The Bachelors

  ‘I’ve got the letter that Patrick Seton forged,’ Elsie shouted up at him. ‘But I intend keeping it. It’s here in my bag, but I’m keeping it.’

  Matthew sat at a table in the ‘Oriflamme’ watching Alice who had told him, ‘Elsie won’t be here this afternoon.’

  ‘I thought she always worked on Saturday afternoons.’

  ‘Well, she’s not coming today, I don’t think.’

  ‘Any idea where she is?’

  ‘No idea. She may come in later, of course.’

  ‘I’ll wait,’ Matthew said. ‘I’m on duty tonight from six, but I’ll wait till five.’

  ‘You’re very keen,’ said Alice.

  ‘No I’m not,’ he said. ‘I like sitting here watching you.’

  ‘While waiting for Elsie.’

  ‘I’ve got to see Elsie on some business. Can you guess what it is?’

  ‘No,’ Alice said, ‘and I wouldn’t care to try.’

  ‘She’s a very nice girl, of course. A beautiful girl,’ Matthew said.

  ‘Oh, is she beautiful? — Not that I’m saying—’

  ‘Well, now,’ Matthew said, ‘I believe in original sin, and that all the utterances of man are inevitably deep in error. Therefore I speak so as to err on the happy side.’

  ‘She has a beautiful nature, Elsie has, I’ll say that,’ said Alice anxiously. ‘I’m sorry she’s not here for you. But I’ll give her a message for you. You can’t sit here drinking coffee all afternoon.’

  ‘I’ll take a cup of tea,’ Matthew said. ‘Do you serve teas?’

  ‘No.’ Alice hung around him, as if waiting for more information. It was early yet for the afternoon trade and only two other tables were occupied. ‘Elsie may not come,’ she said.

  ‘Sit down a minute,’ Matthew said, ‘and rest yourself.’ Her small stomach showed a slight pear-shaped swelling which appealed considerably to Matthew.

  She sat down, resting her wrists on the table and drooping her long neck. Her shoulder-blades curved gracefully.

  ‘Has Elsie got the letter?’ Matthew said.

  ‘What letter?’ Alice said.

  ‘Has she mentioned anything to you about the letter in Patrick’s case? The one he forged—’

  ‘The widow wrote it. Patrick did not forge it. That’s a lie. It will be proved when—’

  ‘Has Elsie seen the letter?’

  ‘Elsie? Why should Elsie see the letter? Ask your posh friend Ronald with his rolled umbrella about the letter. He’s working on it, isn’t he? I bet he’s being paid to say it’s a forgery. He hasn’t got anything to do with Elsie if that’s what’s in your mind.’

  ‘Ronald’s all right.’

  ‘Well, so’s Patrick.’

  ‘He isn’t, you know.’

  ‘A lot of people are jealous of Patrick. It’s the price he has to pay. Why are you waiting for Elsie?’

  ‘You’re jealous of Elsie,’ he said.

  She jumped up and went to the bar where she ordered coffee for him. When it was ready she brought it over to his table and placed it before him with a gesture which was as near to throwing it at him as was compatible with not spilling a single drop of the coffee. Meanwhile, he admired her pear-shaped stomach.

  ‘I said tea,’ Matthew said. ‘However, this will do, Alice, my dear.’

  ‘I said we don’t do teas. Patrick is a poet beneath the skin,’ she said.

  ‘I’m a poet in the marrow of my bones,’ he said.

  She stroked her head, drawing her hand up and over the high piled hair and, looking up at the blue and starry ceiling, disappeared into the back quarters.

  Matthew wrote a secret poem to Alice to while away the afternoon. As he wrote she served him with three more cups of coffee and a slice of walnut cake.

  There was still no sign of Elsie at half-past five, so he paid his bill and left the secret poem on the table where she later found it.

  To Alice, Carrying her Tray

  O punk me a mims my joyble prime

  And never be blay to me.

  The wist may reeve and the bly go dim

  But I’ll gim flate by thee.

  And all agone and all to come,

  The sumper limm beware.

  I’ll meet thee ever away away

  At Wanhope-by-the-Pear.

  Chapter X

  NEXT day, Sunday morning, Sunday afternoon and the long jaded evening — the very clocks seeming to yawn — occurred all over London and especially in Kensington, Chelsea and Hampstead, where there were newspapers, bells, talk, sleep, fate.

