"So interesting. I've enjoyed every moment so much, thank you. Young people don't talk to their seniors these days."
"Yes. I know. Not nice. But please God may we have this happenstance again. Been much rewarding to see the wealth of colour sparkling in eyes such as yours. An autumn splendour which only comes with the riper years."
"You are a dear boy."
"Goodbye, madam."
"Goodbye."
Beefy led Balthazar to the cigar department. There to purchase several packets to bulge out his pockets. On this lucid afternoon. He said he was going to distribute them to his mates on the building site. Where he would finish out the week. But alas he would still have to stay employed. Gainfully and continually or else forfeit the last remaining hope of granny's distant riches.
They parted with a wave at the entrance to the sweet department. Balthazar B went past the cheese and candles, by petunias and into the health juice bar. There amid a sudden throng of busty twice married heiresses he quaffed a mixture of blackberry juice and milk. And up through the various departments. To order furniture, enough for one. To sit and sleep upon.
The day of delivery in the door of 78 Crescent Curve. The men in pleasant green coats came. Set up the bed, table, sofa, chair, lamp and rug in the dining room. They thought me rather a little strange but I said it saves running around the house. I climbed up the stairs and stood there on the landing. Looking out back and into a small garden opposite. And saw lying back carelessly in a chair. A nearly naked girl. A towel just over her lap. Moving her head back and forth in the sunshine. A gleam on her small sharp pointed breasts. I was enchanted and somewhat saucily steamed. How gay and carefree and goodness, how London has changed. An older lady, looks her mother, comes out. Polishes her all over with an embrocation. As she now leans forward. Her pair seem to gain much in size. One wonders what other windows are alive with binoculars or unassisted eyes. Good Lord they look up. I step back. And wait. To peek again. From the landing next floor up. Ah the scene remains unchanged. I could run around and present my card. Placed neatly sticking up. I beg your pardon.
Out of
Beefy's
Wheelbarrow
Of ice cold
Sand.
24
The morning came when the parish magazine was pushed through the letter box. With a welcoming open letter to come and worship from the local vicar. And a week when I met the Angelica Violet Infanta, as well as her tall curvacious friend. We dined a foursome under the tinted cherubs painted on the ceiling of the Ritz. And danced around a champagne laden table hidden beyond the midnight curtains of Mayfair. The Infanta's laugh was deep throated and frequent. Her friend's was lighthearted and rare. And her name was Mil-licent.
Life easeful, moist and summery. In this most polite and courteous of cities. Grit and paper scraps tumbling in the gutter and people said sorry upon contact of an elbow. Smiles here now when needed. And words from the lips of Beefy. I kept appointments down in dark vaults near a candle to taste wine. Taxi engines trembled me a tranquil passenger, out to Mayfair and down to St. James. And sometimes I rode top the double decked red buses swaying roaring from stop to stop. Neighbours departed countrywards as weekends went by in Knightsbridge with unfussed burglaries on thick town house carpets.
I joined Beefy to play bezique at his club and dined off pheasant, claret and cheese. An afternoon on his day off he took me with a hamper of eel fillets, Scotch haggis from Perth, and boned and stuffed chicken in aspic and we sat with our wine surveying saucy antics in a private emporium of striptease. Beefy was climbing the road back up again. He said ah the Infanta, such is she as a girl and I as a chap that together we make a miracle.
I had a cook and Uncle Edouard's old butler, Boats, come one evening to give my first dinner at Crescent Curve. Magnums of champagne with slabs of tender steak and platters of garlic bread. Boats, retired a few years, was slightly enfeebled and very hard of hearing. And the crystal bowl of fruit salad he carried was dropped with one resounding pineapple splash. But there on that Thursday evening we drank a toast to the Violet Infanta and Beefy who announced their wedding. And I was asked to be best man.
I played tennis with Millicent. Who arrived smiling with tan legs in white socks and her racket and little box of balls. To volley, lob and smash me to smithereens all over the quiet and peaceful garden court. I stood so sweatily, spindly and white. And chasing her shots back and forth. Secretly I practised in an empty upstairs room against the wall. Breaking three rackets against the ceiling and knocking out four panes of glass. I met her parents. Both of them smiled. And leaned against their mantel piece. A marble little altar of propped up white invitation cards.
Millicent had long strong tan arms and splendidly muscled thighs. She stood straight and brown haired in flat shoes an inch taller than I. She moved wilfully forward her teeth flashing everywhere. Her serve was like a rifle shot and her back hand sizzled by. And each afternoon collecting up the tennis balls, I would watch her drying away her beads of sweat the other side of the court. Where she stood quite handsome. Elegantly serene. And pleasantly untouchable.
An evening we went to Soho for dinner. Each time I invited her I never thought she would say yes. She wore a close fitting orangy dress low cut over her breasts. And she listened and listened out of her lackadaisical brown eyes. With dark waiters crowding around. I stole looks down at her legs. Watched her buttocks wagging as she walked to powder her nose. And when she leaned forward I stared there too. A waiter doing so impertinently as well. I was so angered I lavishly overtipped him. Then we left for a nightclub. I finally moved to her close as she took my arm. She said out of the smoke and noise of the evening. Why Balthazar, it would not be impossible for us to go to an hotel. One weekend along the river.
From Crescent Curve I made lathered enquiries of river hotels from Greenwich to Maidenhead. And she said yes when I told her. We were booked. My gladstone bag packed with my most favoured linen. A change of ties, four shirts and socks. An old volume on vertebrate morphology stuffed between. I would set forth in grey pin stripe. Change later to more casual wear. And there. She waited packed on that sunless north west corner of Harrods. As I came cruising in a hired chauffeured car along Brompton Road.
It had been an early afternoon of much sprinkling of the toilet water in all possible places. The combing and brushing of that awkward bit of hair. That jumps up from my crown. Sitting serene in this motor now. Distinctly headed west through Barnes across Putney bridge. Turn left to smile. And she puts out her hand and a finger striped gold with a wedding band. I had three times on lonely nights crossed through the park. Strolled the Bayswater Road.. To hope to purely by accident meet Breda. But I never did. As the odd ladies went past whispering good evening dearie.