possible to make out Tilly’s grimace of emphasis. Evidently seeing the incredulity which struck him dumb, and turned the wits to water in his head, Tilly raised her hand as though taking an oath and concluded by crossing her heart.
‘But –’
‘ Sh-h !’ hissed Tilly.
‘Yes, but –’
‘I ought to know, oughtn’t I?’ asked Tilly. She could not hiss this, there being no sibilant in it, but she gave the impression of doing so. ‘I bunk in the same house as her, don’t I? Her room’s next to mine, isn’t it? I see her most of the day and half the night, don’t I?’
‘Yes, but –’
‘ Sh-h !’
As a conspirator, Tilly would have been recognized anywhere on the screen. She put her finger to her lips, and pointed to the door. There was, indeed, a suspicious silence inside; as of someone listening. So Tilly spoke in a loud, hearty, careless voice.
‘Aren’t you going to draw the curtains? Shame on you, Bill! Be a sport and draw the curtains. What’ll the Air Raid Warden think?’
He moved obediently over to the nearest window, which was open. At the moment nothing could have interested him less than the opinions of the Air Raid Warden.
Outside, the low bank of the lake stretched to a point within twenty feet of the windows. In twilight the lake looked whitish and vast, contrasting with the yellow and black shapes of tattered trees beyond. The last gleams of daylight touched the far edge of it, making silhouettes of the figures of two men who were standing on the nearer bank, and whose voices rose faintly.
One was a short fat man with a cigar, the other a tall spectacled young man with an ultra-refined accent.
‘Lookit,’ said the fat man. ‘This last big scene at the end of the Battle of Waterloo.’
‘Yes, Mr Aaronson?’
‘This big scene,’ amplified the fat man, ‘where the Duke of Wellington dies in the moment of victory.’
‘But the Duke of Wellington did not die in the moment of victory, Mr Aaronson.’
‘He didn’t?’
‘No, Mr Aaronson. The Battle of Waterloo was fought in the year 1815. The Duke of Wellington did not die until the year 1852.’
There was a loud noise as the fat man smote his forehead.
‘Jeez, you’re right. You’re absolutely and positively right. I remember now. I was thinking of the other guy. You know. The one with his hat on in front instead of sideways.’
‘You mean Lord Nelson, Mr Aaronson?’
‘That’s it. Nelson. He died in the moment of victory, didn’t he?’
‘Yes, Mr Aaronson.’
‘I thought so. Well, then, we got to change the picture.’
‘Yes, Mr Aaronson.’
‘And I got a better idea than that. Boy, is this a knock-out! Lookit. He don’t die. But they think he’s going to die, see? He’s lying on his camp-bed, and the audience thinks he’s going to kick the bucket for sure. And then (here’s the big kick, see?) his life is saved by an American surgeon.’
‘But, Mr Aaronson –’
‘I’ve been thinking about this picture, anyway. It’s too English, that’s what’s the trouble with it. We got to remember Oshkosh and Peoria.’
‘Do I understand, Mr Aaronson, that you would like to have the Duke of Wellington’s life saved by an American surgeon from Oshkosh or Peoria?’
‘No, no, no, you don’t get the idea at all. It’s this way. The Duchess of Richmond –’
William Cartwright, though as a rule he relished these conversations, paid little attention to this one. It is doubtful if he even heard it. Drawing deeply on the skull-pipe, he closed the window. He drew the air-raid curtains, which were of thin black material having little protection against light unless backed by the heavy regular curtains, and drew these as well. He sealed up the other window. Then he groped back to the desk and switched on the light.
Tilly was now revealed as a pleasant, tubby little woman with patently peroxided hair. Though a nagging or worry remained in her eyes, a great load seemed to have gone off her
‘But –’
‘ Sh-h !’ hissed Tilly.
‘Yes, but –’
‘I ought to know, oughtn’t I?’ asked Tilly. She could not hiss this, there being no sibilant in it, but she gave the impression of doing so. ‘I bunk in the same house as her, don’t I? Her room’s next to mine, isn’t it? I see her most of the day and half the night, don’t I?’
‘Yes, but –’
‘ Sh-h !’
As a conspirator, Tilly would have been recognized anywhere on the screen. She put her finger to her lips, and pointed to the door. There was, indeed, a suspicious silence inside; as of someone listening. So Tilly spoke in a loud, hearty, careless voice.
‘Aren’t you going to draw the curtains? Shame on you, Bill! Be a sport and draw the curtains. What’ll the Air Raid Warden think?’
He moved obediently over to the nearest window, which was open. At the moment nothing could have interested him less than the opinions of the Air Raid Warden.
Outside, the low bank of the lake stretched to a point within twenty feet of the windows. In twilight the lake looked whitish and vast, contrasting with the yellow and black shapes of tattered trees beyond. The last gleams of daylight touched the far edge of it, making silhouettes of the figures of two men who were standing on the nearer bank, and whose voices rose faintly.
One was a short fat man with a cigar, the other a tall spectacled young man with an ultra-refined accent.
‘Lookit,’ said the fat man. ‘This last big scene at the end of the Battle of Waterloo.’
‘Yes, Mr Aaronson?’
‘This big scene,’ amplified the fat man, ‘where the Duke of Wellington dies in the moment of victory.’
‘But the Duke of Wellington did not die in the moment of victory, Mr Aaronson.’
‘He didn’t?’
‘No, Mr Aaronson. The Battle of Waterloo was fought in the year 1815. The Duke of Wellington did not die until the year 1852.’
There was a loud noise as the fat man smote his forehead.
‘Jeez, you’re right. You’re absolutely and positively right. I remember now. I was thinking of the other guy. You know. The one with his hat on in front instead of sideways.’
‘You mean Lord Nelson, Mr Aaronson?’
‘That’s it. Nelson. He died in the moment of victory, didn’t he?’
‘Yes, Mr Aaronson.’
‘I thought so. Well, then, we got to change the picture.’
‘Yes, Mr Aaronson.’
‘And I got a better idea than that. Boy, is this a knock-out! Lookit. He don’t die. But they think he’s going to die, see? He’s lying on his camp-bed, and the audience thinks he’s going to kick the bucket for sure. And then (here’s the big kick, see?) his life is saved by an American surgeon.’
‘But, Mr Aaronson –’
‘I’ve been thinking about this picture, anyway. It’s too English, that’s what’s the trouble with it. We got to remember Oshkosh and Peoria.’
‘Do I understand, Mr Aaronson, that you would like to have the Duke of Wellington’s life saved by an American surgeon from Oshkosh or Peoria?’
‘No, no, no, you don’t get the idea at all. It’s this way. The Duchess of Richmond –’
William Cartwright, though as a rule he relished these conversations, paid little attention to this one. It is doubtful if he even heard it. Drawing deeply on the skull-pipe, he closed the window. He drew the air-raid curtains, which were of thin black material having little protection against light unless backed by the heavy regular curtains, and drew these as well. He sealed up the other window. Then he groped back to the desk and switched on the light.
Tilly was now revealed as a pleasant, tubby little woman with patently peroxided hair. Though a nagging or worry remained in her eyes, a great load seemed to have gone off her
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