The Golden Virgin (12 page)

It was unbelievable, it was marvellous. “Spectre” West in the trenches in front of Vermelles, badly wounded and ordering him to get round the flank of the Lone Tree position.

“Waiter, waiter, bring some more sherry! Bring a bottle!”

“A half-bottle,” suggested Frances.

“A barrel!”

A half-bottle arrived.

“We must drink his health! How is the dear old boy? When last I heard of him he was at the Duchess of Westminster’s hospital at Le Touquet.”

“He’s at Netley hospital now, near Southampton. I’m afraid he’s lost an eye, and his left hand, poor dear, but his leg will be all right, he says. He was sorry you left the Gaultshires. He is very fond of you, you know.”

The food arrived. The wine waiter gave him a list. “We must drink to Westy! How about a hock?” There was one for 2/6
d
.
“Right, a bottle. It’s probably made by the Jesuits on the banks of the Rhine. Wine and food should be in balance. One moment.”

He ordered half a bottle of claret and filled the glasses three-quarters full. When they had eaten, he invited them to have some Christmas pudding, with brandy poured over it. Frances hesitated, looked at Alice.

“Very well, as it’s a special occasion. But Phillip, remember that I am going to pay my share!”

“But this
is
a special occasion, not only because of the news of Westy getting better, but because you have both honoured me with your company.”

“I believe he means it,” said Alice.

“Of course I do,” he said, looking from face to face, and thinking that he had never been so happy in his life before. Why wasn’t Desmond with him? How pretty Alice was, the light brown hair clustering round her pink ears, her
retroussé
nose, and lips of coral. She was like Polly, but more delicate in feature. Her wrists, encased in white silk, were slender. What a pity Wigg wasn’t more decent.

“I wonder what Mr. Wigg is doing,” said Frances.

“I was thinking of him just at that moment!”

“It must be telepathy,” said Alice. “Two soul mates!”

Elbows on table, hands holding glass, she saucily tasted her wine with repeated tongue dipping. Wigg had kissed Frances with his tongue. Did girls really like that sort of thing?

“Is Mr. Wigg a very great friend of yours, Phillip?” asked Frances.

“I hardly know him, as a matter of fact.”

“Good for you,” said Alice. “I don’t like him. In fact, I thought him——”

“Now Alice——” warned Frances.

“Well, you thought so too, you told me so. Go on, be honest!”

Frances seemed to want to say something; then to decide not to say it.

“Men who look at a girl as though they are undressing her with their eyes bore me,” continued Alice.

“Now you’ve shocked Phillip!”

“Oh, nothing shocks me, dear lady. All the world is my oyster! Who said that? Tolstoi, or Shakespeare?”

“Charlie Chaplin,” said Alice.

“Let’s go and see him after dinner, how about it?”

The Christmas pudding arrived. The waiter poured the brandy with a deft movement, then struck a match. While the flames were flickering away Phillip saw Alice turning to wave at someone. He looked and saw a naval officer lift his hand as he passed down the tables across the room.

“There’s Timmy!” said Alice, excitedly. “I didn’t know he was on leave!”

Phillip saw the animation on her face with dismay, and felt rueful when she cried, “I must go and speak to dear old Timmy!” and pushing back her chair, she almost ran to the newcomer.

“Don’t be long,” said Frances. “The pudding is nicest when hot.”

“You eat my bit! I don’t want any,” Alice called back.

She returned when they had finished their coffee, about twenty minutes later.

“Timmy says would you two like to have a drink with us in the Café Royal? We’ll meet you there.”

Having paid the bill, Phillip and Frances went down to the street. Crossing Shaftesbury Avenue under the statue of Eros, they walked up a broad curved way of yellow painted buildings, and went through a door, to find themselves in a room of plush and crystal,
of red walls with mirrors and sofas on which sat the Bohemians he had read about, behind glasses and cups on marble-topped tables. They looked to be an odd lot, not so much from their long hair as from the general ugliness of their clothes and the curious shapes of their pallid faces. Not all looked to be expressionless: one face was alive, with the bright-eyed glance of a fox: a red-bearded man wearing small gold ear-rings. He was talking in a low voice to a young girl in a simple, tight-fitting frock. Her face seemed to shine. Looking cautiously around the room, Phillip saw, sitting against another wall, a man with a putty-coloured face, and a brow over which hung small ringlets of hair. He looked to be unwashed, with a bulbous nose and expressionless dark eyes. He, too, wore large gold ear-rings, but under a shapeless black felt hat. When he spoke it was with a strange accent. Could he be an anarchist? Many of the other men looked queer customers, too, in their wide black hats, and coloured scarves round necks. He was greatly relieved to learn that coffee by itself could be bought, in glasses held in nickel silver containers.

