don’t think—”
“All right, all right. You go to lunch. If Bagseed rings up again I’m in conference.” He talked to Crashaw and by a mixture of wheedling and threats obtained a promise that the drawings would be sent that afternoon. He was about to go out to lunch when he noticed the calendar. It read MONDAY, 4th FEBRUARY.
Anderson sat down and stared at the calendar. Somebody had turned it back again to the three-weeks’-old date. Why? But as he continued to stare at the neat “4” he felt an obscure uneasiness. Was he quite certain that he had made the alteration back to “25”? Was it not possible that he had forgotten? He said aloud: “You know perfectly well that you altered it,” and the spoken words seemed to give small reassurance. He put on his Homburg hat and dark overcoat, and went out.
3
Wyvern said: “What I like about you, Molly, is the way you pour it down. It might be the kitchen sink instead of your throat.”
“Pour it down fast and you don’t taste it. Only way to drink beer.” Molly O’Rourke’s hair was bunched in tight curls on her head and her long nose looked as if it was made of chalk. She had once read sociology at the London School of Economics and now ran the Research Department of the firm. “So I said to him you can take it or leave it. So he said if that’s the way you feel I’ll leave it. So I said all right, but don’t come crying back for more tomorrow. That’s original and good. It’s not good, he said, but you’ve certainly got something about it being original. Original, I said, you don’t know what originality means. If I—”
The Stag was crowded. Somebody dug Anderson violently in the ribs and he lost the end of Molly’s story, as he had lost the beginning. “So that was the end of a perfect romance.” She turned to Anderson. “You seem a bit low, pet. What’s up?”
“Nothing. Have another drink.”
“Thanks, another beer, beautiful chemical beer – how I love it. Wouldn’t recognize real beer if I met it nowadays.” They were standing at the counter, and the rising and falling swell of people pushed their bodies against each other and then gently ebbed away from them. The glass behind the bar reflected back at Anderson a yellow face, deeply lined and folded, with melancholy bloodshot eyes and thinning hair. He ordered drinks.
“Let the man alone,” Wyvern said in his deep croak. “He’s got every right not to be cheerful.”
“Because of his wife.”
“Partly because of his wife.”
Molly stuck her long nose forward. “So what? I never thought you were tied up all that tight to Valerie, pet.”
Anderson pushed over the beer. “It’s only three weeks.” He was annoyed that his voice sounded apologetic. “February the fourth. Three weeks today.”
“You ought to snap out of it,” Molly said. “In my time – if I may let my back hair down for your benefit – I’ve lost three husbands. Not to mention all those I mislaid before the ceremony. The first time I was young and innocent and went into it neck first. He used to beat me, but I didn’t mind that. It was when he wanted me to beat him in front of his girl friend that I stepped out. He was what you might call sophisticated.”
“You make it different each time,” Wyvern said admiringly. “And I will say you make it better. What happened then?” Molly gulped her beer. “Then? Then I got a divorce and married again. This time he was young and innocent, looking for his mother. You wouldn’t think I was the mother type, would you? But that’s the way he used to think of me, and perhaps he wasn’t so far wrong in a way. He was sweet, always bringing presents – nothing valuable, you know, cigarette cases, powder puffs, silk stockings, everything you can think of. Then the police picked him up in a store. Turned out to be a kleptomaniac. That was the end of another romance.”
“What about the third?”
“Oh, the third was a bastard. But what I
“All right, all right. You go to lunch. If Bagseed rings up again I’m in conference.” He talked to Crashaw and by a mixture of wheedling and threats obtained a promise that the drawings would be sent that afternoon. He was about to go out to lunch when he noticed the calendar. It read MONDAY, 4th FEBRUARY.
Anderson sat down and stared at the calendar. Somebody had turned it back again to the three-weeks’-old date. Why? But as he continued to stare at the neat “4” he felt an obscure uneasiness. Was he quite certain that he had made the alteration back to “25”? Was it not possible that he had forgotten? He said aloud: “You know perfectly well that you altered it,” and the spoken words seemed to give small reassurance. He put on his Homburg hat and dark overcoat, and went out.
3
Wyvern said: “What I like about you, Molly, is the way you pour it down. It might be the kitchen sink instead of your throat.”
“Pour it down fast and you don’t taste it. Only way to drink beer.” Molly O’Rourke’s hair was bunched in tight curls on her head and her long nose looked as if it was made of chalk. She had once read sociology at the London School of Economics and now ran the Research Department of the firm. “So I said to him you can take it or leave it. So he said if that’s the way you feel I’ll leave it. So I said all right, but don’t come crying back for more tomorrow. That’s original and good. It’s not good, he said, but you’ve certainly got something about it being original. Original, I said, you don’t know what originality means. If I—”
The Stag was crowded. Somebody dug Anderson violently in the ribs and he lost the end of Molly’s story, as he had lost the beginning. “So that was the end of a perfect romance.” She turned to Anderson. “You seem a bit low, pet. What’s up?”
“Nothing. Have another drink.”
“Thanks, another beer, beautiful chemical beer – how I love it. Wouldn’t recognize real beer if I met it nowadays.” They were standing at the counter, and the rising and falling swell of people pushed their bodies against each other and then gently ebbed away from them. The glass behind the bar reflected back at Anderson a yellow face, deeply lined and folded, with melancholy bloodshot eyes and thinning hair. He ordered drinks.
“Let the man alone,” Wyvern said in his deep croak. “He’s got every right not to be cheerful.”
“Because of his wife.”
“Partly because of his wife.”
Molly stuck her long nose forward. “So what? I never thought you were tied up all that tight to Valerie, pet.”
Anderson pushed over the beer. “It’s only three weeks.” He was annoyed that his voice sounded apologetic. “February the fourth. Three weeks today.”
“You ought to snap out of it,” Molly said. “In my time – if I may let my back hair down for your benefit – I’ve lost three husbands. Not to mention all those I mislaid before the ceremony. The first time I was young and innocent and went into it neck first. He used to beat me, but I didn’t mind that. It was when he wanted me to beat him in front of his girl friend that I stepped out. He was what you might call sophisticated.”
“You make it different each time,” Wyvern said admiringly. “And I will say you make it better. What happened then?” Molly gulped her beer. “Then? Then I got a divorce and married again. This time he was young and innocent, looking for his mother. You wouldn’t think I was the mother type, would you? But that’s the way he used to think of me, and perhaps he wasn’t so far wrong in a way. He was sweet, always bringing presents – nothing valuable, you know, cigarette cases, powder puffs, silk stockings, everything you can think of. Then the police picked him up in a store. Turned out to be a kleptomaniac. That was the end of another romance.”
“What about the third?”
“Oh, the third was a bastard. But what I
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