“Oh, I always wear it. Might meet the old woman outside. They told me at the hospital it would harden up quicker if I didn’t cover it; but I went into a pub and a tart who’d had a drink or two got it in focus rather suddenly, and shot a foot in the air before she could stop herself. No point in upsetting people.”
“All right. But I’m not drunk and I’m not a woman.”
“I know,” said Ralph at the door. He smiled unexpectedly and charmingly, and went out with the kettle.
Laurie sat up and rebandaged his knee. For the first time he had a feeling of its being no longer in the foreground of his self-portrait. He turned on his face, which as usual did a certain amount of good.
They talk about realism, thought Laurie, burying his face in the blanket, which smelt faintly of the cyanide with which ships are fumigated. As if only the outside were real. This is a very ugly room, and I’ve sat for my portrait for a handbook on war surgery; I expect Ralph has too. When he comes back, I think I’ll tell him about Andrew; I don’t know why I haven’t done it long ago. I’ve wished so often I could talk about it to someone who’d know.
The corner of the blanket, which was hanging out, had the label of a shop in Halifax, Nova Scotia. Slipping from under the displaced pillow a pair of pajamas showed, made of the thin silk sold in Indian stores; with instinctive curiosity Laurie fingered its foreign texture. He was lying like this, face forward, when the door opened.
He rolled over quickly, furious with himself for being taken by surprise: he was always careful not to be caught looking, he thought, as if one had been having a good cry. To remove all suspicion of this he began at once to say, “I was just looking at your pajamas.” At the moment of reaching the end of the sentence, he took in the fact that it wasn’t Ralph.
He hadn’t a moment’s doubt of who it must be. The situation wasn’t one which would easily yield to words: it could only depend on the kind of person Bunny was, so he looked to see. But it was impossible to notice anything about him, initially, except his conspicuous good looks and the confidence that went with them; it was like trying to read something printed on a bright surface which dazzled the eye. He did not, however, appear angry, and this at once seemed to Laurie like a gesture of prodigality from someone who can well afford it; he had a moment of feeling rather dejected and down-at-heel, before remembering to be glad that Ralph had done as well for himself as this.
Bunny stood easily just inside the door with his hands in his pockets; he looked thoughtful, and this gave his boyish face a certain pathos as if he were carrying a burden beyond his years. This grave moment gave to the smile that followed an irresistible sincerity.
“Now don’t tell me who you are. I know I’m right. Laurie Odell.”
“Yes. You’re Bunny, aren’t you? Ralph was telling me.”
“Oh, was he? It’s all very well for him to keep telling people about each other and never to let them meet.” He came in and sat on the edge of the table, swinging one leg. “I hear you’ve been having a pretty tough time in hospital. I’m so sorry.”
“It’s not much nowadays. A rest soon fixes it.” He leaned down and reached for his boot. At the back of his mind hovered a feeling that Bunny was taking it almost too well. In his place, Laurie thought, he himself wouldn’t have guaranteed to be charming at a moment’s notice. But then, he reflected, in Bunny’s place, one would feel pretty solid; it would take more than that to shake one. Ralph had said something: that the best way of being independent was to have all you needed at home. This easy and careless trust; not like Sandy; it was heartening to know that it did actually happen.
“Is Ralph anywhere about?” Bunny was asking. “I wonder I didn’t meet him on the stairs.”
“He can’t be far. He went to put on the kettle for some tea.”
“For some what?” asked Bunny, staring. Laurie had no time to be analytical or to put a name to the hard flippancy in the smiling eyes. “Well, well, that’s definitely a new one for old Ralph. Now me, I’m a proper old auntie for the stuff. Up at the Station we’re always … Oh, hello, sweetie. Here I am back after all, with my gay evening in ruins.”
The door had been open, so Ralph must have heard their voices as he crossed the landing. He stood in the doorway with a cool, cheerful look, and nodded at Bunny as if he had half expected him.
“Why, hello, Bunny, what happened to the party?”
“My dear, I couldn’t be more furious. I’ll swear by anything you like that Binky told me it was today. Now he says it’s tomorrow. He was rushing out somewhere and didn’t even stop to offer me a drink. Never mind, I shall have some of your delicious tea, instead.”
Ralph said, “Here’s the aspirin,” and added, “I was downstairs getting some milk.” It had a certain note, not of apology, of giving an explanation which one owes. He was carrying the milk in a little gray aluminum jug; he must have been to the basement to beg it from the landlady. Laurie felt foolish because he hadn’t anticipated this difficulty. “You shouldn’t have bothered, I don’t mind it without.”
“I do, though,” said Bunny boyishly. He got up. “Well, dears, why on earth are we all sitting about up here?” He spoke as if it were something temporary done in preoccupation, like loitering in the hall or kitchen. “Come along downstairs and get comfortable, and we’ll have it out of proper cups and saucers, like ladies and gentlemen.” He gave Ralph a flashing smile and added, “I bet you were going to give it him in a toothglass, weren’t you?”
Ralph said, “We’ll come if you’ve got some fresh tea. I don’t trust this lot.” His manner was very light and easy; it had been like this during the first part of Sandy’s party. He put out the light and they groped their way across the landing to the stairs. About halfway down, Ralph said, “All right, Spud?” and put an arm quickly around his shoulders, as if to steady him. The gesture had a helpless, almost a childish tenderness, like that of a small boy who has got his little brother into a scrape. But there below was Bunny’s room, and he was hospitably waving them in.
It was hard to believe one was in the same building. The room had been, one could say, interior-decorated. There was a single picture, which was vorticist of a kind and had patently been chosen to match the color scheme. A large number of glossy magazines were strewn about; but such books as could be seen looked as if people had left them behind and never missed them. The furniture was very low, with that overstated lounginess which rarely turns out to be physically comfortable. It was all very bright and sleek, and had the look of being kept under dust-sheets except when open to the public.
Bunny threw open a glittering cocktail cabinet lined with looking-glass; this seemed to be an automatic gesture like switching on the radio, which he did at the same time. Talking brightly against it, he went to a cupboard and got out a red-and-black tea set. Ralph walked over to the radio and, without permission or apology, switched it off.
“Oh, you,” said Bunny coquettishly. He arranged cups on a gold lacquer tray. “It’s so nice to meet a fellow addict. Sit here, Laurie, then you’ll have this little table.” The chair seats were a few inches off the ground and there was nothing to do with one’s legs but stick them straight out before one. Laurie settled himself, feeling conspicuous and vulnerable. Ralph hovered uncertainly for a few seconds, and then took the next chair.
Bunny held up a tea tin and shook it playfully. He looked at Ralph, who was lighting a cigarette and seemed not to notice.
“I should think that old kettle of yours must be boiling madly. Run along, do, sweetie, my tongue’s hanging out.”
It is possible, in a very low chair, to adopt a posture which makes getting up look like a physical impossibility. Ralph had settled himself like this, his legs crossed and extended, his hands in his pockets, the cigarette tilted at the corner of his mouth.