I was elaborating this dialogue with a drearily masochistic relish when I felt a tap on my shoulder.
"I've been watching you," she said. "You look awfully bad-tempered. Are you very angry with me?"
"Not now you've come."
"I'm very sorry for being late. Herbert gave me a lift and something went wrong with the magglet."
I laughed. "That's very serious. Are you sure it was the magglet?"
"I don't know about cars," she said. "Should I?"
"There's no law that enforces you to. Magglet's very good anyway. All cars should have a magglet." I took her arm. "We'll have to hurry. Two minutes to zero."
She was wearing a fur-topped Cassock cap and big fur gloves and a full-skirted cashmere topcoat. Her eyes were sparkling and her cheeks flushed a little and there was about her that clean smell - like baby powder mixed with new-mown hay - which I had noticed the first time I'd met her.
When I handed the tickets to the usher she caught sight of their price. "Four and six," she said. "Golly. Isn't that frightfully expensive?"
I looked at her sharply; did she expect a box? But I saw that she was quite serious and I was astounded and delighted at her naïveté; the clothes she was wearing must have cost a good fifty pounds.
We settled down to watch The Haunted Ballroom . I passed her a block of milk chocolate; my hand brushed hers and hovered over it for a second but it had no responsiveness; if a girl wants her hand to be held, it tightens over yours the moment it's touched.
Somehow it seemed tremendously important that I should hold her hand. Contact with her, I felt, would be as different from contact with ordinary women as singing is to speaking. It seemed tremendously important; and yet I didn't want to touch her at all. Brought out, perhaps, by the music and the dancers blown across the stage by it like pieces of coloured paper, a deeply buried instinct asserted itself: I wanted simply to admire what is, after all, a rare human type: a beautiful and unspoiled virgin. Even when I let my eyes rest on the outline of her firm small breasts beneath her sweater, it was without a trace of lasciviousness; I was visited, in fact, by the emotion of our first meeting. This time it was more real, there wasn't the annoyance of other people's presence, and Susan was herself, speaking her own words, not a fictitious character seeable for half a crown.
I took her to the bar at the interval.
"Mummy would be awfully cross if she knew I was here," she said, looking doubtfully round her at the rows of coloured bottles and the gilt mirrors and the framed playbills and cartoons and the usual beefy men and plump women smelling of bay-rum and violets, whom one never sees in any number except in theatre bars and who always seem to be comfortably installed before one's arrived.
"Is she teetotal?" I asked.
"She thinks pubs are low. But this isn't a pub really, is it?"
"Not really," I said. "What would you like to drink?"
"You won't laugh if I have a grapefruit, will you?"
"There's no law against it." I smiled at her. "Have whatever you like, honey."
When I got the drinks I offered her a cigarette.
"No, thank you," she said. "I don't smoke."
"You're the sort of girl I like to take out."
She gave me a look which was coquettish in a naive sort of way. "Why am I the sort of girl you like to take out?"
"You've no expensive vices."
"Are your usual girls very expensive?"
"I haven't any girls," I said. "There's never been any. Only you."
"Now you're telling fibs. Wicked! "
She had an intonation for the word which was altogether charming and innocent but at the same time faintly provocative.
I put my hand on my heart. "There's no one but you."
"You haven't known me very long. How can you tell?" She looked a little frightened; I'm going too fast I thought.
"You're not a dear kipper," I said, as if I hadn't heard her question.
The phrase instantly distracted her, as I'd calculated it would. "A dear kipper?"
"My mother used to call me that when I wanted something that cost more than she could afford."
She clapped her hands. It was a gesture which I'd read about but never seen, so childish and outmoded that only Susan, I think, could have got away with it. "A dear kipper. A dear kipper. Oh, how lovely . You know, I'd rather like to be a dear kipper."
I sipped my gin-and-lime. I'd chosen it because it wouldn't make my breath smell, but quite apart from the fact that the price is sheer robbery, I don't care for the stuff. For a moment I had a fierce longing to be drinking Old at the St. Clair with Alice.
"Are you enjoying the show?" I asked Susan.
"It's gorgeous . I adore ballet. And the music - it makes me feel all squashy inside - I feel, oh, ever so excited and squiffy." She put her elbow on the table and cupped her chin in her hand. "It's ever so difficult to explain ... it's like being inside a house all painted with beautiful colours and when you listen it's like touching the paint, the colours all run over your mind - does that sound silly?"
"No. Not one little bit. I've always felt like that myself, only I can't put it as well as you." I was lying, of course; as far as I'm concerned ballet is something with which to occupy the eyes whilst listening to music. But I wouldn't having dreamed of saying so; it was essential that I should appear to share Susan's interests - or rather, that they should appear to coincide. I'd discover something unimportant to disagree with her about so that she'd think me an intelligent type with a mind of my own.
"I'd like to take you to Sadler's Wells," I said.
"Have you seen Fonteyn?"
"All of them." I talked about ballet till the bell rang, managing - rather skilfully, I thought - to conceal the fact that I'd only been to Sadler's Wells once and that Fonteyn was the only prima ballerina I'd ever seen.
After the show had ended to the usual tumultuous and idiotic applause, I asked her if she'd like some coffee. I was helping her on with her coat; I remember noticing with approval that she took the courtesy for granted.
"Coffee? Oh, that's sweet of you. I'd love some."
"You can have some cakes too," I said, "I know a café where they're eatable."
"I'm awfully hungry. I didn't have any dinner, I was in such a rush."
"You should have told me. It's silly to miss meals in winter."
"I'll be all right. I eat a terrific lot, really I do. But I'm starving . I could eat lots and lots - oh dear!" She put her hand to her mouth. "You'll think I'm a dear kipper," she said dolefully.
I laughed. "Don't worry about that." It was charming when she put her hand to her mouth; entirely natural, but stylised and graceful. She made all the other girls I'd been out with seem dingy and clumsy and old before their time: the thought came to me tinged with apprehension - I wasn't playing for matches any more.
The café was just outside the theatre. It was the sort of place I didn't normally go to then - oak panelling, deep carpets, a four-piece band, and an atmosphere of exclusiveness. I don't mean that I personally was overawed by all the splendid people there - they were mostly fat old women anyway. But I always had the fear of doing the wrong thing, of making a fool of myself in front of the higher grades. Saying the wrong thing to the waiter or picking up the wrong fork or not being able to find the cloakroom immediately wouldn't have mattered in an ordinary café. In fact, there wouldn't have been any possibility of me making any faux pas. In front of those with no more money than me there would be no necessity to be careful, people in one's own income group can't be enemies. The rich were my enemies, I felt: they were watching me for the first false move.