  Some bachelors went to church. Some kept open bed all morning and padded to and from it, with trays of eggs and coffee; these men wriggled their toes when they had got back to bed and, however hard they tried, could not prevent some irritating crumbs of toast from falling on the sheets; they smoked a cigarette, slept, then rose at twelve.

  Those who were conducting love affairs in service flatlets found it convenient that the maids did not come in with their vacuum cleaners on Sundays. They made coffee and toast on the little grill in the alcove behind the curtain.

  Tim Raymond had a large front furnished room on the first floor of a house in Gloucester Road, Kensington. The carpet was green, the walls a paler green, the sofa and easy chairs were covered with deep brown plush. He had hung on the walls of this furnished room some sea-scape water colours executed by a deceased uncle; he had placed on the lower shelves of a bookcase, behind the glass, three pieces of Georgian silver — a coffee pot, a fruit dish and a salt, relics of a great-aunt; on the upper shelves were some fat light-brown call.. bound racing calendars dating from 1909, which Tim rightly thought looked nice.

  There was a divan bed, in which Hildegarde Krall still lay half-asleep, and in the opposite wall an alcove containing a small electric grill and a wash-basin where Tim was brushing his teeth.

  Hildegarde’s head was turned away from Tim, and at this angle of profile he thought she looked masculine. She turned round and propped up on her elbow to watch him. She said, ‘It’s twenty to eleven.’

  Tim brushed his teeth at her, turning his head towards her.

  She said, ‘Is it raining?’

  The telephone rang. Tim spat out his tooth-water into the basin and went to answer it. ‘I suppose it’s my Aunt Marlene,’ he said.

  ‘Halo,’ he said. ‘Yes, Marlene. No, I’ve been up for hours. Yes. No, I’m afraid not today. No, not, I’m afraid. I’m afraid not. All day today, no. Well, yes, I do see, Marlene, but I don’t want to be involved, really. One doesn’t want… Well, Aunt Marlene, I hardly ever really saw him in action, I mean. I mean, I know he’s a good medium, but really don’t you think the law should take its course? Yes, the law, but I mean it should take — They cross-examine all witnesses, you know. I can’t possibly manage today, Marlene. Tomorrow, yes, at six.’ Tim tucked the receiver under his chin and wiped his glasses on a handkerchief. ‘At six, yes. Yes,’ he said, ‘tomorrow. Oh, I’m lovely, how are you? Goodbye, darling. Yes, ye—six.’

  He flopped into the brown plush chair and lit a cigarette. ‘I’m too young for all this,’ he said. The telephone rang again.

  ‘Hallo — Marlene! No, not at all. Yes, Marlene. —Well, can’t we discuss it tomorrow? Yes, of course, do tell me now — Yes. Yes. Oh, but Ronald’s probably away. Away for the week-end. In fact, I’m sure he is, I think so. I haven’t got his number, Marlene, isn’t he in the book? He wouldn’t discuss it with you, anyway, he’s awfully strict about confidential — Oh, no, I’m sure he couldn’t have lost anything. He never loses —No, you’ve been misinformed, really. No, I’m sorry, I haven’t got Ronald’s number. I’ll ring him at his office in the morning. Yes, don’t worry. The morning. I’ll ring — No, not at all. I say, I must go, I’ll be late for — Yes. ‘Bye-’bye.’

  ‘What has Ronald lost?’ said Hildegarde.

  ‘A letter connected with a criminal investigation.’

  ‘Ronald has lost it? He needs someone to look after him. I us
ed to do everything for him. I used to—’

  ‘Yes, you told me.’

  ‘Well, so I did. What does your aunt want with Ronald?’

  ‘I don’t know. I don’t want to be involved, quite frankly.’

  ‘I used to mend all Ronald’s clothes. I used to buy the theatre tickets. I used to rush to his flat after my work and___’

  ‘I know,’ said Tim, ‘you told me.’ And he plugged in his electric razor, the noise of which drowned her voice.

  Ronald came out of church after the eleven o’clock Mass and noticed that the youngest priest was standing in the porch saying appropriate things to the home-going faithful. Ronald did not like seeing this very young priest, not because he disliked the priest but because the priest was young, and of a physical type similar to himself, and reminded Ronald of his own blighted vocation. This very young priest prided himself on knowing the majority of the Parish by name.

  ‘Well, Eileen,’ he said, as they emerged. ‘Well, Patsy. Well, Mrs. Mills. Well, John, and what can I do you for?’

