Len Deighton - Goodbye Mickey Mouse

‘That’s dance music.’ Madigan’s mouth dropped open and he seemed truly shaken. ‘Christ, I thought at last I’d found a real pal in this dump, a guy I could talk to.’

‘Only kidding, Vince.’

Madigan recovered from his state of shock. ‘Jesus, I thought you were serious for a minute.’ He smiled to show his perfect teeth. ‘You wait until you see this Victoria Cooper…and she’ll go for you too. She lives with her parents, that’s why I’m not interested.’ He took off his glasses and put them into a leather case. ‘My dad practically threw me out of the house because of my girlfriends. Mom never seemed to mind. It’s funny that women never seem to mind their sons tomcatting around. It’s almost like they get some kind of kick out of it.’

Victoria was private secretary to a newspaper owner. The newspaper was a local one, appeared only once a week and, since newsprint was scarce and rationed, consisted of only eight pages, but she enjoyed this job that gave her access to the teleprinter news and the excitement of meeting men who’d come from far-distant battlefronts. She was updating the wall map when Vera came in. ‘American forces, supported by Australian warships, have secured a firm beachhead on the south coast of New Britain.’ She found an appropriate stretch of Pacific coastline and inserted a pin.

‘I’ve brought your tea, Miss Cooper.’

‘That’s kind of you, Vera.’ Her visitor was a small vivacious woman with short curly hair dyed blonde. She was no longer a girl and yet her freckles and snub nose gave her a youthful tom-boy look that appealed to men, if the reaction of the office staff was anything to judge by.

‘I had to come upstairs anyway.’ Vera brandished a handful of press photos before dropping them into the tray on the desk, rearranging some papers there to make a reason for delay. ‘A friend of mine has been lent a wonderful flat for Christmas. It’s in Jesus Lane. You should see it—central heating, carpets, and little table lights everywhere. It’s the sort of place you see in films…romantic, you know.’

‘Lucky you, Vera.’

‘He’s an American, a captain. Drink your tea, Miss Cooper. Captain Vincent Madigan, Vince I call him. He’s tall and strong and very handsome. He looks like Pat O’Brien, the film star…and talks like him too.’

‘It sounds as if you’re smitten.’

‘Nothing like that,’ said Vera hastily. ‘Just friends. I feel sorry for those American boys, so far away from their homes and families.’ She picked up some photos and pretended to look at them. ‘I said I’d take a few friends along to their party at Christmas. You told me your parents will be away, so I wondered…’

‘I don’t think so, Vera.’ She’d been introduced to the American friend once, picking Vera up at the office, and wondered whether Vera had forgotten that or if she just enjoyed describing him again.

‘It’s Christmas, Miss Cooper,’ Vera coaxed. ‘I’m calling in to see them on my way home. Since it’s only round the corner I thought you might come with me—I’d rather not go on my own. They have wonderful coffee, and gorgeous chocolate—candy, they call it.’

‘Yes, so I’ve heard,’ said Victoria. It was a patronizing remark and Vera recognized it for what it was. Hurriedly, she gathered up some pay slips she was delivering to the cashier and turned to go. And since Victoria didn’t want to be rude to this genial woman, who would think it was because of her accent, or because she hadn’t been to college, she said, ‘I’ll go with you, Vera—I’d enjoy a break. But I mustn’t be too late home, I have to wash my hair.’

Vera gave a little shriek of delight, a sound borrowed no doubt from some Hollywood starlet. ‘Oh, I’m so pleased, Miss Cooper. It will be nice—he’ll have a friend with him…to help with the decorations and that,’ she added too quickly.

‘Am I what they call a “blind date”, Vera?’

Vera smiled guiltily but didn’t admit as much. ‘They’re ever so nice…real gentlemen, Miss Cooper.’

‘I hope you won’t go on calling me Miss Cooper all evening.’

‘See you at six o’clock, Victoria.’

Victoria could see why Vera was so impressed with the flat the Americans were using. It was both elegant and comfortable, furnished with good, but neglected, antique furniture, well-worn Persian carpets, and some nineteenth-century Dutch water-colours. The bookcases were empty except for the odd piece of porcelain. She guessed the place belonged to some tutor or fellow of the university, now gone off to war. The current tenancy of the Americans was unmistakable, however. There were pieces of sports equipment—golf clubs, tennis rackets, even a baseball glove—in various corners of the room and brightly coloured boxes of groceries, tinned food and cartons of cigarettes on the hall table.

She had arrived at Jesus Lane with some misgivings, half expecting to meet the predatory primitives her mother believed most American servicemen to be. She wouldn’t have been greatly surprised to find half a dozen hairy-chested men sitting round a card table in their underwear, smoking cheap cigars and playing poker for money. The reality couldn’t have been more different.

Captain Madigan and his younger friend were wearing their well-cut uniforms, sitting in the drawing room listening to Mozart. Both men were sprawled in the relaxed way only Americans seemed to adopt—legs stretched straight in front of them and heads sunk so low in the cushions that they had difficulty getting to their feet to greet their visitors.

Vincent Madigan acknowledged that they’d met before, remembering the time and place with such ease that she had little doubt that the invitation had originated with him. ‘I’m glad you dropped by,’ said Madigan, keeping to the pretence that Victoria was there only by chance. He stopped the music. ‘Let me introduce Captain James Farebrother.’ They nodded to each other. Madigan said, ‘Let me fix you ladies a drink. Martini, Vera? What about you, Miss Cooper?’ He leaned over to read the bottle labels. ‘Scotch, gin, port, something called oloroso—looks like, it’s been around some time—or a martini with Vera?’ His voice was unexpectedly low, contrived almost, and his accent strong enough for her to have some difficulty understanding him.

‘A martini. Thank you.’

James Farebrother offered them cigarettes and then asked permission to smoke. It was all so formal that Victoria almost started giggling. She caught Farebrother’s eye and made it an opportunity to smile. He grinned back.

Farebrother was a little taller than his friend but not so broad. His hair was cut very short in a style she’d seen only in Hollywood films. She guessed him to be about her own age—twenty-five. Both men were muscular and athletic, but Madigan’s strength was that of the boxing ring or football field, while Farebrother had the springy grace of a runner.

‘You must be the Mozart lover?’ she said.

‘No. Vince is the opera buff. I just beat time.’

His uniform was obviously made to order and she noticed that, unlike Vince Madigan’s, his tie was silk. Was it a gift from girlfriend or Mother, or a revelation of some secret vanity?

‘We’ll eat at a little Italian spot down the street,’ Madigan announced as he served the drinks. ‘They do a great veal scaloppine…as good as any I’ve had back home in Minneapolis.’

It was a bizarre recommendation and the temptation to laugh was almost uncontrollable. Madigan mistook Victoria’s amusement for indignation. Self-consciously he ran a hand over his bony skull to arrange his hair and backed away, almost spilling his drink as he blundered into the sofa. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘Okay. I know what you British think about Mussolini and all that, and you’re right, Victoria.’