The Ballad of Peckham Rye Page 5

  ‘And,’ said Dougal, ‘of course this choreographer is a projection of me. I was at the University of Edinburgh myself, but in the dream I’m the Devil and Cambridge.’

  Humphrey smiled, looked wise, and said, ‘Inhuman’; which three things he sometimes did when slightly at a loss.

  Chapter 4

  MISS MERLE COVERDALE opened the door of her flat on Denmark Hill, and admitted Mr Druce in the early evening of midsummer’s day. He took off his hat and hung it on a peg in her entrance-hall which was the shape and size of a small kitchen table, and from the ceiling of which hung a crystal chandelier. Mr Druce followed Merle into the sitting-room. So far he had not spoken, and still without a word, while Merle took up her knitting by the two-bar electric heater, he opened the door of a small sideboard and extracted a bottle of whisky which he lifted up to the light. Opening another compartment of the sideboard he took out a glass. He poured some whisky into it and from a syphon which stood on a tray on the sideboard splashed soda-water into his drink. Then, ‘Want some?’ he said.

  ‘No, thanks.’

  He sighed and brought his drink to a large chair opposite Merle’s smaller one.

  ‘No,’ she said, ‘I’ve changed my mind. I think I feel like a whisky and ginger.’

  He sighed and went to the sideboard, where, opening a drawer he extracted a bottle-opener. He stooped to the cupboard and found a bottle of ginger ale.

  ‘No, I’ll have gin and tonic. I think I feel like a gin and tonic—‘

  He turned, with the bottle-opener in his hand, and looked at her.

  ‘Yes, I feel like a gin and tonic—’

  And so he prepared the mixture and brought it to her.

  Then, sitting down, he took off his shoes and put on a pair of slippers which lay beside the chair.

  Presently he looked at his watch. At which Merle put down her knitting and switched on the television. A documentary travel film was in progress, and in accompaniment to this they talked.

  ‘Drover Willis’s,’ he said, ‘have started on their new extension.’

  ‘Yes, you told me the other day.’

  ‘I see,’ he said, ‘they are advertising for automatic weaver instructors and hands. They are going to do made-up goods as well. They are advertising for ten twin-needle flat-bed machinists, also flat-lock machinists and instructors. They must be expanding.’

  ‘Four, five, six,’ she said, ‘purl two, seven, eight.’

  ‘I see,’ he said, ‘they are advertising for an Arts man.’

  ‘Well, what do you expect? It was recommended at the Conference, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, but remember, Merle, we were the first in the area to adopt that recommendation. Did he come into the office today?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Tell him I want to see him, it’s time we had a report. I’ve only seen him three times since we had a report. I’ve only seen him three times since he started. Weedin wants a report.’

  ‘Remind me in the morning on the business premises, Vincent,’ she said. ‘I don’t bring the office into my home, as you know.’

  ‘Weedin hasn’t seen him for a week. Neither Welfare nor Personnel can get word of him.’

  She went to clatter dishes in the scullery. Mr Druce got up and began to lay the table with mats, knives, and forks which he took out of the sideboard. Then he went out into the hall and from his coat pocket took a bottle of stomach tablets which he placed on the table together with the pepper and salt.

  Merle brought in some bread. Mr Druce took a bread-knife from the drawer and looked at her. Then he placed the knife beside the bread on the board.

  ‘The brussels are not quite ready,’ she said, and she sat in her chair and took up her knitting. He perched on the arm. She pushed him with her elbow in the same movement as she was using for her knitting. He tickled the back of her neck, which she put up with for a while. But suddenly he pinched the skin of her neck. She screamed.

  ‘Sh-sh,’ he said.

  ‘You hurt me,’ she said.

  ‘No, I was only doing this.’ And he pinched her neck again.

  She screamed and jumped from the chair.

  ‘The brussels are ready,’ she said.

  He turned off the television when she brought in the meal. ‘Bad for the digestion while you’re eating,’ he said.

  They did not speak throughout the meal.

