At six o’clock Bloburg, Cassidy’s Paris agent, lumbered massively into the foyer, exuding mad compliments even before he was through the swing door, and Shamus withdrew to the bedroom to read about prams.
“Aldo by God you are two hundred years younger how do you manage it my dear fellow look at me I am dying already! Cassidy how are you, listen tomorrow I give you a fantastic dinner, a place only the French are knowing, the best place Cassidy, the cream!”
All Bloburg’s hospitality was enjoyed tomorrow. He was a sad, noisy man who had lost everything in the war, children, houses, parents. On previous visits Cassidy had made much of him, even advising him on his luckless love life.
“Cassidy you are number one! All Paris is speaking of you listen I am telling you! You are an artist Cassidy! All Paris is fantastic for an artist!”
Paris is fantastic, artists are fantastic, Cassidy is fantastic; but not even Cassidy, who could take a great deal of flattery, any longer believed in sad Bloburg as his champion.
“Let’s have a drink,” he suggested.
“Cassidy you are so generous! All Paris is saying . . .”
He left late, having lingered in the hope of food, but Cassidy was hardened against him. He wanted to eat with Shamus and time was important to him.
Dining in the hotel, feeling their way with one another and not yet finding the right note, they drank to the book.
“Whose book?” said Shamus, lowering his glass.
“Your book. Your new one, ass. May it be a massive success.”
“Hey lover.”
“Yes.”
“Great brochures. Punchy, confident, persuasive. I enjoyed every word.”
“Thanks.”
“Write them yourself?”
“Largely.”
“Great talent there lover. Want to work on it.”
“Thanks,” said Cassidy again and returned to his lobster. They did it very well, he thought, in a garlic butter flavoured with rosemary.
“How long since you invented that braking system?” Shamus asked.
“Oh ten years . . . more, I suppose.”
“Anything since?”
“Well the sales side, you know. Manufacture, marketing, exploitation. We’ve even started producing our own bodies. In a small way, you know.”
“Sure, sure.”
Catching sight of his own reflection in the mirror, Shamus paused to admire his new suit, lifted his glass and drank to himself, then lifted his glass again to acknowledge the toast.
“But no new earth-shattering invention?” he resumed, settling back into his chair. “Huh? Huh?”
“Not really.”
“What about that new folding chassis?”
Cassidy gave a confessive laugh.
“I put my name on it but I’m afraid it was my design people who dreamed it up.”
“Christ,” said Shamus. “You’ve really got it made.”
Cassidy mentioned Helen. Helen was fine, said Shamus. She was staying with her mother, princesses had to be locked in towers.
“Time she was deprived,” he explained. “She was getting cheeky.”
“Did she enjoy London? Being with Hall and . . .”
Being not quite into the language, he had wanted to say Hall and Saul, but saved himself in time.
“Sure, sure,” said Shamus, and brushing Helen aside, embarked on a somewhat desultory enquiry into the dangers of foreign competition in the Pram Trade. Was a French pram sexier? A German pram more solid? How were the Russians coming on? While he was asking these questions, Shamus’ attention strayed to a young girl in the corner of the room. She was twelve years old, no more. She sat alone under a chandelier and wore Sandra’s silver dress from the May ball at Oxford. She had ordered something flambé which required fruit and a quantity of liqueurs. Two young waiters, under the eye of the maître d’hôtel, were ministering to her from a trolley.
“Christ never said anything about us, did he?” he remarked suddenly. “Not a word in the whole manifesto. All we’re supposed to do is keep the score.”
Taken by surprise, Cassidy faltered.
“Us?”
“Writers. Who do you think?”
He was still watching her but his expression was neither friendly nor curious, and his voice, as he continued speaking, had a trace of the familiar Irish brogue.
“I mean the pramsellers, all right: they’re for the high jump. Hard luck but you know where you stand. You’ve got it in this world so you can sing for it in the next.”
The girl was selecting bottles: not this one, that one; pointing with her small gloved hand. She wore a black band round her neck, a single diamond glittered at the centre.
