The taxi bore him westward through the darkling streets. A three-mile journey–still, he could afford it. Why spoil the ship for a ha’porth of tar? He had dropped that notion of spending only two pounds tonight. He would spend three pounds, three pounds ten–four pounds if he felt like it. Slap up and regardless–that was the idea. And, oh! by the way! Julia’s fiver. He hadn’t sent it yet. No matter. Send it first thing in the morning. Good old Julia! She should have her fiver.
How voluptuous were the taxi cushions under his bum! He lolled this way and that. He had been drinking, of course–had had two quick ones, or possibly three, before coming away. The taxi-driver was a stout philosophic man with a weatherbeaten face and a knowing eye. He and Gordon understood one another. They had palled up in the bar where Gordon was having his quick ones. As they neared the West End the taximan drew up, unbidden, at a discreet pub on a corner. He knew what was in Gordon’s mind. Gordon could do with a quick one. So could the taximan. But the drinks were on Gordon–that too was understood.
‘You anticipated my thoughts,’ said Gordon, climbing out.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘I could just about do with a quick one.’
‘Thought you might, sir.’
‘And could you manage one yourself, do you think?’
‘Where there’s a will there’s a way,’ said the taximan.
‘Come inside,’ said Gordon.
They leaned matily on the brass-edged bar, elbow to elbow, lighting two of the taximan’s cigarettes. Gordon felt witty and expansive. He would have liked to tell the taximan the history of his life. The white-aproned barman hastened towards them.
‘Yes sir?’ said the barman.
‘Gin,’ said Gordon.
‘Make it two,’ said the taximan.
More matily than ever, they clinked glasses.
‘Many happy returns,’ said Gordon.
‘Your birthday today, sir?’
‘Only metaphorically. My re-birthday, so to speak.’
‘I never had much education,’ said the taximan.
‘I was speaking in parables,’ said Gordon.
‘English is good enough for me,’ said the taximan.
‘It was the tongue of Shakespeare,’ said Gordon.
‘Literary gentleman, are you, sir, by any chance?’
‘Do I look as moth-eaten as all that?’
‘Not moth-eaten, sir. Only intellectual-like.’
‘You’re quite right. A poet.’
‘Poet! It takes all sorts to make a world, don’t it now?’ said the taximan.
‘And a bloody good world it is,’ said Gordon.
His thoughts moved lyrically tonight. They had another gin and presently went back to the taxi all but arm in arm, after yet another gin. That made five gins Gordon had had this evening. There was an ethereal feeling in his veins; the gin seemed to be flowing there, mingled with his blood. He lay back in the corner of the seat, watching the great blazing skysigns swim across the bluish dark. The evil red and blue of the Neon lights pleased him at this moment. How smoothly the taxi glided!
More like a gondola than a car. It was having money that did that. Money greased the wheels. He thought of the evening ahead of him; good food, good wine, good talk–above all, no worrying about money. No damned niggling with sixpences and ‘We can’t afford this’ and ‘We can’t afford that!’ Rosemary and Ravelston would try to stop him being extravagant. But he would shut them up. He’d spend every penny he had if he felt like it. Ten whole quid to bust! At least, five quid. The thought of Julia passed flickeringly through his mind and disappeared again.
He was quite sober when they got to Modigliani’s. The monstrous commissionaire, like a great glittering waxwork with the minimum of joints, stepped stiffly forward to open the taxi door. His grim eye looked askance at Gordon’s clothes. Not that you were expected to ‘dress’ at Modigliani’s. They were tremendously Bohemian at Modigliani’s, of course; but there are ways and ways of being Bohemian, and Gordon’s way was the wrong way.
Gordon did not care. He bade the taximan an affectionate farewell, and tipped him half a crown over his fare, whereat the commissionaire’s eye looked a little less grim. At this moment Ravelston emerged from the doorway. The commissionaire knew Ravelston, of course. He lounged out on to the pavement, a tall distinguished figure, aristocratically shabby, his eye rather moody. He was worrying already about the money this dinner was going to cost Gordon.
‘Ah, there you are, Gordon!’
‘Hullo, Ravelston! Where’s Rosemary?’
‘Perhaps she’s waiting inside. I don’t know her by sight, you know. But I say, Gordon, look here! Before we go in, I wanted–’
‘Ah, look, there she is!’