  Afterwards he stood with her in the red-and-white scullery, and looked on while she washed up. She placed the dishes in a red drying-rack while he dried the knives and forks. These he carried into the living-room and put away in their separate compartments in the drawer of the sideboard. As he put away the last fork he watched Merle bring in a tray with coffee cups.

  Merle switched on the television and found a play far advanced. They watched the fragment of the play as they drank their coffee. Then they went into the bedroom and took off their clothes in a steady rhythm. Merle took off her cardigan and Mr Druce took off his coat. Merle went to the wardrobe and brought out a green quilted silk dressing-gown. Mr Druce went to the wardrobe and found his blue dressing-gown with white spots. Merle took off her blouse and Mr Druce his waistcoat. Merle put the dressing-gown over her shoulders and, concealed by it, took off the rest of her clothes, with modest gestures. Mr Druce slid his braces and emerged from his trousers. These he folded carefully and, padding across the room to the window, laid them on a chair. He made another trip bearing his waistcoat and jacket which he placed over the back of the chair.

  They stayed in bed for an hour, in the course of which Merle twice screamed because Mr Druce had once pinched and once bit her. ‘I’m covered with marks as it is,’ she said.

  Mr Druce rose first and put on his dressing-gown. He went to wash and returned very soon, putting a wet irritable hand round the bedroom door. Merle said, ‘Oh, isn’t there a towel?’ and taking a towel from a drawer, placed it in his hand.

  When he returned she was dressed.

  She went into the scullery and put on the kettle while he put on his trousers and went home to his wife.

  A western breeze blew over the Rye and it was midsummer night, a Saturday. Humphrey carried the two tartan rugs from his car while Dixie walked by his side, looking to left and right and sometimes turning to see if the path was dear of policemen.

  Dixie said, ‘I’m cold.’

  He said, ‘It’s a warm night.’

  She said, ‘I’m cold.’

  He said, ‘We’ve got two rugs.’

  She walked on beside him until they came to their usual spot under a tree behind the hedge of the Old English garden.

  Humphrey spread a rug and she sat down upon it. She lifted the fringe and started to pull at it, separating the matted threads.

  He spread the other rug over her legs and lay leaning on his elbow beside her.

  ‘My mum got suspicious the other night,’ she said. ‘Leslie told her I was stopping over Camberwell after the dance with Connie Weedin, but she got suspicious. And when I got in she asked me all sorts of questions about the dance. I had to make them up.’

  ‘Sure you can trust Leslie?’

  ‘Well, I give him five shillings a week. I think it should be three shillings weeks when I don’t stop out all night. But he’s greedy, Leslie is.’

  Humphrey pulled her towards him, and started to unbutton her coat. She buttoned it up again. ‘I’m cold,’ she said.

  ‘Oh, come on, Dixie,’ he said.

  ‘Connie Weedin got an increment,’ she said. ‘I’ve got to wait for my increment till August. I only found out through the girl that does the copy die-stamp operation and had the staff salaries’ balance sheet to do. Connie Weedin does the same job as what I do and she’s only been there six months longer. It’s only because her father’s Personnel. I’m going to take it up with Miss Coverdale.’

  Humphrey pulled her down towards him again and kissed her face.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ he said. ‘There’s something the matter with you.’<
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  ‘I’m going to take Monday off,’ she said. ‘They appreciate you more if you stop away now and again.’

  ‘Well, frankly and personally,’ Humphrey said, ‘I think it’s an immoral thing to do.’

  ‘Fifteen shillings rise, less tax, nine and six in Connie Weedin’s packet,’ she said, ‘and I’ve got to wait to August. And they’re all in it together. And if I don’t get satisfaction from Miss Coverdale, who is there to go to? Only Personnel, and that’s Mr Weedin. Naturally he’s going to cover up for his daughter. And if I go above him to Mr Druce he’ll only send me back to Miss Coverdale, because you know what’s between them.’

  ‘When we’re married you won’t have to worry about any of them. We can get married Saturday week if you like.’

  ‘No, I don’t like. What about the house? There’s got to be money down for the house.’

  ‘There’s money down for the house,’ he said.

