Читать книгу A Piece of the Sky is Missing - David Nobbs - Страница 5

A London Night

Robert had first met Sonia twelve years previously, in the early December of 1955, at a party given by a friend of a friend of Doreen’s. Doreen shared with Brenda the room above Robert’s, at number 38. They were Yorkshire girls, from Dewsbury. They knew of every party within a six-mile radius of Kentish Town. They were waiting for the arrival of Mr Right. They liked Robert, and often dragged him off to parties, even though he wasn’t Mr Right.

Shortly after their arrival at the party, Robert found himself all alone. He took a second glass of the punch and drank it rapidly. He was twenty. He had just started at Cadman and Bentwhistle. He had never had a girl, and believed that this fact was written on his face. All the girls in the typing pool knew, and he hated it when he had to walk through the typing pool.

The room was dimly-lit, red, stripped for action, crowded. God, I hate parties, he thought.

A girl came in, apparently on her own. He made to move towards her, decided against it, decided in favour of it, did so, said: ‘Can I get you something to drink?’

‘Thank you,’ she said, in a confident upper-class voice.

He fished two butt ends out of the punchbowl and poured out two glasses.

‘What is it?’ she said.

‘Revolting,’ he said. ‘What’s your name?’

‘Polly.’

‘I’m the Maharajah of Inverness.’ She laughed, embarrassingly loudly. ‘My real name’s Robert,’ he said.

‘What do you do?’

‘I work in a firm that makes instruments.’

‘What sort of instruments?’

‘All sorts. Just instruments.’

‘Why aren’t you at the university? You aren’t thick, are you?’

‘No. I didn’t fancy it. I wanted to get out into the real world, and do some work.’ How incredibly pompous. Any minute now she would go. He didn’t want her to go. She was attractive. Dumpy, half-way towards being fat, with big breasts. Her nose was squashed, her mouth big and lazy. She was sexy in the way that Christmas pudding was appetizing. ‘I’m sorry. That sounds rather pompous,’ he said.

‘Not particularly.’

‘I’ve been in the army. National Service.’ How utterly boring. ‘One day, when we’re married, I shall tell you my amusing experiences.’ How ludicrously twittish and coy.

‘Were you an officer?’

‘God, no,’ he said, making a face – rather an effective face, he thought. He had been to a public school. His parents had been well off. He hated privilege and rank.

‘Daddy’s an admiral,’ she said.

‘Oh, really?’

‘Yes.’

She still hadn’t gone.

‘What do you do?’

‘I paint.’

‘I’d love to come and see your pictures.’

She chortled, embarrassingly loudly for a chortle, though not as loudly as her laugh.

‘I’ve heard that before,’ she said. ‘You want to get me alone in my room.’

‘Can’t anyone be interested in you and your work without being accused of being a sex maniac?’ he said. She would like that. She would begin to realize that he wasn’t just like all the others, that he had finer feelings.

‘Excuse me, there’s Bernie,’ she said.

He wandered into the kitchen, slowly, trying to look both calm and purposeful. There was still a little punch left. He fished out a cigar and poured two glasses. A very drunk man asked him if he was of Rumanian extraction. He said he wasn’t. The drunk accused him of being a liar. He pushed the drunk against the wall, and went back into the main room. Doreen gave him a cheerful hullo. He scowled back. The room smelt of cigarette smoke and sweat. A nervous young man with glasses was describing the sexual habits of an African tribe to five girls. Over by the mantelpiece stood a tall girl, unattractive but alone. He leapt across at her.

‘Ah, there you are,’ he said.

‘Yes, I am. Who are you?’

‘The Maharajah of Inverness.’

She recognized this as a piece of invention and accepted it with a lack of amusement so deep and unpretentious that he vowed never to invent a false name again.

‘Robert.’

‘Sonia.’

‘Hullo.’

‘Hullo.’

He must make some brilliant remark, to capture her interest.

‘What do you do?’ he said.

‘I work for a publisher. And you?’

‘I make China models of the leaning tower of Pisa.’

‘Is there much future in that?’

‘Possibly. At the moment they’re a failure. They keep falling over. But I’m working on it.’ He sipped his drink, tasting it carefully. ‘A cross between Spanish Burgundy, Merrydown cider and a rather immature Friars Balsam. Have some,’ he said.

