65 Short Stories

  ‘I think it very unlikely,’ he returned.

  Mrs Albert Forrester shrugged her shoulders. She wore an outraged expression. But Mr Simmons made himself as comfortable as he could on his chair and lit a cigarette.

  ‘You know you have no warmer admirer of your art than me,’ he said. ‘Than I,’ corrected Clifford Boyleston.

  ‘Or than you,’ went on Mr Simmonds blandly. ‘We all agree that there is no one writing now whom you need fear comparison with. Both in prose and verse you are absolutely first class. And your style-well, everyone knows your style.’

  ‘The opulence of Sir Thomas Browne with the limpidity of Cardinal Newman,’ said Clifford Boyleston. ‘The raciness of John Dryden with the precision of Jonathan Swift.’

  The only sign that Mrs Albert Forrester heard was the smile that hesitated for a brief moment at the corners of her tragic mouth.

  ‘And you have humour.’

  ‘Is there anyone in the world,’ cried Miss Waterford, ‘who can put such a wealth of wit and satire and comic observation into a semi-colon?’

  ‘But the fact remains that you don’t sell,’ pursued Mr Simmons imperturbably. ‘I’ve handled your work for twenty years and I tell you frankly that I shouldn’t have grown fat on my commission, but I’ve handled it because now and again I like to do what I can for good work. I’ve always believed in you and I’ve hoped that sooner or later we might get the public to swallow you. But if you think you can make your living by writing the sort of stuff you do I’m bound to tell you that you haven’t a chance.’

  ‘I have come into the world too late,’ said Mrs Albert Forrester. ‘I should have lived in the eighteenth century when the wealthy patron rewarded a dedication with a hundred guineas.’

  ‘What do you suppose the currant business brings in?’

  Mrs Albert Forrester gave a little sigh.

  ‘A pittance. Albert always told me he made about twelve hundred a year.’

  ‘He must be a very good manager. But you couldn’t expect him on that income to allow you very much. Take my word for it, there’s only one thing for you to do and that’s to get him back’

  ‘I would rather live in a garret. Do you think I’m going to submit to the affront he has put upon me? Would you have me battle for his affections with my cook? Do not forget that there is one thing which is more valuable to a woman like me than her ease and that is her dignity.’

  ‘I was just coming to that,’ said Mr Simmons coldly.

  He glanced at the others and those strange, lopsided eyes of his looked more than ever monstrous and fish-like.

  ‘There is no doubt in my mind,’ he went on, ‘that you have a very distinguished and almost unique position in the world of letters. You stand for something quite apart. You never prostituted your genius for filthy lucre and you have held high the banner of pure art. You’re thinking of going into Parliament. I don’t think much of politics myself, but there’s no denying that it would be a good advertisement and if you get in I daresay we could get you a lecture tour in America on the strength of it. You have ideals and this I can say, that even the people who’ve never read a word you’ve written respect you. But in your position there’s one thing you can’t afford to be and that’s a joke.’

  Mrs Albert Forrester gave a distinct start.

  ‘What on earth do you mean by that?’

  ‘I know nothing about Mrs Bulfinch and for all I know she’s a very respectable woman, but the fact remains that a man doesn’t run away with his cook without making his wife ridiculous. If it had been a dancer or a lady of title I daresay it wouldn’t have done you any harm, but a cook would finish you. In a week you’d have all London laughing at you, and if there’s one thing that kills an author or a politician it is ridicule. You must get your husband back and you must get him back pretty damned quick.’

  A dark flush settled on Mrs Albert Forrester’s face, but she did not immediately reply. In her ears there rang on a sudden the outrageous and unaccountable laughter that had sent Miss Warren flying from the room. ‘We’re all friends here and you can count on our discretion.’

  Mrs Forrester looked at her friends and she thought that in Rose Waterford’s eyes there was already a malicious gleam. On the wizened face of Oscar Charles was a whimsical look. She wished that in a moment of abandon she had not betrayed her secret. Mr Simmons, however, knew the literary world and allowed his eyes to rest on the company.

  ‘After all you are the centre and head of their set. Your husband has not only run away from you but also from them. It’s not too good for them either. The fact is that Albert Forrester has made you all look a lot of damned fools.’