“The peacemakers are laughing: they’re the children of God and no one could wish for better parents. But I’m not a fucking peacemaker, am I?”
“You certainly are not,” said Cassidy heartily, not yet fully woken to Shamus’ change of tone.
“I’m a collision man. A truth-teller, that’s me.”
“And an Old Testament man,” Cassidy reminded him, “like Hall.”
Had Shamus really boxed? Cassidy had boxed at Sherborne. He had made the mistake of taking a bath before the contest because he wished to please his housemaster, who had an elevated view of his religious potential. Though he had stood for quite a while being hit, he was obliged to lie down in the third round, and for years afterwards leather car seats made him sick.
“Piss off,” said Shamus.
“What?”
“Piss off. Shut up about Hall.”
“Sorry,” said Cassidy, puzzled.
It was the girl who still commanded Shamus’ entire attention. The maître d’hôtel poured a little lemonade into her wine glass. “Enough,” her frail hand said, and the bottle was removed.
“And that little bitch is all right because she’s a kid,” Shamus continued, still upon the subject of the saved. “And kids get blanket protection. Quite right and proper too. I’m a fervent supporter of the breed myself though I happen to reckon the age limit could come down a bit. But what do the writers get? I tell you one thing: we’re not meek, thank you, so we certainly don’t inherit the earth. And we’re not poor in spirit either, so we can’t count on the Kingdom of Heaven, for instance.”
His expression hesitated at the brink of anger. Taking Cassidy’s hand, he stroked it devotedly, soothing himself against it.
“Easy lover, easy . . . don’t get cross . . . easy . . .” Relaxing, he smiled. “You see, lover,” he explained in a gentler voice, “there’s just not enough information, that’s my view. I put this to Flaherty only last week. Flaherty, what are you going to do about the writers? I said. Do they get it now, or later? You do see my point, don’t you, lover? You’re the boss man after all. You’re paying.”
“Well you do have your freedom,” Cassidy suggested cautiously.
Shamus rounded on him.
“Freedom from what, for fuck’s sake? Freedom from all that lovely money? That freedom? Or was it by any chance the unbearable captivity of public recognition you were thinking of?”
Too late, Cassidy reached for his conference voice. “I suppose I was thinking more of freedom from boredom,” he said easily, using a passing waiter to order brandy.
“Were you now?” said Shamus pleasantly, the Irish brogue in full flower. “You may be right about that. I will concede that freedom from boredom is a privilege I may well have overlooked. Because after all, I could sleep all day, that’s true, and no bugger would raise a finger. Not everyone can say that now can they? I mean the warders wouldn’t come and bang on the door or tell me to empty my bucket, I’d just hear the sounds of laughter that’s all, and the fellows getting their exercise out in the fresh air with their girls maybe. Only trouble is, the nights are such a problem, don’t you think?”
“Yes indeed,” Cassidy agreed.
With child-like fascination Shamus watched him tip the waiter. It was a very large tip but Cassidy abroad believed
in laying strong fences against disrespect.
“What’ll you do in nineteen eighty?” Shamus asked, when the transaction was complete.
“I’m sorry?”
“World population’s growing seventy million a year, lover. That’s a hell of a lot of people to tip, isn’t it? Even for you.”
Their parting was equally enigmatic.
“You do feel well?” Cassidy asked doubtfully as he saw Shamus to the lobby.
“Don’t worry lover, I’ll be all right on the night.”
“Bit too much of Elsie I expect.”
“Who?”
“Elsie.”
“Sure . . . Lover?”
“Yes?”
“You will let me have a go on those prams, won’t you?” An odd defencelessness had replaced the earlier menace. “Only . . . well you know, it’s what I came for. I feel I could do it you see. Sell. I reckon I could turn it into a real vocation. Hey lover.”
“Yes.”
“Thanks for the suit.”
“That’s all right.”
“The lobster was great.”
“I’m glad you liked it.”
