Henry Green - Back

He was more and more jealous of the relations he felt certain that Middlewitch must have had with Rose, and was probably still having.

Arthur saw Charley from afar. He knew it was a nuisance, but the chap was obviously in dire trouble. What they shared of the war, that is the experiences they’d each had on their own, was a bond between them, if only of aluminium, pulleys, and elastic. He thought there was nothing for it but to take Charley along with him.

So he greeted Summers exuberantly, and Charley, with bad grace, accepted the invitation he had hoped for, finding little to say at first while this man rattled jovial, patronizing tit bits in his direction.

“Rose, Rose,” Mr Middlewitch called to the waitress once they were seated.

“Reminds me,” Summers said quiet. “D’you know Nance Whitmore?”

“My dear old boy? Why she lives across my landing. Grand girl Nancy.”

“Used to be Phillips,” Summers said.

“What did?”

“The name. Phillips.”

“Is that so?” Mr Middlewitch replied, uninterested. “Well it’s a small world. Fancy you coming across young Nance. You’ve kept a bit dark about that, surely? You never told me, I mean.”

And what about your not saying a word, Charley thought. He chewed this over in scornful silence for a while.

Mr Middlewitch considered that Summers was looking very strange.

“Of course I haven’t known her long,” he said at last. “Only since I was felt hatted, and went to live in digs. Now Rose, darling, don’t say it has to be bunny again. We’ve had a proper dose of that this week.”

“Oh Mr Middlewitch,” she said. “Oh Rose,” he gave her back. Both of them laughed.

Charley began to feel sick in spite of the whisky.

After more had been ordered Charley said,

“Her name was Rose.”

“Whose name?”

“Rose Phillips.”

“You’re telling me a lot about this Rose Phillips, old man,” Mr Middlewitch complained, “but I’ve never had the honour, have I?” He was continually looking round the luncheon room for acquaintances.

“It’s Nance Whitmore.”

“What was her name, then, before she married Phillips?”

“Nancy Whitmore was Rose Grant.”

“You’re wrong there, old chap. Nance lost her husband in the war. He wasn’t called Phillips. Then she changed her name back by deed poll. But her hubby was Phil White. Is that what you were thinking of? Phil and Phillips? He got his at Alamein.”

This was more than Charley could stomach.

“What’s the penalty for bigamy, even when the second husband’s dead?” he demanded, choking.

“Bigamy, old boy? Why ask me? Never marry ’em, that’s my motto. Best thing too.”

“She’s a bigamist,” Charley insisted, almost draining his second whisky at a gulp. Middlewitch looked at him with disgust.

“Steady,” he said, “steady, old man. I’ve known the little lady in question ever since I got back.”

“Old Grant introduce you?”

“Gerald Grant? Here, what is this? If they know each other it’s the first I’ve heard. And I suspect it’s none of my business.”

“She’s a bigamist,” Charley said. All this time he had kept his eyes on the table. Middlewitch took it for a sign that the fellow knew he was lying. “Now see here, Summers, you’ll be getting yourself into a peck of trouble one of these fine days.” Then he began to lose his temper. “And in any case,” he went on, “I say damn a man who says what you’ve just done about a lady and doesn’t look you in the eye as he speaks. Even if it is about a girl, and they’re capable of anything. You can’t tell me,” he ended, appreciating the sally.

But Charley raised his eyes to Middlewitch for the first time, who could only stare at what was opened to him in them.

“I see,” Mr Middlewitch said uncomfortably.

“Well, there you are,” Mr Middlewitch exclaimed again.

Charley finished the whisky, laughed, and said, “Yes, there it is,” with a sort of satisfaction.

“But look here, Summers,” Arthur started, once something, he was not sure what, had begun to sink into him, “why she’s straight as a die, you know, straight as a die. I’d stake my life on that. Nancy Whitmore. Good lord yes.”

“Did you know about her son?”

“My dear good chap you’re mistaken there, I can assure you. Why, after they’ve been in the straw they’ve a brown line down their little tummies. Well she hasn’t, so what d’you know?”

“And how did you learn?” Charley brought out, in such a voice that Middlewitch swallowed, then, when he did reply, began to bluster.

“Why, I went swimming with her of course,” he lied. “Last summer it was. Took the girl down to Margate.”

“With mines on the beach?”

But Arthur had recovered himself.

“In the Palais de Swim , or whatever they call the place, naturally,” he answered. “Look, you’ll excuse my saying this, old man. You may even think I’m a funny sort of host. But let’s change the subject, shall we? I mean the little lady’s quite a pal of mine. It’s strange. You’ve got the wrong side of one another some time, I know. But that’s nothing to do with this chap,” he said, pointing a finger at himself, “if you get me.”

Then, through his rising, nauseating misery, Summers had, as he thought, a brain wave.

“A written apology is what she should send,” he announced.

“O.K. Enough’s enough. Now what’s to follow? Rose,” Arthur called to the waitress, his patience with the whole subject at an end, “Rose.”

“Sorry,” Charley said. “Suppose I’m a bit upset.”

“I can see that, old man.”

“Her name was Rose. That got me started.”

“All right Summers,” Middlewitch replied with unction, his position restored now Charley had weakened, “all right, but I can’t use any other name for the waitresses, can I? Or call Nance by any other than what I know? See here, old chap. You sit on as you are. Simmer down.” He laughed. “There’s old Ernie Mandrew across the room I must have a word with. And while I’m away I may be able to get hold of Rose to bring us what’s to come. You’ll have another drink of course?” He got up and left.

He managed to stop their waitress. “Look, darling, I’ve got to go,” he said. “See to my friend,” he asked. “He’s more than a bit queer, had a bad war,” he added, “was repatriated, after me as a matter of fact. Fetch him another whisky, like a good girl. I shall be in again tomorrow. He’s stuck on a girl called Rose. Bit of a coincidence, isn’t it?” He went off laughing.

An hour and three whiskies later, Charley paid the bill and left. When someone else was put in Arthur’s place, at their table, he had hardly noticed.

After Middlewitch got home that night from the office, he was still angry with Summers. As soon as he’d had a wash, however, he began to see the whole matter in a rosier light. The chap had had a rotten time. Girls like Nance should appreciate what Charley, and he, had been through. He would have a chat with her. If he went across now, she would not have gone to work yet. So he knocked at her door.

She did not open up, but called out to ask who might it be.

“Only Art,” he said.

“Why Art,” she said, letting him in. “There’ve been some queer customers around lately,” she explained. “I’m in a state of siege now, I promise.” She was laughing.

“Customers?” he enquired archly, as he settled himself in the best chair. “But Nance,” he said, “you ought to watch out how you express yourself, or you’ll be misunderstood.”

“Well then,” she replied, “don’t you misunderstand for a start. You can’t tell what I’ve had to sit here and listen to these last few weeks. And what’s become of you in all that time? It must be months since I’ve seen you, Art.”