  ‘All,’ said Clifford Boyleston. ‘We’re all in the same boat. He’s quite right, Mrs Forrester. The Philatelist must come back.’

  ‘Et tu, Brute.’

  Mr Simmons did not understand Latin and if he had would probably not have been moved by Mrs Albert Forrester’s exclamation. He cleared his throat. ‘My suggestion is that Mrs Albert Forrester should go and see him tomorrow, fortunately we have his address, and beg him to reconsider his decision. I don’t know what sort of things a woman says on these occasions, but Mrs Forrester has tact and imagination and she must say them. If Mr Forrester makes any conditions she must accept them. She must leave no stone unturned.’

  ‘If you play your cards well there is no reason why you shouldn’t bring him back here with you tomorrow evening,’ said Rose Waterford lightly. Will you do it, Mrs Forrester?’

  For two minutes, at least, turned away from them, she stared at the empty fireplace; then, drawing herself to her full height, she faced them.

  Tor my art’s sake, not for mine. I will not allow the ribald laughter of the Philistine to besmirch all that I hold good and true and beautiful.’

  ‘Capital,’ said Mr Simmons, rising to his feet ‘I’ll look in on my way home tomorrow and I hope to find you and Mr Forrester billing and cooing side by side like a pair of turtle-doves.’

  He took his leave, and the others, anxious not to be left alone with Mrs Albert Forrester and her agitation, in a body followed his example.

  It was latish in the afternoon next day when Mrs Albert Forrester, imposing in black silk and a velvet toque, set out from her flat in order to get a bus from the Marble Arch that would take her to Victoria Station. Mr Simmons had explained to her by telephone how to reach the Kennington Road with expedition and economy. She neither felt nor looked like Delilah. At Victoria she took the tram that runs down the Vauxhall Bridge Road. When she crossed the river she found herself in a part of London more noisy, sordid, and bustling than that to which she was accustomed, but she was too much occupied with her thoughts to notice the varied scene. She was relieved to find that the tram went along the Kennington Road and asked the conductor to put her down a few doors from the house she sought. When it did and rumbled on leaving her alone in the busy street, she felt strangely lost, like a traveller in an Eastern tale set down by a djinn in an unknown city. She walked slowly, looking to right and left, and notwithstanding the emotions of indignation and embarrassment that fought for the possession of her somewhat opulent bosom, she could not but reflect that here was the material for a very pretty piece of prose. The little houses held about them the feeling of a bygone age when here it was still almost country, and Mrs Albert Forrester registered in her retentive memory a note that she must look into the literary associations of the Kennington Road. Number four hundred and eleven was one of a row of shabby houses that stood some way back from the street; in front of it was a narrow strip of shabby grass, and a paved way led up to a latticed wooden porch that badly needed a coat of paint. This and the straggling, stunted creeper that grew over the front of the house gave it a falsely rural air which was strange and even sinister in that road down which thundered a tumultuous traffic. There was something equivocal about the house that suggested that here lived women to whom a life of pleasure had brought an inadequate reward.

  The door
was opened by a scraggy girl of fifteen with long legs and a tousled head.

  ‘Does Mrs Bulfinch live here, do you know?’

  ‘You’ve rung the wrong bell. Second floor.’ The girl pointed to the stairs and at the same time screamed shrilly: ‘Mrs Bulfinch, a party to see you. Mrs Bulfinch.’

  Mrs Albert Forrester walked up the dingy stairs. They were covered with torn carpet. She walked slowly, for she did not wish to get out of breath. A door opened as she reached the second floor and she recognized her cook.

  ‘Good afternoon, Bulfinch,’ said Mrs Albert Forrester, with dignity ‘I wish to see your master.’

  Mrs Bulfinch hesitated for the shadow of a second, then held the door wide open.

  ‘Come in, ma’am.’ She turned her head. ‘Albert, here’s Mrs Forrester to see you.’

  Mrs Forrester stepped by quickly and there was Albert sitting by the fire in a leather-covered, but rather shabby, arm-chair, with his feet in slippers, and in shirtsleeves. He was reading the evening paper and smoking a cigar. He rose to his feet as Mrs Albert Forrester came in. Mrs Bulfinch followed her visitor into the room and closed the door.