  ‘Oh, good morning, Father.’ … ‘How’s yourself, Father.’ … ‘Oh, Father, when are you coming to see us?’ … ‘The bingo drive was nice, Father.’ ‘… delightful sermon, Father.’

  ‘Well, Tom,’ said the priest. ‘Well, Mary, and how’s your mother?’

  ‘A bit better, thank you, Father.’

  ‘Well, Ronald,’ said this very young priest as Ronald came Out.

  ‘Well, Sonny,’ Ronald said.

  The young priest stared after Ronald as he rapidly walked his way, then remembered Ronald Bridges was an epileptic, and turned to the next comer.

  ‘Well, Matthew,’ he said, ‘and how’s life with you?’

  ‘All right, thank you, Father,’ said Matthew Finch. ‘Father, if you’ll excuse me I can’t stop. I’ve got to catch up with Ronald Bridges, Father, before he gets on the bus. But I’ll be seeing you, Father.’

  Matthew caught up with Ronald at the bus stop.

  ‘I managed to see Elsie early this morning,’ he said. ‘She’s got the letter but she won’t part with it unless I sleep with her again.’

  Ronald said, ‘Tell me later,’ for a number of the church people in the bus queue had turned to take note of this talk.

  ‘I told her she’d be arrested,’ Matthew rattled on, ‘for entering your flat on false pretences and for robbery. I told her—’

  ‘Come back with me and then tell me all,’ Ronald said.

  ‘Well, she wants me to sleep with her again, and I’m not going to. She’s a pervert, I can tell you that much, and I don’t like perverted girls. If she isn’t a pervert she’s a nymphomaniac, it’s just the same.’

  The bus drew up. Ronald and Matthew followed the queue on to it. Those who had formed the most interested audience for Matthew followed them upstairs. Two girls sat behind them, giggling.

  ‘Don’t say any more now,’ Ronald murmured. ‘People can hear you.’

  ‘Two to South Kensington, please. I don’t want,’ Matthew said, ‘to sleep with Elsie, I want to sleep with Alice. If I was to sleep with Elsie again I’d have to pretend it was Alice. And anyway, I’m not sleeping with girls any more, it’s a mortal sin and you can’t deny it,’ and he took his change from the conductor. ‘Elsie,’ he said, ‘is—’

  ‘Shut up.’

  ‘Elsie,’ Matthew whispered, ‘is a bit jealous of Alice and her beauty. She hasn’t a man of her own, and she was after some spiritualist clergyman but she found out he was homosexual, and she couldn’t stand for it. Homosexuals send her raving mad. She was going to give him the letter yesterday, and didn’t she find out yesterday—’

  ‘What did this clergyman want with the letter?’

  ‘He’s in the spiritualist group. They all want to plot against Patrick Seton or plot for him, there’s a great schism going on in the Circle just now.’

  They got off at South Kensington and walked to Ronald’s flat.

  ‘Elsie is going to use that letter to get a man and it isn’t going to be me,’ Matthew said. ‘She’s got some passionate ways in sex. Not that I’m narrow-minded, only she’s not beautiful like Alice, and you can’t allow for funny passions in a girl that isn’t beautiful.’

  In the flat, Ronald said, ‘I’d better see Elsie. Will she be at the “Oriflamme” today?’

  ‘Yes, at six tonight.’

  ‘What’s her address?’

  ‘Ten Vesey Street near Victoria, first-floor flat.

  Ronald wrote it down. Matthew said, ‘But don’t go there. She’s a dangerous woman. She___’

  The telephone rang. ‘Marlene Cooper here,’ said the voice. ‘Ronald, you’ll remember coming to lunch with me. I’m Tim’s aunt.’ She articulated the vowels as if addressing a mental defective.

  ‘Yes, how are you?’ Ronald said.

  ‘Listen carefully,’ she said. ‘You have lost a document, haven’t you?’

  ‘A document?’ Ronald said.

  ‘I’m sorry if you’re going to take up that attitude,’ she said.

  ‘Attitude?’ Ronald said.

  ‘Yes, because there might be a chance of my helping you.’

  ‘Helping me?’

  ‘Yes, helping you. I think I might be able to give you the name of the person who holds the document, and this would save you a lot of embarrassment, if only—’

  ‘Embarrassment?’

