Кейт Уотерхаус - Soho or Alex in Wonderland

“Wossat, kidder?”

“That I was on three months’ trial. No one ever told me.”

“Know what they say, Jas,” said Alex philosophically. “You learn something new every —” He broke off with a “Jesus H. Christ!” of pain cross-hatched with surprise as a thick wad of paper hurtled down from the skylight and smote him between the shoulder-blades before slithering to the floor. Staggering to his knees, Alex retrieved what proved to be a soiled bundle of typewritten manuscript. Freeze When You Say That , by Kim Grizzard.

Meanwhile all eyes were directed by a strangulated cry of “Let me get at the bastard, you bastardising bastards!” from the iron walkway running alongside the glass roof, where Kim, at a tipped-open skylight window, was struggling with two of the dinner-jacketed partygoers who had been taking the air.

All eyes particularly those of Ellis Hugo Bell. With an exclamation of “Shit wrapped in Cellophane!” he was bounding out of the room even as Grizzard, wrenching himself free, leaped through the skylight and crashed down on to the book table — a collapsible trestle affair, as it proved, which duly collapsed, scattering volumes of the Chiaroscuro Life of Augustus John in all directions, and bringing down the cardboard blow-up of the book cover, which missed Else by inches.

“When this was the Old Vienna Restaurant, long before it became whatever it is now,” rambled Else imperturbably to no one in particular, “students from the St Martin’s School of Art used to do that for a bet. That was when you could get a Wiener schnitzel and an apfelstrudel to follow, with half a bottle of Tyrol wine for nine and sixpence. Excellent coffee, I remember. Is that young man all right?”

Grizzard was in fact winded but otherwise in better shape than he was going to be after the managerial-type-cum-bouncer had manhandled him roughly out of the wreckage of the book table and frogmarched him off the premises.

“That should give you a headline, kidder,” said Alex, as a subdued Kim Grizzard was led out. “Even that stupid cow you work for should see that.”

“What’s the story?” asked James Flood gloomily. “Man jumps through skylight, so what? I’ll give it to Private Eye .”

Alex found himself still clutching the battered manuscript of Freeze When You Say That . “Won’t he be wanting this?”

“Leave it down at reception,” advised James. “Or get Else to drop it in on her way out — she seems to be just leaving.”

As indeed Else just was, escorted by the senior greeter who must have come up to see what the commotion was about.

“Come along, Else, you’ve seen all there is to see.”

“I expect you’re right, if the author isn’t going to be here. Would you call me a cab, dear?”

“I don’t think we could find one to take you, Else.”

Alex saw that a line of tiny droplets led back to the chair where Else had been sitting. Its red velvet seat was deeply stained and water still dribbled through it to form a little puddle on the parquet floor.

“Now you must give me a moment to say goodbye to my young man,” said damp old Else. Putting a grubby hand in his: “You were very kind to give me this book and I shall treasure it. If I ever write my memoirs, young man, you must come to my publisher’s party and I shall sign you a copy. In the meantime I have something for you.”

She rummaged in her worn tapestry handbag and fished out a creased invitation card. It was for the Soho Ball at the Café Royal, admit two. “They send me a card every year, yet when I turn up they refuse to let me in. It’s very curious. Now I want you to have this and take your young lady along and have a most enjoyable evening. I used to have supper at the Café Royal three or four times a week, you know.”

Alex saw that the invitation was for the following evening, when he would be sitting in an articulated rhubarb truck and heading for South Higginshaw. Anyway, it was black tie. But there was no point in arguing the toss with the old biddy. He’d give the invite away. Or did it have a saleable value? Ask his new mate James.

“Ta very much, Else. I’d take you if I could.” He lunged at the least begrimed furrow on her raddled cheek and gave her a swift peck.

“Now I really must be toddling along. No, don’t tell me your name” — he hadn’t been about to. “I never wanted to know the names of my lovers unless they were famous. A lesson I learned from Nina Hamnett. Have you heard of Nina Hamnett?”

“Don’t think so.”

“Come along, Else.”

“In a moment, my dear, you must let me finish my little story. She was a celebrated model in her day. We both were. And one afternoon in the Gargoyle Club Augustus John asked her why she always went with sailors. And do you know what her reply was?”

“Else, you must leave.”

“No, her reply was, ‘Because they sail away next morning. Yes, because they sail away next morning.’”

Could be So-oh’s motter, that, reflected Alex, as Else allowed herself to be led away at last.

At the top of the stairs Else was handed over to the junior greeter and the senior greeter returned to the now restored book table. A familiar figure hovered behind her.

No, not him, not the prat who seemed to spend all his time wandering around Soho boring for Britain to anyone who would listen about who used to live hereabouts a hundred years ago. No, not Len Gates: Alex had already clocked him lurking, and had taken care to keep out of his way. But beyond Len, a flash of green, where all the other lasses were wearing black. And Alex could almost smell her perfume, although he knew he couldn’t really, not at this distance, and anyway, she was gone. But not before the flash of green had been supplemented by a flashing smile in his direction. An inviting one? Invitation to what? Christine, that was her name, wasn’t it?

The senior greeter tapped on a wine glass for attention with a classy-looking pen. Alex didn’t know much about pens, fact he had never seen one that didn’t look as if it had come in an appeal fund envelope from Save the Children, but this one was classy, slimline, gold, could be. He wondered, in passing, if the senior greeter with those big challenging knockers below the power shoulders was available. Forgerrit, kidder, outer your league. That Christine had brought on a case of the passing hots, that was the trouble.

“Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for taking time out from your busy schedules to celebrate this new and fascinating biography of one of this century’s leading artists and certainly among its most colourful figures, Augustus John. Unfortunately the author is unfortunately indisposed and so unfortunately he cannot be with us tonight, but fortunately —” here the greeter seemed to do a rapid finger-count on her adverbs and reached for a synonym — “happily, ladies and gentlemen, we have a gentleman here, I’m sure already known to many of you, who can happily tell us all we need to know about the colourful, chiaroscuro life of Augustus John. Ladies and gentlemen, the Sage of Soho, Mr Len Gates.”

Len stepped forward, producing a formidable sheaf of notes, and was about to mount the chair recently vacated by Else when he noted its damp condition. Instead, beckoning his audience forward, he addressed it from ground level.

“Ladies and gentlemen, thank you very much, the late Mr Augustus Edwin John, ARA, whether as colourist or draughtsman, as portrait painter par excellence or landscapist, ranked with the great masters. Born at Tenby, Wales, on January four 1878 he studied at the Slade School. Whilst he was awarded the Order of Merit in 1942, he was never to be honoured with a knighthood, possibly on account of a somewhat raffish lifestyle here in Soho …”