  ‘What about my spin-dryer?’

  ‘Oh, to hell with your spin-dryer.’

  ‘That fifteen shillings less tax that’s due to me,’ she said ‘could have gone in the bank. If it’s due to her it’s due to me. Fair’s fair.’

  He pulled the top rug up to her chin and under it started to unbutton her coat.

  She sat up.

  ‘There’s something wrong with you,’ he said. ‘We should have gone dancing instead. It wouldn’t have cost much.’

  ‘You’re getting too sexy,’ she said. ‘It’s through you having to do with Dougal Douglas. He’s a sex maniac. I was told. He’s immoral.’

  ‘He isn’t,’ Humphrey said.

  ‘Yes he is, he talks about sex quite open, any time of the day. Girls and sex.’

  ‘Why don’t you relax like you used to do?’ he said. ‘Not unless you give up that man. He’s putting ideas in your head.’

  ‘You’ve done plenty yourself to put ideas in my head,’ he said. ‘I didn’t used to need to look far to get ideas, when you were around. Especially up in the cupboard.’

  ‘Repeat that, Humphrey.’

  ‘Lie down and relax.’

  ‘Not after what you said. It was an insult.’

  ‘I know what’s the matter with you,’ he said. ‘You’re losing all your sex. It’s all this saving up to get married and looking to the lolly all the time, it takes the sex out of a girl. It stands to reason, it’s only psychological.’

  ‘You must have been talking it over with Dougal Douglas,’ she said. ‘You wouldn’t have thought of that by yourself.’

  She stood up and brushed down her coat. He folded up the rugs.

  ‘I won’t be talked about, it’s a let-down,’ she said.

  ‘Who’s talked about you?’ he said.

  ‘Well, if you haven’t talked about me, you’ve been listening to him talking.’

  ‘Let me tell you something,’ he said. ‘Dougal Douglas is an educated man.’

  ‘My mum’s uncle’s a teacher and he doesn’t act like him. He doesn’t cry his eyes out like Dougal did in our canteen.’ Dixie laughed. ‘He’s a pansy.’

  ‘That’s just his game. You don’t know Dougal. I bet he wasn’t crying really.’

  ‘Yes, he was. He only just lost his girl, and he cried like anything. Makes you laugh.’

  ‘Then he can’t be a pansy, or he wouldn’t cry over a girl.’

  ‘He must be or he wouldn’t cry at all.’

  On midsummer night Trevor Lomas walked with a somnambulistic sway into Findlater’s Ballroom and looked round for Beauty. The floor was expertly laid and polished. The walls were pale rose, with concealed lighting. Beauty stood on the girls’ side, talking to a group of very similar and lustrous girls. They had prepared themselves for this occasion with diligence, and as they spoke together, they did not smile much nor attend to each other’s words. As an accepted thing, any of the girls might break off in the middle of a sentence, should a young man approach her, and, turning to him, might give him her entire and smiling regard.

  Most of the men looked as if they had not properly woken from deep sleep, but glided as if drugged, and with half-dosed lids, towards their chosen partner. This approach found favour with the girls. The actual invitation to dance was mostly delivered by gesture; a scarcely noticeable flick of the man’s head towards the dance floor. Whereupon the girl, with an outstretched movement of surrender, would swim into the hands of the summoning partner.

  Trevor Lomas so far departed from the norm as to indicate to Beauty his wish by word of mouth, which he did not, however, open more than a sixteenth of an inch.

  ‘Come and wriggle, Snake,’ he said through this aperture.

  Findlater’s rooms were not given to rowdy rock but concentrated instead upon a more cultivated jive, chacha, and variants. Beauty wriggled with excellence, and was particularly good at shrugging her shoulders and lifting forward her small stomach; while Trevor’s knee-work was easy. Dougal, who had just entered with blonde Elaine, looked round with approval.

  During the next dance — forward half a step, one fall and a dip, back half a step, one fall and a dip — Beauty flicked her lashes toward the band-leader who was then facing the dancers, a young pale man with a thin neck which sprouted from a loose jacket of sky-blue. He acknowledged the gesture with one swift rise-and-drop of the eyebrows. Trevor looked round at the man who had now turned to his band and was flicking his limp wrists very slightly. Trevor’s teeth said, ‘Who’s your friend?’