‘Well, the thing is, I’m with someone. He’s getting me one. Give me a ring. Bayswater 27663.’

What use was that? He was alone again, drowning. Nobody here knew that a woman had given him her phone number.

‘Hullo, love,’ said Brenda. ‘Enjoying yourself?’

‘No.’

‘Dance with me.’

‘No.’

‘Come on.’

She dragged him into the middle of the room. It was packed solid. People weren’t dancing, they were just marking time sexily.

‘No luck?’ she said.

‘No.’

He resisted telling her about the phone number. Sonia seemed too mature to be boasted about.

‘And you?’

‘No.’

He pressed his body against her, but felt no thrill. In any case she lived in the same house. Mr Mendel had said: ‘Why don’t you make for our Brenda? She’s a nice girl.’ ‘Too close,’ he had said.

‘Excuse me, will you, love? There’s a feller over there I want to work on,’ she said now.

He went into the kitchen. The punchbowl was a mass of leaves and red silt and sodden butt ends. He opened a bottle of light ale.

‘Oh, there you are. Sorry about that,’ said Polly.

He gave her his glass of light ale and opened another bottle. The drink would be running out soon.

‘He’s someone I know from art school. I want him to do something for me. Carry some heavy paintings.’

‘What’s wrong with me?’

‘Nothing, but I like you.’

He must say something amusing. But nothing came. He fell back upon his memory.

‘This man was carrying a grandfather clock down the street,’ he said. ‘And he knocked over this man with it. The man got up, looked at him very crossly, and said: “Why can’t you wear a watch like everyone else?”’

‘We’ve got rather a super grandfather clock at home,’ said Polly.

‘Have you?’

‘Daddy would die if he could see me here. He’s an admiral.’

‘What attitude does he take to your being a painter?’

Polly did a loud and for all Robert knew wickedly accurate impersonation of her father. A group of people, entering the kitchen, were amazed to hear her say, in a gruff naval roar: ‘Well, it’s your choice, little Polly Perkins. All I’ll say is this. Make a success of it. Be a good painter, and we’ll be damned proud of you, the bosun and I.’

He smiled, not without a nervous glance at the new arrivals. He put a hand on her muscular arm and steered her back into the main room. Her flesh was cold and flaccid.

They began to mark time.

‘Will you be a good painter?’ he said.

‘Extremely,’ she said.

He flung his mouth on hers, too violently. She shook it off.

‘We’re supposed to be dancing,’ she said.

‘There isn’t room.’

‘Then we’d better talk. Ask me about my grisly family.’

‘Tell me about your grisly family.’

‘They think art is un-English. Unless it’s ducks and sunsets, of course. We live near Haslemere. It’s grisly.’

Up and down, up and down, marking time, a great mass of drunken people, much to the annoyance of Muswell Hill.

‘Do you really want to stay at this party, Polly?’

‘Not particularly. Why?’

‘Come home and have a drink.’

‘No.’

‘Don’t you trust me?’

‘It isn’t that.’

‘Well let me come and look at your pictures.’

‘There’s only coffee.’

‘That’s all right.’

‘Well all right then.’

‘Come on,’ he said. ‘We’d better say good-bye.’

‘It doesn’t matter.’

‘Yes, it does.’

They said good-bye to Doreen and Brenda, and their host. He wanted them all to see that he was going off with a girl.

The night was cold. ‘That’s better. It was so unreal in there,’ he said.

‘I hate parties,’ said Polly.

He offered her a taxi, but she said she’d prefer to walk. ‘It’s only just round the corner,’ she said.

They walked for ninety minutes. On Hampstead Heath he held her tight against a beech tree and squeezed two fingers down as far as they would go between her breasts. Then they walked in silence. He was frozen. An owl hooted. A goods train answered. The owl hooted again.

‘Aren’t you cold?’ he said.

‘I don’t feel the cold,’ she said. ‘We admirals’ daughters are tough.’

At last they arrived. Polly lived on the top storey of a grey nineteenth-century terrace behind Swiss Cottage. Her room was quite large. It was full of dirty things, cups, knickers, brushes, overalls, paintings. The bed wasn’t made. There was a smell of cat. All three bars of the electric fire were on. It was stifling.

She began to make two very disorganized cups of coffee.

‘I’m warning you. You’re not making love to me,’ she said.

