England Made Me

  What had worried him was Laurin’s directorship. He had met Laurin; he had no opinion of Laurin; unconsciously he judged men by their physique (it was doubtful whether he would have recognized Krogh’s brains if they had been housed in a fragile body); Laurin was always falling sick. For a while he had been recklessly jealous; he was Krogh’s oldest friend; he had never let him down, but he was not a director, he was only the man Krogh could always trust to do exactly as he was told. It was not that he was paid less than Laurin or the other directors, but sometimes ambition stirred in Fred Hall to see his name in print. He was not unreasonable, he didn’t expect to be a director of the I.G.S., but sometimes it seemed to him that he might at least be on the board of some small subsidiary company like the Amsterdam one.

  He stubbed out the butt of his cigarette between his legs and stood up. He didn’t trust Laurin, he didn’t trust anyone near Krogh except himself, he wanted to blow off steam, there was nothing he would like so much at the moment as to beat someone up. Suddenly with a fierce possessive affection he remembered Krogh’s voice that morning over the telephone. ‘Fred,’ he had said, as in the old days before they were employer and employed; he had told him to come directly everything was settled, he might be needed. Fred Hall stood with his legs apart in the swaying lavatory; under his feet he could feel the framework of the plane weighing on the wind currents, trembling with the engine’s tremendous forward drive. My God, Fred Hall thought, if anyone’s played the dirty on Mr Krogh, I’ll just blow off steam. He didn’t trust Laurin, he didn’t even trust Kate. She’s not our class, he thought. She was a skirt, she only lived with Krogh, he was convinced, for what she could get out of him. He didn’t count his own three thousand pounds a year; he counted it so little that he had spent already more than a fortnight’s earnings on a present for Krogh, which he would present with embarrassment, obstinate if it were refused, saying he had bought it for someone else who had no use for it and must find it a good home somewhere; they were smart cuff-links, you couldn’t just throw them in the dustbin.

  He staggered back to his seat; he was a little bow-legged, and that increased the turfy air he carried with him. He was anxious and impatient; he had left Amsterdam at 12.30, the selling of the shares had been quite checked, the price had even a little appreciated, he had his private information that there would be no more abnormal dealings; he had intended to catch the night train from Malmö to Stockholm. But now nothing would satisfy him but seeing Krogh before he went to bed. The plane was due at Copenhagen at 5.25, at Malmö at 5.40. He decided that Krogh’s direction to come to Stockholm immediately the Amsterdam business was settled would cover the cost of an air taxi in his expenses sheet.

  The wireless operator hung up his earphones; the pilot put on his gold-laced cap; the engines were shut off, and the sudden silence pressed on the ears through the wads of cotton-wool. They sank through deep cloud towards a dark-green sea, towards evening sparkling on the ripples, flat, yellow, luminous. Denmark was like the jagged pieces of a jig-saw puzzle. Nosing down, they swung in a wide arc over the sea, the wings were flattened out to lose the wind’s resistance, they soared up again in a burst of the engine, then drove down, touched and sprang from the pale grass, bounced and beat it down. To Fred Hall the ten minutes’ wait at Copenhagen seemed like an hour; he was fussed and aggravated, but he showed it only in his restless bowlegged walk.

  And then at Malmö there was more delay, no taxi in the seaplane port; he had to wait until they fetched him one from Stockholm. He went into the refreshment-room and had a plate of creamy pastries and a cup of strong tea with a dash of brandy in it. Outside the water darkened and the masthead lights came out. With nothing better to do he began to write a letter to his mother at Dorking. He used an indelible pencil and a tear-off memo pad.

  Dear Ma, he wrote, I’m going back to Stockholm for a day or two. I saw Jack in Amsterdam but not to speak to. Has the cat kittened yet? It’s no good going on showing it that drawer; if she wants to kitten in the lavatory she will. I expect I shall be over for a few days at Christmas. Business is pretty lively. If I were you I’d lay off those shares for a week or two. Wait till I send you a wire. Did you put a fiver on Grey Lady as I told you to do? Don’t you mind what the Vicar says, I’ll have a chat with him at Christmas, we’ll show him where he gets off. A man like that makes me cross. If I’d a day to spare, I’d just like to come across and blow off steam. He looked out anxiously above his pile of crumbled pastry (he never had the patience to finish the dull parts of a cake), at the blue empty sky; he looked at his watch; he went on writing in a suppressed fury at time wasted; aware of the lights turned on, glittering in the glasses at the buffet, cracking in the mirrors. I don’t know what’s come over the Vicar, talking to you like that. There’s no harm in a little flutter.