  ‘Whose friend?’

  The crown of Trevor’s head briefly indicated the bandleader.

  Beauty shrugged in her jive and expressed her reply, both in the same movement.

  Dougal was dancing with Elaine. He leapt into the air, he let go of her hands and dangled his arms in front of his hunched body. He placed his left hand on his hip and raised his right while his feet performed the rapid movements of the Highland Fling, heel to instep, then to knee. Elaine bowed her body and straightened it again and again in her laughter. The jiving couples slowed down like an unwound toy roundabout, and gathered beside Dougal. A tall stout man in evening dress walked over to the band; he said something to the band-leader who looked over his shoulder, observed the crowd round Dougal, and stopped the band.

  ‘Hooch?’ cried Dougal as the band stopped.

  Everyone was talking or laughing. Those who were talking were all saying the same thing. They either said, ‘Tell him to take more water in it,’ or ‘Shouldn’t be allowed,’ or ‘He’s all right. Leave him alone.’ Some clapped their hands and said, “Core.’ The tall stout manager came over to Dougal and said with a beaming face, ‘It’s all right, son, but no more, please.’

  ‘Don’t you like Highland dancing?’ Dougal said.

  The manager beamed and walked away. The band started up. Dougal left the hall followed by Elaine. He reappeared shortly with Elaine tugging his arm in the opposite direction. However, he pressed into the midst of the dancers, bearing before him the lid of a dust-bin, which he had obtained from the back premises. Then he placed the lid upside down on the floor, sat cross-legged inside it, and was a man in a rocking boat rowing for his life. The band stopped, but nobody noticed the fact, owing to the many different sounds of mirth, protest, encouragement, and rage. The dancers circled slowly around him while he performed a Zulu dance with the lid for a shield.

  Two West Indians among the crowd started to object.

  ‘No, man.’

  ‘We don’t take no insults, man.’

  But two other tall, black, and shining dancers cheered him on, bending at the knees and clapping. These were supported by their woolly-cropped girls who laughed loud above the noise, rolling their bodies from the waist, rolling their shoulders, heads, and eyes.

  Dougal bowed to the black girls.

  Next, Dougal sat on his haunches and banged a message out on a tom-tom. He sprang up and with the lid on his head was a Chinese coolie eating melancholy rice. He was an ardent cyclist, crouched over handlebars and pedalling uphill with the lid b
etween his knees. He was an old woman with an umbrella; he stood on the up. turned edges of the lid and speared fish from his rocking canoe; he was the man at the wheel of a racing car; he did many things with the lid before he finally propped the dust-bin lid up on his high shoulder, beating this cymbal rhythmically with his hand while with the other hand he limply conducted an invisible band, being, with long blank face, the band-leader.

  The manager pushed through the crowd, still beaming. And, still beaming, he pointed out that the lid was scratching and spoiling the dance floor, and that Dougal had better leave the premises. He took Dougal, who still bore the dust-bin lid, by the elbow.

  ‘Don’t you get rough with him,’ Elaine shouted. ‘Can’t you see he’s deformed?’

  Dougal disengaged his elbow from the manager’s grasp and himself took the manager by the elbow.

  ‘Tell me,’ Dougal said, as he propelled the manager through the door, ‘have you got a fatal flaw?’

  ‘It’s the best hall in south London and we don’t want it mucked up, see? If we put on a cabaret we do it properly.’

  ‘Be kind enough,’ Dougal said, ‘to replace this lid on the dust-bin out yonder while I return to the scene within.’

  Elaine was standing behind him. ‘Come and leap, leopard,’ Dougal said, and soon they were moving with the rest.

  They were passed by Trevor and Beauty. Trevor regarded Dougal from under his lids, letting the corners of his mouth droop meaningfully.

  ‘Got a pain, panda?’ Dougal said.

  ‘Now, don’t start,’ Elaine said.