  ‘How are you, my dear?’ said Albert cheerfully. ‘Keeping well, I hope.’

  ‘You’d better put on your coat, Albert,’ said Mrs Bulfinch. ‘What will Mrs Forrester think of you, finding you like that? I never.’

  She took the coat, which was hanging on a peg, and helped him into it; and like a woman familiar with the peculiarities of masculine dress pulled down his waistcoat so that it should not ride over his collar.

  ‘I received your letter, Albert,’ said Mrs Forrester.

  ‘I supposed you had, or you wouldn’t have known my address, would you?’

  ‘Won’t you sit down, ma’am?’ said Mrs Bulfinch, deftly dusting a chair, part of a suite covered in plum-covered velvet, and pushing it forwards.

  Mrs Albert Forrester with a slight bow seated herself

  ‘I should have preferred to see you alone, Albert,’ she said.

  His eyes twinkled.

  ‘Since anything you have to say concerns Mrs Bulfinch as much as it concerns me I think it much better that she should be present.’

  ‘As you wish.’

  Mrs Bulfinch drew up a chair and sat down. Mrs Albert Forrester had never seen her but with a large apron over a print dress. She was wearing now an open-work blouse of white silk, a black skirt, and high-heeled, patent-leather shoes with silver buckles. She was a woman of about five-and-forty, with reddish hair and a reddish face, not pretty, but with a good-natured look, and buxom. She reminded Mrs Albert Forrester of a serving-wench, somewhat overblown, in a jolly picture by an old Dutch master.

  ‘Well, my dear, what have you to say to me?’ asked Albert.

  Mrs Albert Forrester gave him her brightest and most affable smile. Her great black eyes shone with tolerant good-humour.

  ‘Of course you know that this is perfectly absurd, Albert. I think you must be out of your mind.’

  Do you, my dear? Fancy that.’

  ‘I’m not angry with you, I’m only amused, but a joke’s a joke and should not be carried too far. I’ve come to take you home.’

  Was my letter not quite clear?’

  ‘Perfectly. I ask no questions and I will make no reproaches. We will look upon this as a momentary aberration and say no more about it.’

  ‘Nothing will induce me ever to live with you again, my dear,’ said Albert in, however, a perfectly friendly fashion.

  ‘You’re not serious?’

  ‘Quite.’

  Do you love this woman?’

  Mrs Albert Forrester still smiled with an eager and somewhat metallic brightness. She was determined to take the matter lightly. With her intimate sense of values she realized that the scene was comic. Albert looked at Mrs Bulfinch and a smile broke out on his withered face.

  ‘We get on very well together, don’t we, old girl?’

  ‘Not so bad,’ said Mrs Bulfinch.

  Mrs Albert Forrester raised her eyebrows; her husband had never in all their married life called her ’old girl’: nor indeed would she have wished it.

  ‘If Bulfinch has any regard or respect for you she must know that the thing is impossible. After the life you’ve led and the society you’ve moved in she can hardly expect to make you permanently happy in miserable furnished lodgings.’

  ‘They’re not furnished lodgings, ma’am,’ said Mrs Bulfinch. ‘It’s all me own furniture. You see, I’m very independent-like and I’ve always liked to have a home of me own. So I keep these rooms on whether I’m in a situation or whether I’m not, and so I always have some place to go back to.’

  ‘And a very nice cosy little place it is,’ said Albert.

  Mrs Albert Forrester looked about her. There was a kitchen range in the fireplace on which a kettle was simmering and on the mantelshelf was a black marble clock flanked by black marble candelabra. There was a large table covered with a red cloth, a dresser, and a sewing-machine. On the walls were photographs and framed pictures from Christmas supplements. A door at the back, covered with a red plush portiere, led into what, considering the size of the house, Mrs Albert Forrester (who in her leisure moments had made a somewhat extensive study of architecture) could not but conclude was the only bedroom. Mrs Bulfinch and Albert lived in a contiguity that allowed no doubt about their relations.

  ‘Have you not been happy with me, Albert?’ asked Mrs Forrester in a deeper tone.

