Guy Vanderhaeghe - The Englishman’s Boy

“Just have another drinkie and relax,” Clara advises.

Gloria wants nothing to do with relaxation; she’s obviously spoiling for a fight. “Come on, big spender,” she says. “Don’t just stand there. Show us a parlour trick.”

“What kind of parlour trick?” I ask pleasantly, a feeble ploy to smooth her ruffled feathers.

“Parlour trick. Parlour trick,” she rasps. “The big palooka in the other room showed us how he could balance three silver dollars on his cock. Be a sport. Go for four.”

Just then Fitz crashes into the room, dragging a cringing Lillian Gish by the wrist.

“Speak of the devil!” shouts Gloria. “Here’s Mr. Show-off now!”

“Shut the fuck up,” says Fitz, “or I’ll fucking shut you up.”

Gloria looks like she is going to answer him, then thinks better of it. Fitz is sweating, his face puce. “Harry Vincent, guest of honour,” he says introducing me to Lillian Gish. “Treat him right, he earned it, Mr. Chance says.” He shoves the girl at me. “Here’s your fucking treat, Vincent. Suck on this little candy cane, you’re so special.”

“Hey,” says Gloria, “we seen him first.”

“I told you to close your cake-hole. Miss Gish is compliments of Mr. Chance. Keep your nose out of it.” The girl is rubbing her wrist. “Miss Gish is Harry’s favourite actress. Mr. Chance remembers stuff like that. Don’t he, Harry?”

“Apparently.”

Fitz prods the girl forward with his thumb. “Take the golden boy Vincent upstairs.”

“Maybe I don’t want to go upstairs,” I say.

“I wouldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth if I was you,” says Fitz.

The girl snatches at my arm like it’s a life raft and she is drowning; she’s hardly bigger than a child. “Please,” she whispers, “do like he says.” Her plea unmasks a terror so naked, so compelling, it would be cruelty to refuse. She pulls me from the room, fingers biting my forearm; my last glimpse of Fitz he’s clumsily fingering Gloria’s pearls with one hand, a breast with the other.

Upstairs, the girl drags me into a bedroom and locks the door. Something tells me it is Fitz’s. There’s an unmade bed, a dresser with a bottle of bay rum on top of it, pictures of Gentleman Jim Corbett and Kentucky Derby winner Man o’ War on the wall.

The girl offers a smile meant to be provocative but isn’t. It’s a grimace – whistling in the dark. “My name is Miss Lillian Gish. How do you do?”

In some respects it is true. She succeeds as Miss Lillian Gish in a way that the tawdry Gloria Swanson and Clara Bow fall short of their models. The resemblance is astonishing. She has the wrought fragility of the original, the delicate bird-like bones, the cupid mouth, the large eyes, the fine tousled hair which now, with the light of a lamp behind her, blazes like a heaven-sent aura. Unlike the others she isn’t dressed in glamorous party clothes – just the opposite – she’s wearing a paisley shawl and a long dress with a conspicuous patch on the skirt.

“You girls – just who are you?”

She smiles shyly, a real Lillian Gish smile this time, and makes a stab at resuming her performance, “My name is Miss Lillian -”

I interrupt. “What the hell’s going on here?”

She says, “The greatest gift it is in an innocent, pure girl’s power to give is yours for the asking.” It sounds like a recitation at the Christmas concert.

I drop down in a chair; she remains standing uncertainly in the middle of the floor. After a moment’s hesitation, she begins to unbutton her dress.

“Stop,” I say.

Her hands slowly open the dress front, cup her breasts and hold them on timid display. They are exquisite.

“Why are you doing this?”

Consternation and confusion struggle in her face. “I’m supposed to do this,” she complains.

She begins to toy with her nipples; voyeuristically I watch them stiffen. An uneasy, violent lust ripples in me.

“Don’t do that.”

“You don’t like that? What would you like me to do?”

“I want you to answer my questions. Who said you were supposed to do this?”

She bites her lip, throws a nervous glance to the locked door. “Him.”

“Fitz? The man who dragged you into the room downstairs?”

“He came to Mrs. Kirkland’s and hired us all. For the night.”

“Mrs. Kirkland’s?”

“You haven’t heard of Mrs. Kirkland’s?” She can scarcely believe my ignorance. “It’s the deluxest establishment in the city. Mrs. Kirkland says everybody dreams of making love to a movie star. I thought everybody had heard of Mrs. Kirkland’s.”

“Sit down.”

“Very deluxe,” she repeats, still standing. “We have a splendid piano player, you should come just to hear him. He plays all the latest tunes. Daddy would die if he knew – the piano player’s a Negro.”

“How the hell old are you?”

My question pleases her. “How old do you think I am?”

“You look fifteen.”

“Just like Miss Gish,” she says proudly. “She played a fifteen-year-old girl in Broken Blossoms. That’s where I got the idea for my costume, from Broken Blossoms.” She touches her skirt. “Do you like it?”

I say nothing. She falls back on the bed in an artless, maladroit pose of abandon. “Are you ready?”

“No.”

She sits up, a picture of concern. “Why? Because of your leg? I saw you limping. Does your leg hurt?”

“Not because of my leg. That was hurt a long time ago.”

“Poor baby, how did you hurt it?”

I don’t explain.

“It wouldn’t hurt if I sat on your knee, would it? Let me sit on your knee.”

“Please don’t.”

She is standing over me. With one deft movement she hikes her skirts, straddles one of my thighs. There is nothing to her, it is as if a cat bounded up and settled down on my leg. She throws her arms around my neck. I try to pry her off but her arms tighten, she lowers her face to mine, the tiny lips part slightly. With solemn fervour, she says, “Miss Lillian isn’t wearing underpants tonight.” She slides back and forth against my leg, rubbing like a cat. “That feels nice. Ever so nice.” Large eyes dizzy me. She lifts her hips, takes my hand and slips it between her legs. “When you’re fifteen you’d like somebody to touch it – but that’s wicked. You’d like to show it to somebody – but that’s even wickeder. Shall I show it to you?” she whispers, breath warm on my throat.

“No,” I say, choking on the lie.

She nestles her head into the hollow of my neck and shoulder. “Let me take you out,” she says. “Please. I feel so wicked.”

When her hand fumbles at my fly I catch her wrist and twist it away. Her face writhes. “You’re hurting me,” she says.

“This is over. Get off me. Now.”

“Please,” she says, “you have to let me do it. He paid.”

“I buy my own whores.”

She shudders, the porcelain face cracks, I feel the doll’s body go limp. “Why do you want to get me in trouble? Can’t you be nice? He warned me. He said if I didn’t, too bad for me. I know he means it. Look what he did already.” She holds up her arm. There are bruises left by Fitz’s fingers. “I had to let him take a pair of nail scissors and trim me. So I’d look fifteen, he said. He laughed, the son of a bitch. Couldn’t you feel how he trimmed me?” She clutches at me desperately, begins to squirm in a mechanically provocative way. It feels like despair.

I shake her. “Stop it!”

She freezes, fine hair fallen loose about her shoulders.

There’s a sharp rap at the door. “Harry! Harry!” It’s Chance. I shove Miss Gish off my lap. She staggers backward, eyes running wildly round the room, rabbit seeking a bolt-hole. “Get on the bed,” I hiss. “On the bed. Throw up your skirts.” She clambers up on the bed and does as she is told. I get a glimpse of Fitz’s handiwork before facing the door and calling out, “Just a minute, Mr. Chance.” I unbuckle, my belt and then unlock the door. Chance peers impassively over my shoulder into the room as I ostentatiously do myself up.