We got through the police cordons. The crowds were now spasmodic, wandering in groups. It was cold, heavy evening, full of damp.
“What time is it?” he said.
“Six o’clock,” I said.
“Then I must ring up.”
That was all he said. His head had stopped bleeding. We walked into a pub and he went through to the telephone.
The bar was tough, crowded, frightening. I ordered two brandies. The others were all drinking beer. They were old men mostly, hard grizzled men, quiet in their authority. The pubs were probably the only places in London where their authority still prevailed. Outside it was the rule of youths on the pavements, middle age in the offices, women in the homes. The old men left the rackets to the outsiders. In the pub they were patriarchal like priests; and even some of the racketeers, intruders at the bar, seemed aware of their own vulgarity. For the old men were tough. Seeing me and my two double brandies one of them said to me, “There’s a door marked gentlemen for the likes of you.”
“What?” I said.
“I said there’s a door marked gentlemen for the likes of you.”
“Oh,” I said. I was nervous and did not know what he meant. I was thinking that he must be a nice old man to be talking to me so.
“And do you know what there is when you get through it,” he said. He was smiling slily into his beer.
“Oh yes,” I said.
I eventually understood what he meant. I stood gripping my two double brandies at the bar, unable to retreat and unable to reply. I wanted to answer him, to win him round, to expose this gentlemen rubbish; but I knew that if I opened my mouth I should sound either querulous or superior. I felt that this failure was somehow Marius’s fault, and I wanted Marius to return to deal with it. Meanwhile I could feel them all grinning at me, all being drawn into the joke, all waiting happily for the hopelessly one-sided skirmish between the cockney and the toff. It was all according to form. I must be easy with them, I thought, and then they will accept me. I grinned stupidly at the old man and his beer. But it was no use; I was only doing it through cowardice, so that they should accept me. The old man was winking to his companions, they were gathering round; I was twirling my brandy glasses for the hundredth time and trying to force my face to assume a less ridiculous expression; and then Marius returned.
The old man looked Marius up and down. “I was saying there’s a door marked gentlemen for the likes of you,” he repeated. I found myself hating him. I wanted Marius to rub him in the dirt. I hated his glib complacent repetitions.
“What?” Marius echoed.
The old man repeated his statement yet again, and I wanted to sneer at him.
“For me?” Marius said. “But I don’t want it.” He was looking round vacantly for the door marked gentlemen.
“It’s all the likes of you are fit for,” the old man said. He was still winking and grinning and one of the intruders began to copy Marius’s voice in the unbearable music-hall version of the Oxford accent.
“Well I’m drinking brandy and you’re drinking beer,” Marius said, “and I expect you’ll have to use it before me.” He drank his brandy and the intruders giggled.
“There’s some would like to be drinking brandy but can’t,” the old man said.
“Well I’ll get you a brandy,” Marius said. “And then you’ll be happy, because you won’t have to go through the door marked gentlemen.”
He ordered three more brandies and the old man accepted his silently. Now I did not hate the old man, I loved him, and I wanted him to love Marius. His companions were making faces rather desperately; they were losing their grip.
Marius looked genial and unconcerned. “Why all this talk about lavatories?” he said.
“You’re all right,” the old man said.
Marius laughed.
“Yes,” Marius said.
“And I know what I’m talking about,” the old man said he was swaying slightly with his elbow on the bar and his eyes watery.
“You are lucky,” Marius said.
“I know what I’m talking about,” he repeated.
Those who had seemed to be intruders at the bar were giggling. The old man advanced on them suddenly and swore at them with effortless ferocity. They protested, alarmed. Then the old man flung back his arm, clearing a space around him, and waited.
“I think we’d better all have a brandy,” Marius said.
“No,” the old man said, “beer.” He leant across the bar and made signs at the barman like a tic-tac man.
“This is mine,” I said.
He looked at me. “All right,” he said. “But beer will do.”
We all drank. The intruders were silent. They let their glasses stand for a moment and then they lifted them ceremoniously and drank in unison. I did not know how Marius had done it. After the sneers and the antagonism it was as if we were all suddenly in love.
“Hooray!” the old man said.
“Yes,” Marius said. The old man swayed forwards and touched him on the arm.
“What do you think will happen?” he said.
“Perhaps something like this,” Marius said.
“Out there? In the streets?” The old man looked round for somewhere to spit.
“Every now and then,” Marius said.
“Not in my lifetime,” the old man said.
“Sometimes.”
“Ah, you’re still young.”
“It makes no difference,” Marius said.
We were gathered round Marius as if he were a prophet. The old man still had hold of his arm and I could see his fingers move as if he were stroking him.
“You watch out then,” the old man said. “You watch out it doesn’t work the other way.”
“On me?” Marius said.
“Yes. They’ll hate you. I’m telling you. You’ll see.”
“Well. . ” Marius said. He seemed to think for a moment and then put his glass down and turned to me. “When you say it’s a mess,” he said, “I know what you mean and it is: but you don’t see that none of this matters. Nothing now matters except the way in which you and the mess affect each other. You don’t like your point of view because it doesn’t really give you a view at all. And if it’s a view that you’re looking for then you want to reach a point from which the view will not be your own. I think that is what matters.” And when he had finished he laughed and took up his glass again and the old man was already making tic-tac signs for more beer.
I do not remember him saying much more than this. I do not remember any of us knowing him or understanding him. The intruders were watching their manners and the old man was drunk and I was knowing nothing except some quite impersonal feeling of elation; yet between the time that he had rung up and the time that the girl arrived we were all in some way giving him our worship.
When the girl came in she came through the door like a ghost, like a thing that goes through solid objects. I saw her in the mirror at the back of the bar, and one second it was Marius and the next second it was her, and she was coming up to us quick and direct and I could see the alarm of her eyes where they stretched like an animal. I do not remember what she wore, except that it was something bright and plain, and I don’t remember what she carried: I do not remember if at that moment I thought her beautiful, but I know that she was frightened and that she smiled and that she came into the room not as a girl or a person but a ghost.
“I say,” she said. “Have you seen that bus with all those policemen?”
“I was afraid you might have trouble getting through,” Marius said.