John Braine - Room at the Top

I took her to the bar at the interval.

"Mummy would be awfully cross if she knew I was here," she said, looking doubtfully round her at the rows of coloured bottles and the gilt mirrors and the framed playbills and cartoons and the usual beefy men and plump women smelling of bay-rum and violets, whom one never sees in any number except in theatre bars and who always seem to be comfortably installed before one's arrived.

"Is she teetotal?" I asked.

"She thinks pubs are low. But this isn't a pub really, is it?"

"Not really," I said. "What would you like to drink?"

"You won't laugh if I have a grapefruit, will you?"

"There's no law against it." I smiled at her. "Have whatever you like, honey."

When I got the drinks I offered her a cigarette.

"No, thank you," she said. "I don't smoke."

"You're the sort of girl I like to take out."

She gave me a look which was coquettish in a naive sort of way. "Why am I the sort of girl you like to take out?"

"You've no expensive vices."

"Are your usual girls very expensive?"

"I haven't any girls," I said. "There's never been any. Only you."

"Now you're telling fibs. Wicked! "

She had an intonation for the word which was altogether charming and innocent but at the same time faintly provocative.

I put my hand on my heart. "There's no one but you."

"You haven't known me very long. How can you tell?" She looked a little frightened; I'm going too fast I thought.

"You're not a dear kipper," I said, as if I hadn't heard her question.

The phrase instantly distracted her, as I'd calculated it would. "A dear kipper?"

"My mother used to call me that when I wanted something that cost more than she could afford."

She clapped her hands. It was a gesture which I'd read about but never seen, so childish and outmoded that only Susan, I think, could have got away with it. "A dear kipper. A dear kipper. Oh, how lovely . You know, I'd rather like to be a dear kipper."

I sipped my gin-and-lime. I'd chosen it because it wouldn't make my breath smell, but quite apart from the fact that the price is sheer robbery, I don't care for the stuff. For a moment I had a fierce longing to be drinking Old at the St. Clair with Alice.

"Are you enjoying the show?" I asked Susan.

"It's gorgeous . I adore ballet. And the music - it makes me feel all squashy inside - I feel, oh, ever so excited and squiffy." She put her elbow on the table and cupped her chin in her hand. "It's ever so difficult to explain ... it's like being inside a house all painted with beautiful colours and when you listen it's like touching the paint, the colours all run over your mind - does that sound silly?"

"No. Not one little bit. I've always felt like that myself, only I can't put it as well as you." I was lying, of course; as far as I'm concerned ballet is something with which to occupy the eyes whilst listening to music. But I wouldn't having dreamed of saying so; it was essential that I should appear to share Susan's interests - or rather, that they should appear to coincide. I'd discover something unimportant to disagree with her about so that she'd think me an intelligent type with a mind of my own.

"I'd like to take you to Sadler's Wells," I said.

"Have you seen Fonteyn?"

"All of them." I talked about ballet till the bell rang, managing - rather skilfully, I thought - to conceal the fact that I'd only been to Sadler's Wells once and that Fonteyn was the only prima ballerina I'd ever seen.

After the show had ended to the usual tumultuous and idiotic applause, I asked her if she'd like some coffee. I was helping her on with her coat; I remember noticing with approval that she took the courtesy for granted.

"Coffee? Oh, that's sweet of you. I'd love some."

"You can have some cakes too," I said, "I know a café where they're eatable."

"I'm awfully hungry. I didn't have any dinner, I was in such a rush."

"You should have told me. It's silly to miss meals in winter."

"I'll be all right. I eat a terrific lot, really I do. But I'm starving . I could eat lots and lots - oh dear!" She put her hand to her mouth. "You'll think I'm a dear kipper," she said dolefully.

I laughed. "Don't worry about that." It was charming when she put her hand to her mouth; entirely natural, but stylised and graceful. She made all the other girls I'd been out with seem dingy and clumsy and old before their time: the thought came to me tinged with apprehension - I wasn't playing for matches any more.

The café was just outside the theatre. It was the sort of place I didn't normally go to then - oak panelling, deep carpets, a four-piece band, and an atmosphere of exclusiveness. I don't mean that I personally was overawed by all the splendid people there - they were mostly fat old women anyway. But I always had the fear of doing the wrong thing, of making a fool of myself in front of the higher grades. Saying the wrong thing to the waiter or picking up the wrong fork or not being able to find the cloakroom immediately wouldn't have mattered in an ordinary café. In fact, there wouldn't have been any possibility of me making any faux pas. In front of those with no more money than me there would be no necessity to be careful, people in one's own income group can't be enemies. The rich were my enemies, I felt: they were watching me for the first false move.

It's queer when I remember it - I have even bought meals at cafeterias when for a couple of shillings extra I could have had an eatable meal at a good restaurant. That evening with Susan, though, I walked into the café quite happily: she was my passport, it was her sort of place.

"Isn't it nice here?" she said. "All Dickensy. And look at that little waiter there with the funny quiff. He's utterly squoo . Don't you think so, Joe?"

The waiter came over to us with the flat-footed glide of the professional servant. We'd hardly taken our seats before he came over; I wondered for a moment if he'd have come so quickly if I'd not been with Susan. When he'd gone off with the order, Susan looked at me and giggled. "Do you think he heard me? I don't care, he was squoo. Awfully sad and yet perky like a little monkey. I wonder if he likes his job? I wonder what he thinks of his customers?"

"He'll think you're the most beautiful girl he's ever seen," I said, "and he'll think me extremely fortunate to be in your company. He's sad because he's married and has twenty children and you're forever unattainable, and he's perky because no man could help being happy when you're around. See?"

"You're making me blush." She kept on looking round the place with a frank and lively interest. There was a middle-aged woman at the far side of the room with black dyed hair and a sort of deliquescent distinction; she was talking in a hoarse but still attractive voice to her companion, a mousy little woman with a pink openwork jumper revealing at my estimate eight shoulder straps. The middle-aged woman's face was set in an attitude of ashamed disillusion as if she'd lost her vitality as suddenly and ludicrously as underwear when the elastic snaps in the street. When she saw Susan looking at her she smiled. For a moment she looked her real age and her real age didn't matter. I don't know why I should remember this, nor why it should hurt me when I remember. Susan returned the old woman's smile and continued to look round the place, examining every person there with the frank and lively interest of a child.

I laughed. "You're as bad as my mother." I kept my tone light and bantering because, though a dead mother is useful in boosting the emotional atmosphere, to have used a sepulchral tone would have spoiled the particular line I was trying to use. "She used to know everything that went on in Dufton. She was interested in people, like you. She said that there was something wrong with you if you didn't take any notice of what your fellow humans did."