She was coming towards them, swift and debonair. She threaded her way through the crowd with the air of some neat little destroyer gliding between large clumsy cargo-boats. And she was nicely dressed, as usual. The sub-shovel hat was cocked at its most provocative angle. Gordon’s heart stirred. There was a girl for you! He was proud that Ravelston should see her. She was very gay tonight. It was written all over her that she was not going to remind herself or Gordon of their last disastrous encounter. Perhaps she laughed and talked just a little too vivaciously as Gordon introduced them and they went inside. But Ravelston had taken a liking to her immediately.
Indeed, everyone who met her did take a liking to Rosemary. The inside of the restaurant overawed Gordon for a moment. It was so horribly, artistically smart. Dark gate-leg tables, pewter candlesticks, pictures by modern French painters on the walls. One, a street scene, looked like a Utrillo. Gordon stiffened his shoulders. Damn it, what was there to be afraid of? The five pound note was tucked away in its envelope in his pocket. It was Julia’s five pounds, of course; he wasn’t going to spend it. Still, its presence gave him moral support. It was a kind of talisman. They were making for the corner table–Ravelston’s favourite table–at the far end. Ravelston took Gordon by the arm and drew him a little back, out of Rosemary’s hearing.
‘Gordon, look here!’
‘What?’
‘Look here, you’re going to have dinner with me tonight.’
‘Bosh! This is on me.’
‘I do wish you would. I hate to see you spending all that money.’
‘We won’t talk about money tonight,’ said Gordon.
‘Fifty-fifty, then,’ pleaded Ravelston.
‘It’s on me,’ said Gordon firmly.
Ravelston subsided. The fat, white-haired Italian waiter was bowing and smiling beside the corner table. But it was at Ravelston, not at Gordon, that he smiled. Gordon sat down with the feeling that he must assert himself quickly. He waved away the menu which the waiter had produced.
‘We must settle what we’re going to drink first,’ he said.
‘Beer for me,’ said Ravelston, with a sort of gloomy haste. ‘Beer’s the only drink I care about.’
‘Me too,’ echoed Rosemary.
‘Oh, rot! We’ve got to have some wine. What do you like, red or white? Give me the wine list,’ he said to the waiter.
‘Then let’s have a plain Bordeaux. Médoc or St Julien or something,’ said Ravelston.
‘I adore St Julien,’ said Rosemary, who thought she remembered that St Julien was always the cheapest wine on the list.
Inwardly, Gordon damned their eyes. There you are, you see! They were in league against him already. They were trying to prevent him from spending his money. There was going to be that deadly, hateful atmosphere of ‘You can’t afford it’ hanging over everything. It made him all the more anxious to be extravagant. A moment ago he would have compromised on Burgundy. Now he decided that they must have something really expensive–something fizzy, something with a kick in it. Champagne? No, they’d never let him have champagne. Ah!
‘Have you got any Asti?’ he said to the waiter.
The waiter suddenly beamed, thinking of his corkage. He had grasped now that Gordon and not Ravelston was the host. He answered in the peculiar mixture of French and English which he affected.
‘Asti, sir? Yes, sir. Very nice Asti! Asti Spumanti. Très fin! Très vif!’
Ravelston’s worried eye sought Gordon’s across the table. You can’t afford it! his eye pleaded.
‘Is that one of those fizzy wines?’ said Rosemary.
‘Very fizzy, madame. Very lively wine. Très vif! Pop!’ His fat hands made a gesture, picturing cascades of foam.
‘Asti,’ said Gordon, before Rosemary could stop him.
Ravelston looked miserable. He knew that Asti would cost Gordon ten or fifteen shillings a bottle. Gordon pretended not to notice. He began talking about Stendhal–association with Duchesse de Sanseverina and her ‘force vin d’Asti’. Along came the Asti in a pail of ice–a mistake, that, as Ravelston could have told Gordon. Out came the cork. Pop! The wild wine foamed into the wide flat glasses. Mysteriously the atmosphere of the table changed. Something had happened to all three of them. Even before it was drunk the wine had worked its magic. Rosemary had lost her nervousness, Ravelston his worried preoccupation with the expense, Gordon his defiant resolve to be extravagant. They were eating anchovies and bread and butter, fried sole, roast pheasant with bread sauce and chipped potatoes; but principally they were drinking and talking. And how brilliantly they were talking–or so it seemed to them, anyway!
They talked about the bloodiness of modern life and the bloodiness of modern books. What else is there to talk about nowadays? As usual (but, oh! how differently, now that there was money in his pocket and he didn’t really believe what he was saying) Gordon descanted on the deadness, the dreadfulness of the age we live in. French letters and machine-guns! The movies and the Daily Mail! It was a bone-deep truth when he walked the streets with a couple of coppers in his pocket; but it was a