“Great bread too. Crisp outside, squidgy in the middle. There’s so much of you I could use,” Shamus remarked suddenly, putting his hands on Cassidy’s shoulders. “Hey listen . . .” Cassidy listened. “We got to love each other, see. It’s the great experiment, like blacks and whites and all that shit. But if I don’t have you all, I don’t get any of you, do I? You’re such a big slimy fish. I can put my hands on you but I don’t know where you end.... You’re awful, honest. . . .”
Cassidy laughed awkwardly. “Perhaps it’s just as well you don’t know,” he said, releasing himself in case Shamus was contemplating a public embrace. “I say you didn’t bring a copy of the book, did you?”
Somewhere in the brown darkness of Shamus’ eyes, a warning light went up, and stayed.
“What if I did?”
“It’s just that I’d love to read it, that’s all. If you’ve brought one. What stage is it at actually?” he added. Receiving no answer, he deemed a subsidiary question politic. “Will it be a film, like Moon? I’ll bet that’s worth a bit just by itself. Let alone the book sales.... Paperback, too, I suppose?” As he continued speaking, Shamus was already backing into the lift.
“You know,” Shamus said as his feet ascended into the shaft, “if I was Flaherty I could work this thing alone.”
It was midnight by the time Cassidy joined him. He had business in the Bristol Bar and another meeting with Bloburg, and at eleven o’clock a public relations girl called to check handouts. Shamus was lying like a dead onionseller dressed in the black coat again, flat on his stomach on the coverlet with his face in the beret. His new suit was hung carefully in the wardrobe with an Exhibitor’s badge pinned to the lapel. The brochures were still strewn beside him on the floor. A ruled pad was propped on the chimney piece.
Honourable Sir, the message read, Kindly to wake the undersigned tomorrow morning punctual for the Fair your obedient humble servant Shamus P. Scardanelli (Vendor). The postscript said, Please lover. Please. Major commitment. And lover forgive, please forgive. Vital.
A lorry was parked outside the window and workmen were unloading crates on the cobblestones, shouting jokes he couldn’t understand.
I should have bought him pyjamas too, thought Cassidy. Why does he have to wrap himself in that coat?
He sleeps like Hugo but quieter, cheeks squashed against his forearm in a pout.
Down in the street a woman was calling, a tart by the sound of her and drunk. Is that what I want him to do: pimp for me? Forgive lover, forgive. You’re so full of truth, Cassidy thought, looking at him again, what is there to forgive?
“Dale?”
Shamus was muttering but Cassidy couldn’t hear the words. You’re dreaming, he thought, turning to look at him again, you’re dreaming of Elsie and selling prams. Why not dream of Helen?
Suddenly Shamus cried out, a short hard cry of “No!” or “Go!” swinging his shoulders in angry rejection.
“Shamus,” Cassidy said quietly and put out his hand to touch him. “Shamus it’s all right, it’s me; Cassidy. I’m here, Shamus.”
No, he thought, as Shamus settled again, better to be just the two of us. Dream of Helen another time.
“Dale you bugger.”
“It’s not Dale. It’s Cassidy.”
A long silence.
“Can I come to the Fair?”
“Yes, you can come.”
“In my new suit?”
“In your new suit.”
Minutes later Shamus woke again, abruptly.
“Where’s my carnation?”
“I put it in the toothmug.”
“It’s for the lady buyers you see. At the Fair.”
“I know. It’ll slay them.”
“Goodnight lover.”
“Goodnight Shamus.”
17
The day was dull for Cassidy, for Shamus balm. The pramseller rose without haste, his ears already full of the greedy, unproductive clichés of the trade; but the great writer was already dressed save for his feet; was pacing the floor with the alacrity of the young executive bent on increasing his figures. His lacquered shoes were back with the valet; dust had been identified in the welts. Cassidy had planned to leave late, but Shamus would have none of it. Great conquests were in the air, he insisted; Cassidy and Shamus must be in the field early, breathe heart into the troops.
They arrived in fine rain; the tents were sagging dismally on their masts, smelling of rugger and changing rooms.
