“exaggerated”?’
3
Tilly had entered by the corridor door so as not to disturb Monica. Her lipstick was again on sideways. On her left hand, flopped across the knob of the door, she wore a big gold wedding-ring; she had a husband in the States, whom nobody had ever seen, but her views on marriage would have been considered cynical even by the early Fathers of the Church.
‘What ho, what ho!’ lamented Tilly, in her hoarse cigarette voice. She smiled. ‘Did I make you jump?’
He conquered the hot-and-cold wave which had swept up from his chest to his head, and made it swim.
‘No.’
‘Sure I didn’t, honey?’
‘No. But you are gradually driving me to the loony-bin. I informed you last week that “exaggerated” was spelled e-x-a-g-g-e-r-a-t-e-d. Unless the authorities have got together and done something about it in the meantime, it is still spelled like that.’
Tilly laughed, a harsh but not unpleasant sound.
‘That’s what I thought you said. – Busy?’
‘No.’
Tilly looked at him shrewdly, the half-smile still on her broad face. Then she plumped across to the desk. Carefully sweeping a heap of manuscript-sheets off on the floor, she hauled herself up and sat down on the desk, diving into her pocket after cigarettes.
‘Mind if I sit down?’
‘Not at all.’
‘Have a Chester?’
‘No, thanks. This is my tipple.’ He felt that his mood called for heroic measures. Running his eye over the row of pipes, he picked up the death’s-head meerschaum in loving fingers, and filled it out of an earthen jar.
‘Alas, poor Yorick,’ said Tilly, watching him. ‘Judas, what a sight for sore eyes that is.’
‘This, Tilly, is a werry handsome pipe. Tilly, how would you like to be kissed by someone with a beard?’
‘Are you propositioning me?’ asked Tilly, lighting the cigarette before he could strike a match for her.
‘Not exactly. That is to say, you are the light of my life, of course –’
‘Horse feathers,’ said Tilly, with definiteness. But she did not say it in the tone usually employed in these exchanges. She spoke in a serious, rather absent-minded voice. Ever since she had come in, he had got the impression that there was something weighty on her mind, and that she wriggled under it. She put one hand, with a swash-buckling gesture, on her hip; the red end of the cigarette glowed in the darkening room.
‘What’s the matter, honey?’ she asked, in a different voice. ‘Got the whips and jingles?’
‘Yes.’
Tilly bent forward. She assumed a look of secrecy and mysteriousness so intense that he instinctively looked round, to make sure they were not overheard. She raised her eyebrows and kept her eyes fixed on him. Stealthily she pointed to the door of Monica’s room.
‘Is it – ?’
‘Yes.’
Tilly hesitated. Her air of mysteriousness increased. Sliding off the desk, she tiptoed over to the closed door of Monica’s room, and listened. She was answered by a ragged rattle of typewriter keys, which appeared to satisfy her. She tiptoed back, bent over him, and glared at him. The tone she employed was unnerving: for unimportant information, her voice kept its normal hoarseness; for important information, she suddenly lowered it to a whisper, aided by expressive grimaces.
‘Listen,’ she said. ‘You’re one of those educated guys, aren’t you?’
‘I suppose you could call it that.’
‘Have you got any money?’
‘Some. I do fairly well.’
‘And you’ve fallen for her?’ Here Tilly’s voice became a hacking whisper, aided by a gesture towards the door. ‘Honest, I mean, and strike you dead? No fooling?’
‘Honest, and strike me dead.’
‘I don’t think you’re a fake,’ said Tilly, eyeing him. ‘Christ, how I hate fakes!’ There was real passion in her voice. ‘I think you’re all right. And I’m going to tell you two things about that girl. The first is: she’s fallen for you, too.’
The light had faded so that it was barely
3
Tilly had entered by the corridor door so as not to disturb Monica. Her lipstick was again on sideways. On her left hand, flopped across the knob of the door, she wore a big gold wedding-ring; she had a husband in the States, whom nobody had ever seen, but her views on marriage would have been considered cynical even by the early Fathers of the Church.
‘What ho, what ho!’ lamented Tilly, in her hoarse cigarette voice. She smiled. ‘Did I make you jump?’
He conquered the hot-and-cold wave which had swept up from his chest to his head, and made it swim.
‘No.’
‘Sure I didn’t, honey?’
‘No. But you are gradually driving me to the loony-bin. I informed you last week that “exaggerated” was spelled e-x-a-g-g-e-r-a-t-e-d. Unless the authorities have got together and done something about it in the meantime, it is still spelled like that.’
Tilly laughed, a harsh but not unpleasant sound.
‘That’s what I thought you said. – Busy?’
‘No.’
Tilly looked at him shrewdly, the half-smile still on her broad face. Then she plumped across to the desk. Carefully sweeping a heap of manuscript-sheets off on the floor, she hauled herself up and sat down on the desk, diving into her pocket after cigarettes.
‘Mind if I sit down?’
‘Not at all.’
‘Have a Chester?’
‘No, thanks. This is my tipple.’ He felt that his mood called for heroic measures. Running his eye over the row of pipes, he picked up the death’s-head meerschaum in loving fingers, and filled it out of an earthen jar.
‘Alas, poor Yorick,’ said Tilly, watching him. ‘Judas, what a sight for sore eyes that is.’
‘This, Tilly, is a werry handsome pipe. Tilly, how would you like to be kissed by someone with a beard?’
‘Are you propositioning me?’ asked Tilly, lighting the cigarette before he could strike a match for her.
‘Not exactly. That is to say, you are the light of my life, of course –’
‘Horse feathers,’ said Tilly, with definiteness. But she did not say it in the tone usually employed in these exchanges. She spoke in a serious, rather absent-minded voice. Ever since she had come in, he had got the impression that there was something weighty on her mind, and that she wriggled under it. She put one hand, with a swash-buckling gesture, on her hip; the red end of the cigarette glowed in the darkening room.
‘What’s the matter, honey?’ she asked, in a different voice. ‘Got the whips and jingles?’
‘Yes.’
Tilly bent forward. She assumed a look of secrecy and mysteriousness so intense that he instinctively looked round, to make sure they were not overheard. She raised her eyebrows and kept her eyes fixed on him. Stealthily she pointed to the door of Monica’s room.
‘Is it – ?’
‘Yes.’
Tilly hesitated. Her air of mysteriousness increased. Sliding off the desk, she tiptoed over to the closed door of Monica’s room, and listened. She was answered by a ragged rattle of typewriter keys, which appeared to satisfy her. She tiptoed back, bent over him, and glared at him. The tone she employed was unnerving: for unimportant information, her voice kept its normal hoarseness; for important information, she suddenly lowered it to a whisper, aided by expressive grimaces.
‘Listen,’ she said. ‘You’re one of those educated guys, aren’t you?’
‘I suppose you could call it that.’
‘Have you got any money?’
‘Some. I do fairly well.’
‘And you’ve fallen for her?’ Here Tilly’s voice became a hacking whisper, aided by a gesture towards the door. ‘Honest, I mean, and strike you dead? No fooling?’
‘Honest, and strike me dead.’
‘I don’t think you’re a fake,’ said Tilly, eyeing him. ‘Christ, how I hate fakes!’ There was real passion in her voice. ‘I think you’re all right. And I’m going to tell you two things about that girl. The first is: she’s fallen for you, too.’
The light had faded so that it was barely
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