“Good luck,” said Frances, raising her glass, a little finger held out like a tendril. “You will write to Harold, won’t you? You know his address? ‘The Grapes, Lime Street, E.C.’. You knew his parents lived there, didn’t you?”

“I had an idea that his mother did.”

“Both his parents do. They will forward any letters. Or you can write direct to Harold at Netley Military Hospital, Southampton.”

“Does Alice know that naval commander well?”

“Fairly well, I think.”

“I see.”

“I’m sorry, Phillip. You like her, don’t you?”

“Well, in a way. She rather reminds me of a girl I know.” He meant cousin Polly.

“Ah, I thought you had a secret!”

This remark indicated the image of Helena Rolls. “Not really. I haven’t a hope in that direction.”

“How do you know? Have you asked her?”

“I did once, when I was rather young and foolish.”

“Hark to the voice of hoary old age! But while there’s life, there’s hope, you know.”

“But not much hope when there’s death.”

“Phillip, how very morbid! Why, you are only at the threshold of life.”

“I mean that Helena Rolls”—he spoke calmly, to hide his alarm at his daring to speak openly of her—“loved my cousin, who was killed in front of the Hohenzollern Redoubt.”

“Oh, how insensitive you must think me! Do forgive me.”

“There’s nothing to forgive. I just don’t belong anywhere, that’s all.”

“No, I won’t let you think like that! Time heals all wounds, you know—all wounds of the heart, anyway. And you are rather a nice person, Phillip. Don’t you know it?”

She saw him shut himself away from her, and felt rebuffed. Shame rose in her; but she put it aside.

“Phillip, I am genuinely sorry that I upset you.”

“Oh no, you didn’t, really. It’s just that I—well, I’m really no good, as I said. I’ve always been like it, long before I ever saw her. I just can’t believe I shall ever be good enough, that’s all.”

“Did you feel like that when you were very small?”

“I think I must have done, for one of my aunts once told me that at nine months old, my ‘baby eyes were filled with fear’. She said she knew why, but I would not like to be told the reason. I suppose I was born with something vital missing. I could never be really self-forgetful, as a child, except when I heard beautiful music. A freak, I suppose.”

“I don’t want to criticise your aunt, but she does not seem to be altogether an understanding person. Nine months of age! My dear Phillip, what next? I can tell you that Harold West, whose judgments I value, says that you are a person who inspires friendship. Those are his very words.”

“I just can’t understand why,” he said, avoiding her eyes.

“Attraction of like minds is mutual, you know. You and Harold, for example. Didn’t you like him at once?”

“Yes, as soon as I saw him. Others seemed a bit afraid of him, of his tongue, I mean, but I saw through him to his sense of humour. Even when he showed a side of cold fury, deadly serious and intent, it didn’t really upset me. I suppose that was die effect of the drugs he had to take, because of his headaches?”

“I didn’t know Harold took drugs, Phillip! How awful!”

He dissembled; and to hide his indiscretion, said innocently, “Oh, only when he was wounded, I mean! Not ordinarily. We all get morphia, you know, when badly hit. No, Westy was really awfully kind. Please don’t think any more about what I said.”

“Of course not! Cross my heart. Poor Harold, how he hates
war. His ambition is to be a country parson, you know, somewhere in Gaultshire. Yet he is a Cockney.”

“How extraordinary! No, I didn’t mean that. I know a parson who in his young days sailed before the mast all round the world. He’s a very good sport. I say, how about Charlie Chaplin? Or don’t you like him?”

“I adore the little man! But we’ll wait for Alice, shall we? She’ll be disappointed to miss you, I’m sure. Will you have some more coffee? It’s on me this time! Good!”

While they waited, the red-bearded man got up, tall and lithe, and left with his fair companion, who looked enchanted, Phillip thought. As the door closed behind them, the broad-faced squat man with black ringlets bestrewing his bumpy forehead called out loudly, “Dere he goes, de ‘Lion of Chelsea!’ ‘Vould you like a baby by me, my dear’?” he mimicked. “Pah! De ‘’coon of Chelsea’! Pah!” He spat vehemently upon the floor.

