robust woman's thing. That was very Ronald. He had other people doing books on cowboys -black cowboys; hair-dressers and cooks - all men; gay heroes, and cats in history. Tanya sent him chapters and at the same time she scraped a living writing stories for women's magazines under a pseudonym. Ronald was very possessive about Tanya, but perversely so: he kept me away from her while at the same time being nasty to her.

I told her that Ronald had moved out. It was the first she had heard of it and I could tell that she was really down. Ronald had not been in touch with her about her newest chapter.

'Look, Tanya,' I said - it was the first time I had used her Christian name. 'Why don't you come round tonight? I'm having a few friends over for dinner.'

She hesitated. I knew what she was thinking - I couldn't blame her.

'Sir Charles Moonman,' I said. 'And Virginia Byward.'

'Gosh, Michael, really?'

'And Mister Momma from upstairs.'

'I've met him,' she said. 'I don't know whether I have anything to wear.'

'Strictly informal. If I know Sir Charles he'll be wearing an old cardigan, and Virginia will be in a rather shapeless tunic.'

She said she would be there. At seven, Mr Momma appeared in a bulging blue jumpsuit, carrying plastic bags of lettuce and onions and some tubs of dressing. He said, 'How do you know I like parties?' and pulled one bulge out of his pocket - an avocado. His teeth were big, one was cracked, he wore a gold crucifix on a chain around his neck, and he smelled of sweat and soap. He sniffed. 'Cooking food!' He swung his bags onto the table. 'Salad,' he said. 'I make fresh. Like my madder.'

I had never seen Mr Momma happier. He shooed me out of the kitchen and then busied himself chopping and grating, and whistling through the crack in his tooth.

ALGEBRA

Tanya arrived on the dot of eight with a bottle of Hungarian Riesling. 'I'm so excited,' she said, and I realized just how calm I was. The bell rang again.

'Oh, my God,' cried Mr Momma.

Tanya went to the kitchen door and smiled.

'Like my madder,' Mr Momma said.

Sir Charles was breathless when I met him on the landing.

'I should have warned you about those stairs,' I said.

But his breathlessness helped. He was panting, as if he had been cornered after a long chase and he could do nothing but smile and gasp his thanks as he was introduced to Tanya. He found a chair and propelled himself backward into it and sighed.

'Wine?' I said.

'That would be lovely.'

I poured him a glass of Montrachet, gave him its pedigree (but omitted the fact that I had got it at a staff discount from Arcade Off-License) and left him to Tanya.

'- it's not generally known, but there were a fantastic number,' Tanya was saying, and she was off: women pirates. Sir Charles was captivated.

'Do you know,' said Virginia Byward when she arrived, glancing around the flat and relaxing at the sight of two copies of her books, 'this is only the second time in my life I've been to Clapham? I'd rather not talk about the first time. I came a cropper that night!' She spoke to Sir Charles: 'It was during the war.'

'Something for your biographer,' said Sir Charles.

We all laughed at this. But I thought then, and I continued to think throughout the evening, that I was now a part of their lives and that the time they were spending with me mattered. Each great writer seems to me to contain a posthumous book, the necessary and certain biography. Writers carry this assurance of posterity around with them. This was a page of that book.

This: my chaise, on which Miss Byward was sitting; my brass Benares ashtray with a smoldering thimble shape of Sir Charles's pipe tobacco in it; my tumbling tradescancia; my gate-legged dining table on which one of Ronald's dents was still visible; my footstool with its brocade cushion; my crystal sugar bowl; the wine glass Miss Byward was holding; the pillow Tanya was hugging; my basketwork fruit holder; me.

I excused myself and went into the kitchen. Mr Momma was

WORLD S END

putting the finishing touches to his salad. He had made a little hill of chopped lettuce leaves and sprinkled it with olives and pimentoes and drips of dressing.

'You love it?'

I said it was perfect.

'It is a woman's tee-tee,' he said, and made a knob-turning gesture with his hand.

