‘I’d never have thought it.’
‘Hah!’ Clarence turned his moist reminiscent eye and now the admiration was for Harriet. ‘You’re a bitch. Sophie was only a trollop, but you’re a bitch. A bitch is what I need.’
‘I don’t think so. You need someone who can share your illusions …’
‘Go on talking. You do me good. You always despised me. Do you remember that night I came in drunk from the Polish party and David Boyd was there? You debagged me. The three of you. Guy and David held me down and you took my bags off.’
‘Did we do that? What shocking behaviour. But we were young then.’
‘Good heavens, it was only last winter. And before I left – do you remember? – I asked for those shirts I’d lent Guy and you were furious. Quite rightly. I didn’t really want them. I was just being bloody-minded. And you were furious! You took them out to the balcony and threw them down into the street.’
‘What a stupid thing to do!’
‘No, not a bit stupid. You were always doing extraordinary things – things no one else thought of doing. I loved it. I bet if I asked you, you’d get up on this table here and now, throw off your clothes, and dance the can-can.’
‘I bet I wouldn’t.’
Clarence sat up, urging her, ‘Go on. Do it.’
‘Don’t be a fool.’ She wondered if Clarence had always held such an absurd view of her, or had she, with the passage of time, become a myth for him?
Clarence was pained and disappointed by her refusal but the waiter arrived and he forgot the can-can. Their meal was served. Clarence took a mouthful and put down his fork.
‘This is pretty terrible,’ he said.
‘It’s better than you’ll get anywhere else.’
‘Then we’ll need a great deal more to drink. Let’s go on to champagne.’
The floor cleared and the singer came out: a stout woman, not young, not beautiful, but it was for her that people came to the Pomegranate. She sang ‘Anathema’ and Clarence asked: ‘What is that song?’
‘God, yes!’ Clarence sighed fervently and filled his glass. He gave up any further attempt to eat.
The singer sang: ‘“I’ve something secret to tell you: I love you, I love you, I love you.”’
The pretty girl who had attracted Clarence closed her eyes, but a tear came from under one lid. Clarence gave her a long look and, dismally bereft, turned on Harriet:
‘That chap you were with today: what’s he doing here?’
‘He has some sort of liaison job. He won’t be here much longer.’
‘No, he won’t,’ Clarence maliciously agreed. He sat up, preparing an attack, but at that moment Guy arrived.
‘Ah!’ said Clarence, his voice rich with interest, ‘here he is at last.’
They watched Guy as he made his way round the room greeted by people Harriet did not know, talking to people she had never seen before. Dobson, dancing with the widow, flung out an arm as Guy passed and patted him on the shoulder.
‘A great man! A remarkable man!’ said Clarence, deeply moved.
Behind Guy came Yakimov, the hem of his greatcoat trailing on the floor.
Clarence said: ‘Hell!’ then added: ‘Never mind, never mind,’ and in a mood to accept anything, shouted: ‘Good old Yakimov.’ The reprimand intended for Harriet was delayed by the new arrivals and the need to order food and more of the gritty, sweet champagne. Eventually, when they had all settled down again, Clarence looked angrily at Harriet and said: ‘You’ve the best husband in the world.’
‘Yes,’ Harriet agreed
‘You’re lucky – damned lucky – to be married to him.’
‘So you keep telling me.’
‘I’m telling you again. Apparently you need telling. What were you doing walking about holding on to that bloody little pongo?’
‘I like that. You’re a pongo yourself.’
Guy said: ‘Hey. Shut up, you two.’
‘I’m telling her,’ Clarence explained to Guy, ‘she’s married to the finest man I’ve ever known … a great man, a saint. And she’s not satisfied. She picked up with a kid one pip up …’
Guy said again: ‘Shut up, Clarence,’ but Clarence would not shut up. He continued to condemn Harriet and condemn Charles. He and Charles might have little enough in common, but both had an instinct for intrigue. To each, the very sight of the other had roused suspicion, and Clarence took Harriet’s guilt for granted.
She was angry but, more than that, she was shocked. She was particularly shocked that these accusations should be made in front of Guy who seemed to her, at that moment, like some one of an older generation, who must be protected against the atrocities of sex. When Clarence at last reached an end, she said to Guy: ‘You know this isn’t true.’
‘Of course it isn’t. Clarence is being silly.’ Guy rose as he spoke, looking for a refuge, and seeing Dobson leave the floor, hurried over to his table.
‘Now look what you’ve done!’ Harriet said.
‘What do I care!’ mumbled Clarence. ‘Someone had to say it,’ and self-justified and self-righteous, he sank into a despondent half-sleep.
Yakimov, who had listened to none of this, was waiting for his food. When it came, the waiter was sent to summon Guy who looked round, waved, nodded and went on talking to Dobson.
Yakimov, smiling blandly, said: ‘I think I’ll begin,’ and when his own plate was empty, peered at Guy’s: ‘Do you think the dear boy doesn’t want it?’
The food, some sort of lung hash, had fixed itself, cold and grey, on Guy’s plate. To Harriet with her disordered stomach it looked inedible, but nothing was inedible to Yakimov. She said: ‘You might as well have it.’
When Guy eventually returned, she told him: ‘I’ve given Yakimov your food.’
‘It doesn’t matter.’
Clarence began struggling up and calling the waiter. ‘I’ve got to go,’ he said frantically.
‘Not yet,’ Guy protested. ‘I’ve only just got here.’
‘You got here nearly an hour ago,’ Harriet said crossly. ‘You spent all the time at another table.’
‘Why didn’t you come over?’
‘We weren’t asked to come over.’
‘Do you need to be asked?’
Clarence persisted that he must go. ‘My berth’s booked on the night train. I’ll be in trouble if I miss it.’
‘Oh, all right; but I’ve seen nothing of you.’
‘Whose fault is that?’
‘And I’ve had nothing to eat.’
Harriet said: ‘You’ve only yourself to blame.’
‘Really, darling, need you be so disgruntled? Clarence is only here for one night.’
‘I must go,’ Clarence moaned.
‘All right. Don’t worry. Harriet and I are coming with you.’
Yakimov was content to be left behind.
Outside in the passage, the eunuch had left his base. An Australian soldier was sitting in the basket chair weeping. Perhaps he had been excluded from the club, perhaps he could not afford to pay.
‘What’s the matter?’ Harriet asked.
‘Nobody loves poor Aussie,’ he wept. ‘Nobody loves poor Aussie.’
‘He’s drunk,’ Clarence said in contempt. Stepping out to the street, he stopped a taxi in a businesslike way but, once inside it, fell across the back seat and lost consciousness.
The station was blacked out. The train, that used to be part of the Orient Express, stood darkly in the darkness. The station officials moved about carrying torches or oil lamps. One of the officials thought that Clarence must be the British officer who earlier in the day had left his suitcase in the cloak-room. Every man on the station joined in getting Clarence to his bunk. The two cases, whether they belonged to Clarence or not, were put up on the rack. Another British officer was leaning out of the window of the wagon-lit and it seemed that he and Clarence were the only passengers on the train.