‘Well?’

‘I just don’t want you to get the wrong idea, that’s all. I’ve decided to be a virgin until I fall in love. And I hope I never do. Men want you to give yourself to them. I want to be me. I’m an individualist. I believe people should be conventional in unimportant matters like sex. I reserve my rebellion for my work.’

‘Are these your pictures?’

‘Yes.’

They were all purple. He hated them.

‘I like them,’ he said.

‘They’re pretty good. But my next ones’ll be much better.’

‘Will they be purple too?’

‘I don’t know. Why, don’t you like purple?’

‘Yes, I do. I love purple. Polly, would you mind if we opened the window?’

‘Sorry, it doesn’t. Why, are you too hot?’

‘It is rather.’

‘I don’t feel the heat.’

‘Could we switch one of the bars off?’

‘Sorry, they don’t. It’s all or nothing. The switch has gone.’

He took a sip of his coffee. He was beginning to sweat.

‘Do you think this milk’s all right?’ he said.

‘Oh, God, isn’t it?’

‘No.’

‘I’ll make you a black one.’

‘Thanks. Do you have a cat?’

‘No. Why?’

‘I just wondered.’

He hated to admit to himself his delicacy over smells, and sweating, and sour milk.

‘It’s funny you should say that. People often ask me that,’ she said.

‘Perhaps you strike them as the sort of person who’d like cats.’

‘I don’t. I hate them.’

The sweat was pouring off him. His skin was prickling all over. How loathsome it all was, parties and sex and purple paintings and sour milk and unmade beds.

Over their coffee Polly amused him with further mimicry, imitating to perfection such well-known characters as her mother, sister, brother and headmistress. He felt too tired to do more than laugh in the right places, and as soon as he could he took his leave.

‘Thanks, Polly. It’s been lovely. See you,’ he said.

As he went down the stairs his pants and vest stuck to his body. He opened the door and breathed a great gulp of air. He was feeling sick. He was a lump in the sore throat of night. He felt messy and miserable. He wanted to play Scrabble and read books and improve his mind and work hard and help British exports and raise a family. His own children, loved and loving.

He picked up a milk bottle and hurled it viciously at the railings. Nothing stirred in the Swiss Cottage night.

It was 2.45 a.m. Perhaps Brenda or Doreen would be there and they could have a cup of coffee, delaying the moment when he’d be alone again, alone in bed. But perhaps they wouldn’t.

Bayswater 27663. Probably she’d be in bed, or still at the party, or with someone. It was absurd to ring her up at 2.45 a.m.

The tone of her telephone was French and encouraging. He whistled to keep up his worldliness.

‘Hullo.’

‘Hullo. Robert here.’

‘Who?’

‘Robert. I met you at the party.’

‘Oh, yes. Hullo.’

‘I hope I haven’t disturbed you.’

‘No. I was just having a coffee before going to bed.’

‘It’s just that I’ve sort of found myself in your area and …’ And what?

‘Twenty-three, Leominster Crescent. Top bell.’

He took a taxi. She lived between Bayswater and Notting Hill, also in a nineteenth-century terrace, but this one was cream. She had a glorious Persian carpet – a family heirloom – and a great number of books. She had a record player but no television. She was tall, slim, angular, with rather a large nose and a voice that sounded as if she had a perpetual cold caught at a very good school. When she was old there would be a permanent dewdrop on the end of her nose. She wasn’t his cup of tea, unlike her coffee, which was superb.

She represented good coffee and elegant maturity. She had bags under her eyes, and looked tired, but made no effort to get rid of him. She was 23. He couldn’t kiss her, couldn’t rouse himself to anything like that, and she seemed to understand this. She told him how much she hated parties. She didn’t mention the man she’d been with. They played a desultory but enjoyable game of Scrabble and she gave him a pile of books which she thought he’d enjoy. She asked him why he tried so hard to be amusing. Did he think himself dull? She didn’t think he was dull, except perhaps when he tried to be amusing.

They had further cups of coffee and he began to tell her the story of his life. At last the grey nicotine-stained thumbs of a London dawn began to squeeze the darkness out of the sky. Sonia drew back the curtains and made breakfast, and then he went home to bed.

‘I’m sorry I told you the story of my life,’ he said.

‘Not at all. I enjoyed it,’ she said.