To Room Nineteen: Collected Stories Volume One

‘There’s ever such a nice show running now,’ said Betty. ‘The one at the Princess.’

‘We never get to a show these days,’ said Tommy. ‘It’s five hours by train. Anyway, it’s not in my line.’

‘Speak for yourself,’ said Mary.

‘Oh, I know you work in a matinée when you can.’

At the irritation in the look she gave him, the Clarkes involuntarily exchanged a glance; and Betty said tactfully, ‘I like going to the theatre; it gives you something to talk about.’

Mary remained silent.

‘My wife,’ said Tommy, ‘knows a lot about the theatre. She used to be in a theatre set – all that sort of thing.’

‘Oh, how interesting!’ said Betty eagerly.

Mary struggled with temptation, then fell. ‘The man who did the décor for the show at the Princess used to have a villa here. We visited him quite a bit.’

Tommy gave his wife an alarmed and warning look, and said, ‘I wish to God they wouldn’t use so much garlic.’

‘It’s not much use coming to France,’ said Mary, ‘if you’re going to be insular about food.’

‘You never cook French at home,’ said Tommy suddenly. ‘Why not, if you like it so much?’

‘How can I? If I do, you say you don’t like your food messed up.’

‘I don’t like garlic either,’ said Betty, with the air of one confessing a crime. ‘I must say I’m pleased to be back home where you can get a bit of good plain food.’

Tommy now looked in anxious appeal at his wife, but she inquired, ‘Why don’t you go to Brighton or somewhere like that?’

‘Give me Brighton any time,’ said Francis Clarke. ‘Or Cornwall. You can get damned good fishing off Cornwall. But Betty drags me here. France is overrated, that’s what I say.’

‘It would really seem to be better if you stayed at home.’

But he was not going to be snubbed by Mary Rogers. ‘As for the French,’ he said aggressively, ‘they think of nothing but their stomachs. If they’re not eating, they’re talking about it. If they spent half the time they spend on eating on something worthwhile, they could make something of themselves, that’s what I say.’

‘Such as – catching fish?’

‘Well, what’s wrong with that? Or … for instance …’ Here he gave the matter his earnest consideration. ‘Well, there’s that government of theirs for instance. They could do something about that.’

Betty, who was by now flushed under her tan, rolled her eyes, and let out a high, confused laugh. ‘Oh well, you’ve got to consider what people say. France is so much the rage.’

A silence. It was to be hoped the awkward moment was over. But no; for Francis Clarke seemed to think matters needed clarifying. He said, with a sort of rallying gallantry towards his wife, ‘She’s got a bee in her bonnet about getting on.’

‘Well,’ cried Betty, ‘it makes a good impression, you must admit that. And when Mr Beaker – Mr Beaker is his boss,’ she explained to Mary, ‘when you said to Mr Beaker at the whist drive you were going to the south of France, he was impressed, you can say what you like.’

Tommy offered his wife an entirely disloyal, sarcastic grin.

‘A woman should think of her husband’s career,’ said Betty. ‘It’s true, isn’t? And I know I’ve helped Francie a lot. I’m sure he wouldn’t have got that raise if it weren’t for making a good impression. Besides you meet such nice people. Last year, we made friends well, acquaintance, if you like – with some people who live at Ealing. We wouldn’t have, otherwise. He’s in the films.’

‘He’s a cameraman,’ said Francis, being accurate.

‘Well, that’s films, isn’t it? And they asked us to a party. And who do you think was there?’

‘Mr Beaker?’ inquired Mary finely.

‘How did you guess? Well, they could see, couldn’t they? And I wouldn’t be surprised if Francis couldn’t be buyer, now they know he’s used to foreigners. He should learn French, I tell him.’

‘Can’t speak a word,’ said Francis. ‘Can’t stand it anyway – gabble, gabble, gabble.’

‘Oh, but Mrs Rogers speaks it so beautifully,’ cried Betty.

‘She’s cracked,’ said Francis, good-humouredly, nodding to indicate his wife. ‘She spends half the year making clothes for three weeks’ holiday at the sea. Then the other half making Christmas presents out of bits and pieces. That’s all she ever does.’

‘Oh, but it’s so nice to give people presents with that individual touch,’ said Betty.

‘If you want to waste your time I’m not stopping you,’ said Francis. ‘I’m not stopping you. It’s your funeral.’

‘They’re not grateful for what we do for them,’ said Betty, wrestling with tears, trying to claim the older woman as an ally. ‘If I didn’t work hard, we couldn’t afford the friends we got …’

But Mary Rogers had risen from her place. ‘I think I’m ready for bed,’ she said. ‘Good night, Mrs Clarke. Good night, Mr Clarke.’ Without looking at her husband, she walked away.

Tommy Rogers hastily got up, paid the bill, bade the young couple an embarrassed good night, and hurried after his wife. He caught her up at the turning of the steep road up to the villa. The stars were brilliant overhead; the palms waved seductively in the soft breeze. ‘I say,’ he said angrily, ‘that wasn’t very nice of you.’

‘I haven’t any patience with that sort of thing,’ said Mary. Her voice was high and full of tears. He looked at her in astonishment and held his peace.

But next day he went off fishing. For Mary, the holiday was over. She was packing and did not go to the beach.

That evening he said, ‘They’ve asked us back for dinner.’

‘You go. I’m tired.’

‘I shall go,’ he said defiantly, and went. He did not return until very late.

They had to catch the train early next morning. At the little station, they stood with their suitcases in a crowd of people who regretted the holiday was over. But Mary was regretting nothing. As soon as the train came, she got in and left Tommy shaking hands with crowds of English people whom, apparently, he had met the night before. At the last minute, the young Clarkes came running up in bathing suits to say goodbye. She nodded stiffly out of the train window and went on arranging the baggage. Then the train started and her husband came in.

The compartment was full and there was an excuse not to talk. The silence persisted, however. Soon Tommy was watching her anxiously and making remarks about the weather, which worsened steadily as they went north.

In Paris there were five hours to fill in.

They were walking beside the river, by the open-air market, when she stopped before a stall selling earthenware.

‘That big bowl,’ she exclaimed, her voice newly alive, ‘that big red one, there – it would be just right for the Christmas tree.’

‘So it would. Go ahead and buy it, old girl,’ he agreed at once, with infinite relief.

The Day Stalin Died (#ulink_e294a90b-8e57-5e55-a04c-7066f4958aca)

That day began badly for me with a letter from my aunt in Bournemouth. She reminded me that I had promised to take my cousin Jessie to be photographed at four that afternoon. So I had; and had forgotten all about it. Having arranged to meet Bill at four, I had to telephone him to put it off. Bill was a film writer from the United States who, having had some trouble with an un-American Activities Committee, was blacklisted, could no longer earn his living, and was trying to get a permit to live in Britain. He was looking for someone to be a secretary to him. His wife had always been his secretary but he was divorcing her after twenty years of marriage on the grounds that they had nothing in common. I planned to introduce him to Beatrice.