“You can’t go just like that,” says Garth. “You’re staying for the Ball, aren’t you?”
I may not have mentioned that the day’s activities culminated in a Grand Fancy Dress Ball at the golf club with cabaret by an entertainer whose last recorded public appearance had been at Bow Street Magistrates Court on a charge of accosting males in a public lavatory—big deal!
“How can I?” I tell him. “I’m going to be a dead embarrassment, aren’t I, with Minto and all his mob there in force. It would probably end in another punch-up. Besides, I told Cronk I’d get out right away.”
“Well, have a drink before you go. I know a little place where we can knock back a couple undisturbed.”
So we all slope off and it develops into quite a session, I can tell you. One by one they drop out, starting with Dawn and working through Lester, Petal (“… look me up—and down—if you’re ever this way again, duckie … lovely working with you …”) to Crippsy, who we meet in the club, and finally Garth, who breathes a few emotionally charged words: “How are we going to win the Sevens next year without you, boyo?”—before we both stagger away, pissed out of our tiny minds.
Even in my paralytic state I am aware that Mrs. Bendon is going to be a problem. I have been having it away with her on a pretty regular basis recently and I don’t think she is going to take kindly to me suddenly announcing that I am never going to darken her bath towels again.
Maybe it is female intuition or something, but she looks uneasy when I come into the parlour—and not just because I catch my foot on the flex and bring down the standard lamp.
“I don’t know how to say this,” I mumble, deciding to come straight out with it, “but there was a bit of trouble during the procession today—you may have heard about it—and I handed in my resignation. That means I—that I—well, I will have to—I can’t stay here and it’s probably better if I go as soon as possible.”
“How soon?” Her voice seems remarkably composed.
“Well, if I paid you this week’s rent in lieu of notice, I was wondering if I might go immediately. Tonight, in fact.”
I hold my breath but she does not turn a hair.
“Yes, that seems quite fair, dear. In fact, it works out very well. I don’t mean your spot of bother, of course. No, I mean your vacating your room. My friend Mr. Greig, who you’ve heard me talk about, was saying he would like to sample a little sea air and it would be very useful having your room back again.”
My face must mirror my feelings pretty accurately because she stretches out a hand and squeezes my arm.
“Of course, I’ll be very sorry to see you go, dear. But really, to be honest, it would be better for me if you left. I want to get married again and having you in the house doesn’t help at all. It was very nice, what happened, but it couldn’t go on, could it?”
She is right, but the cool way she puts it leaves me a bit lost for words.
“You pack your things,” she says firmly, “and I’ll make us a nice tea to have before you go.”
I go upstairs feeling choked. I don’t want Mr. Greig sleeping in my bed or kicking his slippers off under Mrs. B.’s. I wish, too, I had got across Mrs. B. when I first had the chance. I hardly feel I have had my money’s worth.
Carefully draped across a chair, my Harlequin costume reminds me of the evening I will be missing. I have tried it on half a dozen times and would be the last person to deny that I look pretty magnetic in it. It is skintight so you get the total broad shoulders narrowing down to kitten hips bit, and with the mask to add an air of enticing mystery I would have been half-way to scoring before I opened my mouth.
The mask! A thought coincides with my discovery of the two quid admission ticket I had meant to give to Garth to flog. If I do look in for a couple of hours nobody need recognise me and it seems a shame to chuck a couple of oncers down the drain—not to mention the cost of hiring the costume.
That settles it. I throw my things in a case and spend fifteen minutes easing myself into my suit of lights. Snazzy is too small a word for it and my spirits perk up a bit. One thing I will say for myself: I may be a bit moody, but I am never down in the dumps for long.
Looking as good as I do, it is not surprising that I should draw a few admiring words from Mrs. B. and on the strength of this and with an attack of the ‘Auld Lang Synes’ surging through me I suggest that a bit of the other would be a nice way of saying goodbye—I also have two hours to kill before the carnival ball starts at nine o’clock and I don’t fancy wandering around the streets of Cromingham until then dressed in a style that might easily be misinterpreted by the bloody-minded locals. Unfortunately, Mrs. B. is not of a mood to take advantage of my suggestions and after a while I wish I had never raised the subject—about the time she hits me over the head with a frying-pan, in fact. This incident does at least rob our goodbyes of any lingering embarrassment and I find myself on the doorstep with my suitcase quivering beside me and her last words coming at me through the letterbox: “Don’t come back. If you’ve left anything, I’ll drop it in at the driving school.” I turn round and all the lace curtains in the street drop back into place.
What am I going to do now? Luckily it is a fine evening by local standards, so I can walk more or less upright to the bus stop and wait for half an hour for something to take me to the station. By the time it comes, there are four small urchins and a dog watching silently as if they expect a spacecraft to arrive for me instead of a bus.
“Gonk gannet gub gub,” I say to them humouringly as I climb aboard.
“Git you back to Lunnon, you girt nancy boy,” they shout. The passengers do not receive me any more warmly, but at least they keep their mouths shut, and, having overcome the embarrassment of opening my suitcase to delve for the bus fare, I gratefully slip through the station entrance. There is a train in half an hour, which I am tempted to catch, but my native meanness and the considerable amount of liquor swilling about in my veins persuades me to stick it out until eleven forty-five, when the next and last train of the night goes. I commandeer the waiting-room and by putting a jacket and trousers over my costume manage to look less like a refugee from a Martini advertisement. In this condition I nip across the road to the Railway Hotel and sink a few swift pints until darkness coincides with the arrival of the nine-fifteen. Back to the station and I strip for action, leave my case with a suspicious porter and ring for a taxi.
The driver turns out to be the one who picked me up when I first arrived and is quick to remind me what a good memory he has.
“Hello, hello,” he says, “if it isn’t Anthony Armstrong-Jones come up for the festivities. No prizes for where you want to go to, squire.”
I smile grimly and we don’t speak again until I amaze him with the smallness of my tip at the golf club.
“Are you sure you can afford this?” he says sarcastically.
“Now you come to mention it,” I say, removing my tanner from his outspread palm, “no.”
He makes a few unpleasant remarks about my costume not being right for Shylock, but I ignore him and, pulling my mask over my eyes, I stride up the flight of steps in front of the club. A Dresden Shepherdess tears my ticket in half and I go through to mingle with the cream of Cromingham Society. A champagne buffet is included in the price of a ticket and if you look up ‘buffet’ in a dictionary you will see how accurately it is described: ‘knock, hurt, contend with’ it says, and if you want any champagne that is just what you have to do. Half Cromingham seems to be waging war over a pile of sausage rolls and cress sandwiches with a glass of lukewarm pomagne for the tenacious winners. I can resist this, and retire to the bar to case the joint. Minto and Cronk seem to have tables at opposite ends of the dance floor, which shows good planning on somebody’s part,