  ‘We’ve been married for thirty-five years, my dear. It’s too long. It’s a great deal too long. You’re a good woman in your way, but you don’t suit me. You’re literary and I’m not. You’re artistic and I’m not.’

  ‘I’ve always taken care to make you share in all my interests. I’ve taken great pains that you shouldn’t be overshadowed by my success. You can’t say that I’ve ever left you out of things.’

  ‘You’re a wonderful writer, I don’t deny it for a moment, but the truth is I don’t like the books you write.’

  ‘That, if I may be permitted to say so, merely shows that you have very bad taste. All the best critics admit their power and their charm.’

  ‘And I don’t like your friends. Let me tell you a secret, my dear. Often at your parties I’ve had an almost irresistible impulse to take off all my clothes just to see what would happen.’

  ‘Nothing would have happened,’ said Mrs Albert Forrester with a slight frown. ‘I should merely have sent for the doctor.’

  ‘Besides you haven’t the figure for that, Albert,’ said Mrs Bulfinch.

  Mr Simmons had hinted to Mrs Albert Forrester that if the need arose she must not hesitate to use the allurements of her sex in order to bring back her erring husband to the conjugal roof, but she did not in the least know how to do this. It would have been easier, she could not but reflect, had she been in evening dress.

  ‘Does the fidelity of five-and-thirty years count for nothing? I have never looked at another man, Albert. I’m used to you. I shall be lost without you.’

  ‘I’ve left all my menus with the new cook, ma’am. You’ve only got to tell her how many to luncheon and she’ll manage,’ said Mrs Bulfinch. ‘She’s very reliable and she has as light a hand with pastry as anyone I ever knew’ Mrs Albert Forrester began to be discouraged. Mrs Bulfinch’s remark, well meant no doubt, made it difficult to bring the conversation on to the plane on which emotion could be natural.

  ‘I’m afraid you’re only wasting your time, my dear,’ said Albert. ‘My decision is irrevocable. I’m not very young any more and I want someone to take care of me. I shall of course make you as good an allowance as I can. Corinne wants me to retire.’

  ‘Who is Corinne?’ asked Mrs Forrester with the utmost surprise. ‘It’s my name,’ said Mrs Bulfinch. ‘My mother was half French.’

  ‘That explains a great deal,’ replied Mrs Forrester, pursing her lips, for though she admired the literature of our neighbours she knew that their morals left much to be de
sired.

  ‘What I say is, Albert’s worked long enough, and it’s about time he started enjoying himself I’ve got a little bit of property at Clacton-on-Sea. It’s a very healthy neighbourhood and the air is wonderful. We could live there very comfortable. And what with the beach and the pier there’s always something to do. They’re a very nice lot of people down there. If you don’t interfere with nobody, nobody’ll interfere with you.’

  ‘I discussed the matter with my partners today and they’re willing to buy me out. It means a certain sacrifice. When everything is settled I shall have an income of nine hundred pounds a year. There are three of us, so it gives us just three hundred a year apiece.’

  ‘How am I to live on that?’ cried Mrs Albert Forrester. ‘I have my position to keep up.’

  ‘You have a fluent, a fertile, and a distinguished pen, my dear.’

  Mrs Albert Forrester impatiently shrugged her shoulders.

  ‘You know very well that my books don’t bring me in anything but reputation. The publishers always say that they lose by them and in fact they only publish them because it gives them prestige.’

  It was then that Mrs Bulfinch had the idea that was to have consequences of such magnitude.

  ‘Why don’t you write a good thrilling detective story?’ she asked.

  ‘Me?’ exclaimed Mrs Albert Forrester, for the first time in her life regardless of grammar.

  ‘It’s not a bad idea,’ said Albert. ‘It’s not a bad idea at all.’

  ‘I should have the critics down on me like a thousand bricks.’

  ‘I’m not so sure of that. Give the highbrow the chance of being lowbrow without demeaning himself and he’ll be so grateful to you, he won’t know what to do.’

  ‘For this relief much thanks,’ murmured Mrs Albert Forrester reflectively. ‘My dear, the critics’ll eat it. And written in your beautiful English they won’t be afraid to call it a masterpiece.’

  ‘The idea is preposterous. It’s absolutely foreign to my genius. I could never hope to please the masses.’