  He put down his pencil; a light dropped out of the dark sky; a shadow brushed the water. He picked up his suitcase and dived for the door. ‘What do you mean,’ he asked the braided official at the head of the steps (the water of the harbour slapped and sucked), ‘by saying there was no seaplane in the port? What about that seaplane?’ and he pointed at the green light which bobbed and ducked towards them over the swell.

  ‘Your taxi is on the way,’ the official said. He turned away from Fred Hall and shouted, but Hall caught his elbow and swung him round.

  ‘I’ll take this one,’ Hall said, ‘see. This one. I’m in a hurry.’

  ‘Impossible. This has been chartered for Krogh’s. One of the directors,’ and Fred Hall saw a staid procession advance towards the stairs: two black-coated valets with suitcases, and a thin middle-aged woman, her pinched face heavily painted, who shivered in furs, an officer from the seaplane station, who kept on saying: ‘Herr Bergsten . . . Herr Bergsten,’ and the director himself, with his old bored eyes, a silk muffler twined round his scrawny neck. ‘Thank you, thank you,’ he repeated, taking the officer’s hand, feeling for the stairs with polished patent-leather shoes, while the official saluted and Hall stood back and thought with jealous rage: The old figurehead, treated like royalty, director Bergsten, he’s never even heard of me, the nights in Barcelona when I paid for the drink: with pained possessive love: Erik can’t depend on any of them, he pays them, he makes them famous, but when he wants something done he trusts Fred Hall.

  ‘Your taxi will be here in half an hour,’ the official said, and when there was no reply he looked round, astonished at the speed with which the thin furious figure had faded into the dark.

  4

  Through the wide hotel windows the sea was present as a band of darkness, slipping and gleaming under the light of a small private boat bringing some business men home to dinner.

  ‘But this is supposed to be his celebration, not yours,’ Kate said, dancing with Anthony. It was years since they had danced together. All their mutual childhood went into the perfect precision of their movements; they carried with them Mornington Crescent and their father’s disapproval and the little stained-glass hall.

  ‘Never mind, he’s marrying you, isn’t he?’ and the years they had been apart were pressed out between their bodies stepping to the obscure voluptuous muted tune.

  She protested: ‘It’ll make no difference,’ and leant her cheek against his to hear ‘He’s not good enough for you,’ to catch some sign of jealousy: he couldn’t really care for Loo.

  He said: ‘By God, there’s the Professor,’ and the music stopped. She clapped and clapped for an encore, his breath was winy, his hand damp, he was free as she could never be free; he had no responsibilities, other people would always do the fighting for him. They returned to the table, he was a little drunk and whistled some war-time tune, picked up in what club, on what old creaking horned gramophone, in the company of ex-officers, about an only girl; his melodies, like his slang, never contemporary; he lived the life of a generation before him, snatching a girl between leave trains. ‘When I’m in love and you’re in love.’ He said: ‘Now, if Loo were here –’


  ‘Is that really Hammarsten?’ Erik said.

  Past three mirrors, past a bank of flowers, the Professor sat in state with a small neat platinum blonde girl on his knee; he had lost his glasses down her dress and now he looked for them, while she wriggled and laughed. A tall handsome black-haired woman with a white tragedy face beat her glass up and down on the table and told him she was disgusted, that she wouldn’t take the part; a pale withered man lay across the table with his head in a plate. He hadn’t got beyond the soup.

  ‘He’s choosing his cast,’ Kate said.

  Erik Krogh began to laugh. Everyone looked at him. The manager came out from behind the bank of flowers and clapped his hands to the orchestra with blithe relief; he had been spying for half an hour between the leaves and the petals to see whether the party would be a success; all the waiters began to run about filling up glasses; a weight was lifted. Hammarsten suddenly spied them; he had his glasses again and now, spilling the blonde girl in her primrose dress on to the floor like a glass of hock, he came towards them, slipping and sodden and the worse for wear, tight black trousers and tailcoat. The two women trailed after him, leaving the pale man in the soup.