In the parlor, my other guests were engrossed in conversation. I thought they were talking about an author they all respected; a name seemed to repeat {Murray? Gilbert Murray?). I pretended to straighten the leg of the table so I could get the drift of their conversation, but I quickly grasped that they were talking about money. (And I heard myself saying on a future occasion, / thought they were talking about an author they all respected . . . )

'I don't know how some people manage,' said Sir Charles. 'I really don't. By the way, Michael, this wine is superb. You didn't tell me you had a cellar.'

'I have an attic too,' I said.

'Isn't he a poppet!' said Virginia.

Mr Momma brought out his salad.

'Bravo,' said Virginia, and hearing Mr Momma's accent, she asked him where he was from. His mention of Cyprus had Virginia asking him which particular village was his and brought a long very practiced-sounding story from Sir Charles about a hotel in Limassol. Throughout the meal we talked intimately about Lawrence Durrell and I even found myself chipping in every now and then. I could see that it was considered quite a coup to have Mr Momma on hand.

'And what is our friend from Cyprus doing in London?' asked Virginia.

'I am a painter.'

Mr Momma did not have the English to amplify this. He was quickly taken to be a tormented artist in exile rather than the hard-working house painter he was. We talked about the Mediterranean sense of color, and afterward Mr Momma ran upstairs for his Cypriot records. He played them, he danced with Virginia, and he told her he loved her. Then he sat down and sobbed into his handkerchief.

'I've been admiring this wine glass,' said Virginia over Mr Momma's muted hoots. 'Is it part of a set?'

ALGEBRA

I said, 'Just the one,' and filled it with the claret I had brought out for the shepherd's pie.

I was relieved when Sir Charles said he had to go, because that was my signal to open the Krug, which went down a treat. Then Sir Charles and Virginia shared a taxi back to Hampstead and Tanya (making a crack about Ronald) said she had never enjoyed herself more. Hearing what Tanya had said, Mr Momma put his arm around me. He smelled strenuously of his dancing.

'No,' I said, and led him to the door. 'Let's not spoil it.'

I slept alone, but I was not alone. The evening had been a great success. Both Sir Charles and Virginia sent me notes, thanking me for having them. They were brief notes, but I replied saying that the pleasure had been all mine.

Afterward, I wondered why they had agreed to come. I decided that their very position had something to do with it. They were so grand that most people thought that they must be very busy, so no one dared to invite them. And people believed that they were beyond praise. But my flattery, my offer of a meal, my discount wines had done the trick.

I had worked hard to make the evening festive, and Mr Momma had been an unexpected success. And what had I asked of them? Nothing - nothing but for them to be there.

I had told them I was a writer. Because I had said this no one talked about it: I was one of them. Anyway, a good host is preoccupied with managing his party. His graciousness is silence when it is not encouragement. He isn't supposed to say much, only to keep the dishes coming and the glasses filled. So, in the end, they did not know much about me. They talked to each other.

The proof that Miss Byward meant what she said about enjoying herself was her invitation to me several weeks later for drinks at her very tiny flat in Hampstead. It was not until I saw her flat that I fully understood how she could have seen something to admire in mine. She was clearly an untidy person, but I was grateful when she introduced me as 'Michael Insole, the writer.' There were six others there, all writers whose names I instantly recognized, but because of the seating arrangements, I had no choice but to talk to Wibbert the poet. He told me a very entertaining story about giving a poetry reading in Birmingham, and he finished by saying, 'The pay's appalling. They always apologize when they hand it over.'

WORLD S END

Henry Wibbert was a tall balding youth with the trace of a regional accent, and bitten fingernails, something I had always hated until I met him. His socks had slipped into his shoes and I could see his white ankles. His poet's love of failure was written all over him, and when I told him I did not write poetry he seemed to take this as a criticism - as if I were acting superior - and I wanted to tell him that, in fact, I had never written anything at all.

'I do the odd spot of reviewing,' he said, somewhat defensively. And then, 'I can always go back to teaching yobboes if I find myself really hard up.' He twisted his finger into his mouth and chewed. Tm sure your earnings have you in the supertax bracket.'

Tar from it,' I said. 'I find it very hard to manage.'