Dennis Wheatley: Black August

'No, oh! no,' Mrs. Pomfret sank on to the settee, 'but we promised to see Zumo Kriskovkin's drawings this evening, and dear Hildebrand he has no sense of time!'

Rudd shuffled his heavy boots uncomfortably. 'Well, if there's nothin' you're wantin' I'll be gettin' along, Miss?'

Mrs. Pomfret turned on him quickly. 'Mr. Rudd, I do hope you have reconsidered what I was saying about Mr. Choo Se Foo?'

'No, Mum,' Rudd backed swiftly towards the door, 'you won' take it unfriendly, Mum I 'ope but it's a rule of the 'ouse in a manner o' speakin'.'

'Oh, dear, oh, dear ' the large lady settled her skirt over her ample thighs, 'you are a most unreasonable man,' but a sharp click of the latch informed her that Rudd had made his escape and was now half way down to the insalubrious gloom of the basement where he dwelt in mystery and disorder. She turned on Ann.

'The prejudices of the working class are too absurd don't you agree? Mr. Choo Se Foo is the most charming man, and yet, just because he is Chinese, Rudd won't have him in the house. It would be a real distinction to have a genius like Choo Se Foo among us, but the masses have positively no appreciation of the arts. Sometimes it makes me wonder if it is worth while to go on.'

Ann had a quick mental picture of a small, smirking Oriental, cunning and insincere, deprecating his own presence with wearisome false modesty, and sneaking in and out like some large yellow cat. Living at such close quarters made one cautious of offending the other occupants of the house however, so with a show of interest she said:

'You know I'm afraid I'm terribly ignorant but just what does Mr. Choo Se Foo do?'

'Do my child! but there, once again we see the tragedy of souls pinned down to earth because they are compelled to earn their daily bread. How can you have time for the beauties of life, and for your work? Choo Se Foo is, perhaps, the greatest sculptor of our time.'

'Has he had any exhibitions of his work?' asked the practical minded Ann.

'Well, now, isn't it strange that you should ask that,' Mrs. Pomfret's false teeth showed in a wide smile. 'Only the other day I was saying that we simply must arrange an exhibition for him, but of course he is like a child, my dear so simple so unspoiled! Our hard, western commercialisation of beauty is quite beyond the understandings of his delicate mind.'

Ann felt an intense desire to giggle. She thought it highly probable that the Chinaman was a clever little rogue who made an excellent thing out of the enthusiasms of his arty crafty European friends; but she was saved the necessity for comment; Mrs. Pomfret had heaved her bulk off the settee and was dragging a heavy parcel from the corner of the room.

'My dear, I must show you,' she exclaimed fumbling with her small useless hands at the wrappings. 'He lent me this because I know a dealer really an unusually clever man for his class and I thought he might be interested. Look, my dear, his Infant Jesus don't you think it quite remarkable?'

Remarkable was the word Ann agreed as she gazed with astonished disgust at this monstrosity in stone. A large ball covered with every variety of human face, the expressions varying from benign to mercilessly sadistic; it stood upon two short, splay feet, and two puckered, feeble hands protruded from its upper surface.

'It is clever, I suppose,' Ann remarked doubtfully, once more forbearing to offend.

'Clever!' Mrs. Pomfret cried, her pale blue eyes bulging at Ann's lack of enthusiasm, 'but it is marvellous it has such atmosphere such rhythm! help me to lift it on to the bookcase, dear, I simply must keep it for just one day.'

'Rhythm!' thought Ann impatiently, 'what utter rot!' but she helped to lift the figure, and then curled up in her chair again while Mrs. Pomfret stood back to admire this product of a distorted mind, her small hand clasped in an ecstasy of adoration.

'It makes me feel… so… Oh! how hard it is to put one's emotions into words. I wonder if you understand.'

Ann did not care two kicks what the woman felt, but at that moment Mr. Pomfret limped into the room.

He was a tall, cadaverous person, moody and silent which his wife attributed to his great artistic gifts. Unfortunately the British public did not share her appreciation of Mr. Pomfret's genius, so although he had been writing for some twenty years it was a constant struggle for him to induce his publishers to renew their contracts and actually put into print those long dissertations upon the hesitations of the human soul which he evolved so labororiously.

'My love,' he said, smiling wanly at his Junoesque spouse.

'Hildebrand!' she swayed towards him they kissed.

To Ann, there was something incredibly grotesque about the performance; the fat, emotional woman in her too highly coloured clothes, the lank, disappointed man who, despite the August weather, still wore a thin dark overcoat which dangled far below his knees.

'Hildebrand my treasure, we must hurry!' exclaimed Mrs. Pomfret with a quick return to the practicalities of life.

'But where?' the man turned sad, dark eyes upon his wife.

'Zumo, my darling had you forgotten? and Chitter son Phlipper will be there, perhaps we can persuade him to take your article on the sex life of the cryptogam.'

'Ah, yes. Let's go then' He held the door open for her with the elaborate courtesy of an old fashioned actor, but her exit was momentarily impeded by the hurried entrance of Miss Griselda Girlie.

Griselda tossed a heavy satchel on to a nearby chair as the Pomfret’s left the room. She was studying for her medical degree, and still taking student courses through the long vacation. Striding over to the hideous plush covered mantelpiece, she looked quickly through the letters. 'Oh dear,' she sighed to Ann. 'He hasn't written he won't now, I don't think.'

Ann nodded sympathetically; she knew that Griselda had tasted one glorious evening of romance when a young traveller in medical implements had made love to her at a students' dance. For a few days Griselda had been almost beautiful but that was a fortnight ago, and now once more was bony plain. Ann felt that it was unkind to encourage her to hope. She knew that Griselda was desperately, tragically, anxious to be loved but how could any man in sober earnestness desire to caress that gaunt unprepossessing body, or kiss those pale bloodless lips.

'Perhaps it is just as well, dear,' she said softly, 'an affair would handicap you terribly in your work.'

'I'm sick of work,' Griselda threw herself angrily into the second best arm chair.

'That's because you've been doing too much,' Ann soothed her. 'Take a day or two off, and you'll feel better.'

Griselda shrugged despondently. 'Oh, what's the good, Ann why are we cursed with sex I wonder?'

'Who is cursed with sex?' asked a quick voice behind them. Gregory Sallust had entered unobserved.

'I am,' cried Griselda fiercely, to Ann's amazement.

He laughed, not unkindly. 'Blessed, you should say, my dear. Sex is the one great escape we have from the incredible dreariness of daily life. It only becomes a curse when you haven't the courage to get it out of your system in the normal way.'

'Shut up!' said Ann sharply. She was feeling acutely for the other girl, and wondered how Gregory could be so wantonly cruel.

'You're a medico,' he went on blandly, ignoring Ann. 'Be sensible then, put aside your stupid little suburban prejudices and make the young man happy. No harm could come to you, and it would probably cure your indigestion.'

'What a brute you are!' Griselda flung at him. 'As though any girl could go out into the street and offer herself to the first comer.'

Gregory ran his hand over his dark, smooth hair. 'Dear me, I thought you had a man in tow already but never mind, the other is just as good clinically!'