“Bee-Line?” Shamus cried indignantly. “Bee-Line? Never heard of them.”
“Our main competition,” said Cassidy.
Two Beefeaters guarded the entrance; halberdiers were serving bitter beer in pewter tankards.
“You mean you camp with the enemy? Jesus lover, you got to burn them down! Rape their women, nippers to the stake!”
“Take it easy,” said Cassidy. “Hullo Mr. Stiles.”
“Oh hullo Mr. Cassidy. How’s business? Doing anything, are you?”
“Not much; I hear it’s pretty quiet.”
“I think it’s the same everywhere,” said Stiles with satisfaction. “I don’t think devaluation’s bitten the way it ought, do you?”
“I’m sure it hasn’t,” said Cassidy.
“Creep,” said Shamus, as they left. “Toady.”
“You’ve got to keep on terms with them,” Cassidy explained. “After all, it is us against the foreigners.”
The Cassidy tent restored him to humour. Introduced as an important contact of the Chairman’s, Shamus tested the chassis, rode in a pushchair, flirted with the girls, and talked about Saint Francis with Meale, who had recently become extremely sullen, and was expressing a desire to take Holy Orders. They all own him, Cassidy thought, mystified; they all own him. If I was the hanger-on they’d chuck me out in minutes. A large crowd had just entered the tent, mainly Scandinavians, women of a certain age. Over luncheon, befriending a Froken Svenson from Stavanger, Shamus sold her a hundred chassis at thirteen to the dozen. She should pay when she liked, he said, Cassidy’s had the large approach to money.
“Get hold of Lemming,” Cassidy said quietly to Meale. “Tell him to rescind the deal.”
“How?” said Meale, aggressively.
“Meale what is the matter with you?”
“Nothing. I happen to admire him, that’s all; I think he’s truthful and fine.”
“Lose the order, d’you understand? Bury it. She hasn’t signed anything, nor have we. We’ve never given thirteen to the dozen in our lives and we’re not starting now.”
“I made it, lover!” Shamus cried as the limousine returned them to the city. “I made it! Jesus I can swim! See the way I gave her the oil?”
“You were terrific,” Cassidy agreed. “You were absolutely great.”
“Jesus, that whole place, I could die there; I tell you, there’s no
better compliment than that now is there? The tent, the music, the flags . . . Lover, listen, before it goes to my head, was there anything I did wrong?”
“Nothing.”
“Not too much?”
“No.”
“Not too familiar? The hand on the arm?”
“Just right.”
By the time they reached the St. Jacques he was even capable of reproof.
“You know lover you shouldn’t have let those Japs in. I mean they were just standing there photographing the exhibits. I mean look what they did to the car trade. You should throw the sodders out, honest. Put a notice up ‘No Japs,’ I would.”
Lying in the bath, playing with the carnations, Shamus added his own bizarre appreciation of market trends: “Hey lover, what about Paisley now? I mean if that feller’s going to murder all us procreating Catholics there won’t be any bloody babies.”
“Ask Flaherty.”
“You know when you come to think of it, prams are a very worthy thing to be in. I mean prams are your ploughshares, aren’t they, for tomorrow’s world. I mean there’s other buggers churning out swords by the million but you and me are absolutely in the non-belligerent camp, wouldn’t you say so lover?”
“See you after the party,” Cassidy said benevolently.
“Why can’t I come?” he demanded sulkily. “I sold the prams not you.”
“Principals only,” said Cassidy. “Sorry.”
“Meeow,” said Shamus. “Those people loved me,” he continued reflectively, “and I loved them. A perfect marriage. A great pointer for the future.” He sang a few bars of an Irish melody. “Hey, lover, you never answered my question.”
“What question?”
“I asked you once: any views on the meaning of love?”
“I must say, you pick your moments, don’t you?” said Cassidy with a laugh.
With his toe, Shamus guided a carnation away from the jet of the tap. “Oh do not die,” he recited, apparently to the flower, “For I shall hate all women so when thou art gone. Chippie chippie, lover.”