  ‘Sit down, Professor,’ Kate said. ‘Are you choosing your cast?’

  The black tragic woman said: ‘What an idea. There’s a brothel scene,’ she said using the English word as if she wouldn’t sully the Swedish language.

  ‘Hot stuff,’ Anthony said.

  The little blonde said: ‘Well, if you won’t take the part, I will. Won’t I, Professor?’

  ‘Back row of the chorus.’

  ‘Well, I’ve legs, haven’t I? Much good you’d be in a brothel.’

  ‘Ladies,’ said the Professor, ‘ladies,’ and dropped his glasses on the dark woman’s lap.

  ‘But have you chosen,’ Anthony asked, ‘what’s his name – the druid?’

  ‘Gower,’ the Professor said, ‘where’s Gower?’

  ‘He’s asleep in the soup,’ the blonde said. ‘Let him alone, dear.’

  ‘I think you’d do fine,’ Anthony said.

  ‘What do you mean, fine?’ the blonde girl said, speaking English with an American accent.

  ‘In the brothel scene.’

  For no reason at all the dark woman began to talk French; the party began to have the international and aggrieved character of a conference on disarmament.

  Anthony said: ‘Come for a walk. It’s hot.’

  ‘What do you mean, hot?’ the blonde said, as if she’d been insulted. She began to talk Swedish again to the Professor, who answered in English out of politeness to his English friends. He began to extol Krogh’s virtues. He spoke of a statue next to Gustavus’s facing Russia. ‘Facing Russia,’ he repeated with overpowering significance and a knowing nod to Krogh. They were all amazed by Krogh’s approachability; they gambolled round him excitedly; his presence lent to the party a background of peril; they were like children putting out their fingers towards the cage of a fierce but drowsy bird. They had a delicious sense of daring; they wondered when he would snap.

  But Krogh smiled at them with complete happiness. He thought: all these years the keeping up of appearances, the concerts, the operas, the receptions. He said to the waiter: ‘Some brandy.’

  ‘Une bouteille,’ Anthony said vaguely, and the tragic woman turned on him at once with a flow of French. He caught the words ‘Académie Française’ and ‘Cochons’ several times repeated.

  ‘Are you French?’ he said.

  ‘She French?’ the blonde said. ‘You make me laugh.’

  ‘Are you American?’

  ‘American,’ said the dark woman, ‘she’s never got further than Ellis Island.’

  ‘It’s hot in here. Come for a walk.’

  ‘Have some more brandy.’

  ‘We begin rehearsing tomorrow. Where’s Gower?’

  ‘You know they are going to be married.’

  ‘Don’t make me laugh.’

  ‘The idea – a brothel scene.’

  ‘Well, I don’t mind taking the part.’

  ‘A miserable little film actress.’

  ‘It’s hot in here.’

  ‘What do you mean, it’s hot?’

  ‘You need someone from the legitimate stage, Professor dear.’

  ‘It’s the only legitimate thing about her.’

  ‘Where are my glasses?’

  ‘Where’s Gower?’

  ‘Where’s the brandy?’

  ‘Don’t tickle, Professor dear.’

  ‘There ought to be a statue. There will be a statue.’

  ‘It’s a secret. Don’t tell anyone. They are going to be married.’

  ‘Anthony, keep your mouth shut. You’re drunk.’

  ‘Facing Russia.’

  ‘It’s the greatest play of the greatest dramatist.’

  ‘In the greatest translation, Professor dear.’

  ‘She makes me laugh.’

  ‘Here are your glasses.’

  ‘From ashes ancient Gower is come.’

  ‘Why not play the part yourself, Professor dear, instead of letting that drunken swine –?’

  ‘Come for a walk.’

  ‘Where’s the brandy?’

  ‘By many a dern and painful perch.’

  ‘Ask her to go for a walk. She’s hot. She’s sweating.’

  ‘I don’t want her. I want you.’

  ‘Thank you for nothing. Leave go of me. I want to talk to Herr Krogh.’

  ‘Kate, tell me. Do you think my job’s respectable?’

  ‘Oh, Anthony, be careful.’

  ‘Let me tell your fortune, Herr Krogh. Oooh, what a long, healthy life-line! You are going to be married and have three, four, five little kiddies.’