  ‘It is not a forgery,’ Marlene said. ‘And if you would come along here and discuss the matter, I think you would find it to your advantage. Can you manage six o’clock? It isn’t a forgery, that must be made plain. Patrick Seton must be cleared of this slander. I will explain everything. Sherry at six o’clock or six-thirty and stay for supper, Ronald—’

  ‘Forgery?’ Ronald said.

  ‘It is not a forgery,’ Marlene said. ‘On that I insist. And if you will agree simply to say so to your superiors I can give you the name and address of a certain young woman.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Ronald said, ‘but really I don’t like young women.’

  ‘Can you manage today, six o’clock?’ Marlene said.

  ‘I’m afraid not. I’ve got to see a young woman.’

  He said to Matthew after he had hung up, ‘Tim’s auntie is a woman of few scruples when she’s after something.’

  ‘Would you come across the road for a drink?’ Matthew said. ‘All women under the sun are unscrupulous if there’s something they want.’

  ‘She was prepared to sell me Elsie’s name and address,’ Ronald said. ‘But as I’ve got it from you for free, I’ll purchase a drink for you.’

  ‘But isn’t it a great mistake to be bitter about the female sex!’ Matthew said. ‘We owe them everything.’

  On Sunday afternoon Isobel Billows stoked up the fire and sent Martin Bowles to fetch in some more coal. He put the brief he was reading down on the floor beside his chair and went to do her bidding. As he could not hear the front-door bell from the back of the house where he was filling the scuttle with coal, he was surprised, on his return, to find Walter Prett, the art critic, plumply occupying his chair. Walter had one foot on Martin’s brief.

  ‘You are trampling on my brief,’ Martin said, bending to extricate it from under Walter’s heel. He smoothed out the squashed manilla cover of the file which held his brief. ‘There’s a hundred and eighty pounds’ worth of business in here,’ Martin said fretfully.

  ‘Don’t be vulgar,’ said Walter.

  ‘Now, bachelors,’ said Isobel, ‘don’t quarrel.’

  ‘I deny there’s anything particularly vulgar about money,’ Martin said.

  ‘Did you put on the kettle as you came through the kitchen?’ Isobel said.

  ‘No, you didn’t ask me to,’ said Martin.

  ‘Well, go and do it now,’ Walter said.

  ‘Walter!’ said Isobel, and she pushed the Sunday papers off her lap and got up, setting her fair hair straight. ‘We’ll have some tea,’ she said and departed.

  Walter said, ??
?I wonder if you’d let me have___’

  ‘No,’ said Martin.

  ‘Vulgar little fellow,’ Walter said, tossing his snow-white locks. His dark face turned a shade more towards purple. He took a cigarette from a packet which was lying on the arm of his chair. They were Martin’s cigarettes. Martin lifted the deprived packet and put it in his pocket.

  Walter tore a strip of newspaper and lit his cigarette from the fire.

  ‘I didn’t see you here at the party,’ Martin said.

  ‘Which party?’

  ‘Oh, sorry. I suppose you weren’t invited.’

  ‘I believe Isobel did mention something,’ Walter said. ‘But I was busy.’

  Martin began reading his brief.

  ‘Too busy,’ said Walter, ‘to mix with those common little people that hang round Isobel at her parties. Pimps and tarts and Jews.’

  Martin read on.

  ‘Spongers and soaks. Third-rate lower-middle class …’

  Isobel pushed open the door with her tray.

  ‘Walter is describing the people who come to your parties,’ Martin said, ‘Isobel dear.’

  ‘What people?’ said Isobel, settling the tray.

  ‘The sort of people who were at your cocktail party the other night.’

  ‘Oh, Walter,’ Isobel said. ‘My party — I tried to get you on the ‘phone, but you were always out. And I meant to send you a card but completely forgot, hoping to get you on the ‘phone, you see—’

  ‘I wouldn’t have come,’ Walter shouted. ‘A vulgar third-rate set. Journalists. British Council lecturers. Schoolmasters. A typical divorcée’s salon.’ And so saying he rose, lifted the tray of tea-things, smashed it down into the fireplace, wormed his bulk into the ancient camel-hair coat which he had thrown on a chair, and left, banging both doors.

  ‘You must have upset him,’ Isobel said to Martin.

  ‘A good thing too. He only came here to sponge on you. He tried to touch me — you weren’t five seconds out of the room.’

  ‘Oh, what a creature! And he can be so interesting when he likes. It’s my favourite china…’ She started to cry.

  ‘Send him a bill.’