“Oh, God, don’t let’s break it all up at once,” Moreland said. “We’ve only just met. Those others prevented our talking of any of the things we really want to discuss — like the meaning of art, or how to get biscuits on the black market.”
“They won’t serve any more drink here.”
“Come back to our place for a minute or two. There might be some beer left. We’ll get old Max out of bed. He loves a gossip.”
“All right — but not for long.”
We paid the bill, went out into Regent Street. In the utter blackness, the tarts, strange luminous form of nocturnal animal life, flickered the bulbs of their electric torches. From time to time one of them would play the light against her own face in self-advertisement, giving the effect of candles illuminating a holy picture in the shadows of a church.
“Ingenious,” said Moreland.
“Don’t doubt Maclintick would have found it so,” said Mrs. Maclintick, not without bitterness.
A taxi set down its passengers nearby. We secured it. Moreland gave the address of the flat where he used to live with Matilda.
“I’ve come to the conclusion the characteristic women most detest in a man is unselfishness,” he said.
This remark had not particular bearing on anything that had gone before, evidently giving expression only to one of his long interior trains of thought.
“They don’t have to put up with much of it,” said Mrs. Maclintick. “It’s passed me by these forty years, but perhaps I’m lucky.”
“How their wives must have hated those saintly kings in the Middle Ages,” Moreland said. “Still, as you truly remark, Audrey, one’s speaking rather academically.”
The taxi had already driven off, and Moreland was putting the key in the lock of the front-door of the house, when the Air-raid Warnings began to sound.
“Just timed it nicely,” Moreland said. “That’s the genuine article, not like the faint row when we were at dinner. No doubt at all allowed to remain in the mind. Are the flat’s curtains drawn? I was the last to leave and it’s the sort of thing I always forget to do.”
“Max will have fixed them,” said Mrs. Maclintick.
We climbed the stairs, of which there were a great number, as they occupied the top floor flat.
“I hope Max is all right,” she said. “I never like the idea of him being out in a raid. There’s bound to be trouble if he spends the night in a shelter. He’s always talking about giving the Underground a try-out, but I tell him I won’t have him doing any such thing.”
If Moreland was one of Mrs. Maclintick’s children, clearly Max Pilgrim was another. We entered the flat behind her. Moreland did not turn on the switch until it was confirmed all windows were obscured. In the light, the apartment was revealed as untidier than in Matilda’s day, otherwise much the same in outward appearance and decoration.
“Max …” shouted Mrs. Maclintick.
She uttered this call from the bedroom. A faint answering cry came from another room further up the short passage. Its message was indeterminate, the tone, high and tremulous, bringing back echoes of a voice that had twittered through myriad forgotten night-clubs in the small hours.
“We’ve got a visitor, Max,” shouted Mrs. Maclintick again.
“I hope there’ll turn out to be some beer left,” said Moreland. “I don’t feel all that sure.”
He went into the kitchen. I remained in the passage. A door slowly opened at the far end. Max Pilgrim appeared, a tall willowy figure in horn-rimmed spectacles and a green brocade dressing gown. It was years since I had last seen him, where, I could not even remember, whether in the distance at a party, or, less likely, watching his act at some cabaret show. For a time he had shared a flat with Isobel’s brother, Hugo, but we had not been in close touch with Hugo at that period, and had, as it happened, never visited the place. There had been talk of Pilgrim giving up his performances in those days and joining Hugo in the decorating business. Even at that time, Pilgrim’s songs had begun to “date”, professionally speaking. However, that project had never come off, and, whatever people might say about being old-fashioned, Pilgrim continued to find himself in demand right up to the outbreak of war. Now, of course, he expressed to audiences all that was most nostalgic. Although his hair was dishevelled — perhaps because of that — he looked at this very moment as if about to break into one of his songs. He moved a little way up the passage, then paused.
“Here you are at last, my dears,” he said. “You don’t know how glad I am to see you. You must forgive what I’m looking like, which must be a perfect sight. I took off my slap before going to bed and am presenting you with a countenance natural and unadorned, something I’m always most unwilling to do.”
He certainly appeared pale as death. I had thought at first he was merely looking much older than I remembered. Now I accepted as explanation what he had said about lack of make-up. I noticed, too, that his right hand was bandaged. The voice was fainter than usual. He looked uncertainly at me, disguised in uniform. I explained I was Hugo’s brother-in-law; that we had met once or twice the past. Pilgrim took my right hand in his left.
“My dear …”
“How are you?”
“I’ve been having a most unenjoyable evening,” he said.
He did not at once release my hand. For some reason I felt a sudden lack of ease, an odd embarrassment, even apprehension, although absolutely accustomed to the rather unduly fervent social manner he was employing. I tried to withdraw from his grasp, but he held on tenaciously, almost as if he were himself requiring actual physical support.
“We hoped you were coming on from the Madrid to join us at dinner,” I said. “Hugh tells me you were doing some of the real old favourites there.”
“I was.”
“Did you leave the Madrid too late?”
Then Max Pilgrim let go my hand. He folded his arms. His eyes were fixed on me. Although no longer linked to him by his own grasp, I continued to feel indefinably uncomfortable.
“You knew the Madrid?” he asked.
“I’ve been there — not often.”
“But enjoyed yourself there?”
“Always.”
“You’ll never do that again.”
“Why not?”
‘The Madrid is no more,” he said.
“Finished?”
“Finished.”
The season or just your act?”
The place — the building — the tables and chairs — the dance-floor — the walls — the ceiling — all those gold pillars. A bomb hit the Madrid full pitch this evening.”
“Max …”
Mrs. Maclintick let out a cry. It was a reasonable moment to give expression to a sense of horror. Moreland had come into the passage from the kitchen, carrying a bottle of beer and three glasses. He stood for a moment, saying nothing; then we all went into the sitting-room. Pilgrim at once took the arm-chair. He nursed his bound hand, rocking himself slowly forward and back.
“In the middle of my act,” he said. “It was getting the bird in a big way. Never experienced the like before, even on tour.”
“So there was a blitz earlier in the evening,” said Moreland.
“There was,” said Pilgrim. “There certainly was.”
No one spoke for some seconds. Pilgrim continued to sit in the chair, looking straight in front of him, holding his wounded hand with the other. I knew there was a question I ought to ask, but felt almost physically inhibited from forming the words. In the end, Mrs. Maclintick, not myself, put the enquiry.
“Anybody killed?”
Pilgrim nodded.
“Many?”
Pilgrim nodded again.