“Do you know,” said Frances softly, “I rather fancy that there speaks the voice of envy!”

Alice arrived breathlessly twenty minutes later, saying that Timmy had met some friends, and they simply had to have a drink with them in the Cri. Well, here she was, what were they waiting for? How about going to a flick? There was a nice picture on just over the road.

“Hurray,” said Phillip. “Let’s get a taxi.”

Outside on the kerb he hailed a passing hansom.

“But it’s only just across the street, my dear man!”

“Come on, it’s rather a joke to take a hansom to cross Piccadilly!”

“This is Regent Street, Phil. That curve of buildings was built by Nash. Isn’t it beautiful?”

“Who cares?” said Alice, happily. “I want to see Gerald Ames, oh, I love him.”

Horse and cab drew in, jingle and clatter. Alice put her foot on the step, but Frances said, “I simply will not allow you to waste your money like this!”

“Well, it’s only a bob, anyway!”

Frances took his arm, and an arm of Alice, to lead them across the street; but he pulled back long enough to give the cabby a shilling. Then to the small and dark entrance to the cinema, with no posters outside. The girl in the wooden hut said all seats were full, but there was a box at half a guinea. Before Frances could object, Phillip put down the money, and triumphantly leading
each girl by the arm, he followed an attendant upstairs, until they came to a row of doors like hotel rooms along a corridor, but closer together. The attendant opened one door, switched on a small light shaded in pink, and withdrew. There were four chairs, on a dark red carpet. The walls were red, too, with a spangle of tiny gold stars.

He hung up cap and belt, the girls removed hats. Then he was sitting between two curves of cheek below tendrils of hair, feeling romance as music from an unseen piano in the darkness increased the pathos of Gerald Ames, hatless on a horse, beside a dark girl in riding habit, after he had rescued her from her runaway mount, in a park, with fallow deer grazing quietly by. It was a story of love, misunderstanding, and of final renunciation, despite a brutal husband who drank, and beat his dogs with a hunting crop. As the hero rode away alone under the darkening sky, Phillip had to blow his nose. He saw Alice smiling at him in the dimness, and then turned to look at Frances, lest she feel out of it.

The next picture was a riot of fun and laughter, the one and only Charlie in flapping boots and trousers, bowler hat and whangee cane, being bullied, humiliated, and pursued, but always getting his own back in the most extraordinary ways, always polite, ready to smile, defend the weak, crawl through the big fat bully’s legs, and give him unexpected kicks on his broad behind. Charlie was a scream.

A wonderful, wonderful evening; how sad that it had to end. If only Desmond could have been with them!

“I do hope your motor will still be there,” said Frances, as they walked down to Piccadilly Circus.

“Oh, I never let little things like that worry me.”

The Swift stood obediently by the kerb.

“Well,” said Frances, “thank you for a most delightful evening, Phil.”

“Yes, thank you,” said Alice.

“Where can I drop you ladies?”

“We can go by underground.”

“I won’t hear of it. Jump in.” He swung the handle. Passers by looked on admiringly, he felt, as he put on his British warm.

Frances said she lived in Bryanston Square. “If you’re sure I’m not taking you out of your way.”

Bryanston Square was in darkness. Frances asked him to stop at a corner. “The house is over there,” she whispered. “My
parents live in the basement. Mother’s the housekeeper, so I’ll say goodbye here, if you don’t mind. Well, thank you very much, Phil, for the lift, and everything. Shall we meet again? Perhaps you can bring a friend? Write to D. and F’s will you? And
do
write to Harold! Promise? Cross your heart?”

“Rather! Goodbye.”

When the graceful figure, stepping softly in little black boots with fawn box-cloth tops buttoning six inches above the ankle had dissolved in shadow, he drove away round the corner, silent beside Alice.

“If you can take me to Vauxhall station, I can get a train there for Surbiton. The best way is to Hyde Park corner, along Park Lane to Victoria, then down Vauxhall Bridge road and over the river to the station. Are you sure you don’t mind?”

“I’d simply love to, Alice, with you as guide and guardian angel,” he said, wondering at his boldness.

She snuggled beside him.

They got out of the car by the Embankment, and looked down into the river. A smoky half-moon hung above the leafless plane trees.