  ‘You bet he’s not.’

  ‘Anthony, be careful.’

  ‘Oh dear, I quite forgot. You ought to have crossed my hand with silver. Of course we don’t have silver nowadays, do we? But I daresay nickel would do – or a note. Just for luck, you know. I’ll give it back afterwards, if you like.’

  ‘With whom the father liking took,

  And her to incest did provoke.’

  ‘Frankly, I can’t think why the Professor’s so pleased with this play. It seems vulgar to me.’

  ‘Oh, see what Herr Krogh’s given to me. Would you believe it?’

  ‘Vulgar little thing. I’d act Marina if only to save the dear Professor’s play from her. Oh, Professor, your glasses again. No, no, let me fish them out.’

  ‘And she calls me vulgar.’

  ‘Come for a walk. It’s so hot.’

  ‘Well, I certainly will after that. She’s shameless.’

  ‘The ground’s the lowest, and we are half-way there.’

  ‘By heart, the whole play.’

  ‘Waiter, another bottle of brandy.’

  ‘Shan’t be long, Kate.’

  ‘Don’t talk, Anthony. Be careful what you say. Do be careful.’

  ‘I’ll be as mum as a fish, darling.’

  ‘Must cast thee, scarcely coffin’d, in the ooze.’

  ‘Somebody’s being drowned now.’

  ‘Or tie my treasure up in silken bags,

  To please the fool and death.’

  ‘He’s so intellectual. It’ll be a pleasure to work with him.’

  ‘Do hurry. If there’s one thing I hate it’s drowning.’

  ‘They say it’s the nicest death.’

  ‘How hot it is. Please come along.’

  ‘You see the whole of your past life. In a flash.’

  They came out among the flat flood-lit trees; high heels stumbling on the leaves, a thin metal complaint against the wind and dark; Anthony kissed her pinched prehensile lips; far below in the dark the tide broke along the jagged shore. ‘For look how fresh she looks,’ through the wide windows the Professor’s voice drunk but deeply moved, ‘They were too rough that threw her in the sea.’

  ‘What a wet play it is,’ Anthony said. ‘The sea. And ooze.’

/>   ‘I love the sea,’ the blonde said, with Garbo in her voice.

  ‘I suppose we could find a boat,’ he said, reluctantly: full fathom five: all your past life: the easiest death.

  ‘Not in these shoes, darling. What’s your name, darling?’

  ‘Anthony.’

  She was like a bundle of thin ropes when he kissed her; she pulled his hair with fingers which smelt of pear-drops; her mouth was sweet, synthetic, a laboratory fruit. She said: ‘Is that your sister?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I don’t believe you. You’re in love with her.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You naughty boy.’ She licked his chin. ‘You need a shave, darling,’ lick, lick, mechanically, like a match against emery-paper. ‘And to her incest did – did,’ he thought, the Professor’s voice telling of death at sea, Lloyd’s list, his never-known mother’s photograph face down in the suitcase in the attic, Kate. He put out his hand and felt in the darkness for the blonde; she stood a little way above him on the steep path; his hand touched silk and climbed to skin. Melancholy drunk or sober, he wondered, and said: ‘There’s someone behind you on the path.’ The blonde jumped and screamed and Anthony slipped, held her and slipped, recovered with his heels deep in the path. ‘It’s steep here,’ he said, ‘you nearly sent me over.’

  ‘But who is it on the path?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  They climbed back together to the lighted windows, the other side of the terrace with the tipped-up tables, the balustrade, the shifting sibilant leaves.

  ‘There’s no one there.’

  ‘Walking in front of us. There.’

  The blonde screamed again, this time for effect; she aped the legitimate stage – the tragic woman, with flung hands and tilted enamelled face; the air was full of pear-drops and sweet chemicals. Anthony said: ‘I’ll see what he wants.’

  ‘Farväl,’ the blonde said, dramatically Swedish, making-up her face beside the balustrade.

  Anthony came round the hotel on to the drive. ‘What do you want?’ The man was in the light now. He turned his perplexed smudged face and waited for Anthony. He was the younger: no collar, heavy boots; shyness. Anthony said again: ‘What do you want?’ It had rained while they sat at dinner; Anthony came no nearer. The man was soaked; the loose sole of one of his boots clapped when he moved.