‘Well, yes, he did – it was a while ago now. Six years.’
‘Ah . . . good, good’ – and perhaps sensing he was going too fast on the question, ‘And what have you been getting up to in London?’
Johnny told him, flatly, taking a moment still to get over the previous question: working all day on pictures and picture frames, with the bus down to Chelsea each morning from Shepherd’s Bush. ‘I’m living with my aunt,’ he said.
‘And is that OK for you? Your father’s sister?’
‘No, my mother’s. It’s all right,’ said Johnny, though Kitty’s determined attempts to look after him only made him miss his mother more. ‘I don’t want to be there for ever.’
‘We’ll have to see what we can do about it,’ said Ivan, whose confident grasp seemed to reach into the future as well as the past.
‘And the three-day week, as well, it’s all been a bit strange.’
Ivan tilted his head towards the group sitting nearest them, where the situation was being talked about. The man who’d been speaking when Johnny first arrived, a tall, red-faced man with a bow-tie, said, ‘The City’s virtually ground to a standstill. I wouldn’t be a bit surprised to see total collapse within a month.’ One of the people with him looked crushed by this, the other slyly sceptical. ‘You know what Gerry’s saying – sell up while you can, the Communists will be in charge by the end of February.’
‘What am I supposed to sell?’ said the worried man. ‘You mean the house?’
‘And I’ve been going to some concerts,’ Johnny said. Ivan smiled sympathetically. ‘I went to hear Haitink conduct Mahler 6 last week.’
‘How was it?’ said Ivan.
‘It was amazing,’ said Johnny, ‘as you can imagine.’
But it wasn’t clear Ivan could. ‘You’ll have to talk to Evert about that – he’s mad about Mahler. I think he may even have been there. Is it the very loud, very long one?’
‘Well, yes . . .’ Johnny said, not feeling that this told the whole story, or indeed distinguished it from half a dozen other Mahler symphonies. ‘It was the first time I’ve heard it live.’
‘Brian, of course,’ said Ivan, his smile redirected at two older people who’d been going round with their plates and not finding anywhere exactly right to sit down. One of them was the pointed little man with a grey beard and half-moon glasses who’d been drawing Johnny earlier, now with the small pretty woman who’d been worried about his hair; the subject seemed still to be between them, a possible link or embarrassment. The boys shoved up together, thigh to thigh, and when Ivan reached round Johnny’s shoulder to put his glass on the windowsill behind them Johnny felt the first glow and lift of nearly certain consent and concealed his excitement with his napkin.
‘I’m Brian Savory,’ the man said, as they settled.
‘Oh, Brian and Sally,’ said Ivan: ‘Jonathan Sparsholt.’
‘Johnny,’ said Johnny.
‘That’s a good name,’ said Brian, with a quick smile, spreading his napkin. ‘Yes, we had a Sparsholt generator at our last place – started up like a dream, never gave us a moment’s trouble.’ This was a kind of blundering tactfulness Johnny was used to, and didn’t mind. ‘You must be connected? . . . It’s an unusual name.’
‘Yes, that’s right,’ Johnny said.
Sally seemed more conventionally sensitive to the matter. She gave her hesitant smile: ‘Did you say you work with Cyril Hendy?’
‘That’s right,’ said Johnny again.
‘Wily old Cyril,’ said Brian.
‘You know he knew Sickert?’ said Sally.
‘Yes, I did, actually,’ said Johnny.
‘I expect he talks very fascinatingly about it. He worked for Sickert when he was a boy.’
In fact Cyril was reserved, nearly silent, on all subjects of such obvious interest. ‘He doesn’t talk much,’ said Johnny.
Sally narrowed her eyes for a moment. ‘I think he even knew Whistler.’
‘He can’t have known Whistler, love,’ said Brian. ‘Whistler died seventy years ago.’
‘Well, how old’s old Cyril . . . ? No, I suppose you’re right. But Sickert he certainly knew – knew him very well. And a lot of the painters, I think.’
Brian sawed off a square of cold beef and balanced some coleslaw on top of it. ‘Evert’s memoir was rather good, I thought.’
‘Mm,’ said Johnny, with a mouthful himself, a valuable delay.
‘Do the young still read the great A. V., I wonder?’
‘Oh,’ said Johnny, swallowing, ‘well, I haven’t . . .’ He looked to Ivan, who said,
‘Did you know him, Brian?’
‘I met him once, very briefly. I’m not sure I could read him now.’
‘He’s not my author,’ said Sally.
‘Not much fun, is he, love,’ said Brian. He smiled at Johnny. ‘You’re a friend of Denis’s.’
‘Well . . .’ said Johnny. ‘Does Denis have a lot of friends?’
‘Oh, you know, a certain amount,’ said Brian. He glanced across the room. ‘I keep meaning to say, I like your trousers.’
‘Oh, thank you . . .’ said Johnny, confused, though he loved them himself.
‘Elephant cord, aren’t they?’
‘Are they, yes, I think . . .’ – feeling now that Brian was trying to put him at his ease about being so casually dressed.
‘Jolly snug, I bet.’
Sally peered at Johnny’s knees with a smile of timorous interest. ‘They’re certainly a lovely colour.’
‘Honey,’ said Brian; then flinched and looked away again. Johnny ran his hands down his thighs and leaning forward flapped a crumb off the wide triangle of the flare. He felt hurried into boldness,
‘I want to see your sketches.’
‘Ah!’ said Brian. ‘So you shall. But only if I can see yours.’
When he spotted the first people coming in with trifle, Johnny took all their plates for them and went into the kitchen, where Herta told him curtly to leave them on the table; she seemed annoyed at being helped, or at least at being helped by him. On the landing as he came back Freddie and Clover were doing up their coats. ‘Oh, are you off?’ said Johnny, amused by his own tone.
Freddie nodded, and looked round with a quick wince; Clover, throwing her hair back over her coat collar, gave him an expectant look. ‘Yes, we’ll slip away,’ said Freddie. There was something confidential in his smile. ‘We like to be home in time for Kojak.’
‘Oh, well . . . !’ said Johnny, as Freddie, picking up the candlestick he’d given him earlier, moved to the top of the stairs. Above them, a further flight rose into immediate darkness. ‘But the telly won’t be working, will it.’
‘Of course I take your point,’ said Freddie. ‘But it would be awful to miss it if the power comes on. You know the plots can be quite hard to follow, and we’ve found if you miss the start . . .’
‘Right,’ said Johnny. He was puzzled to be still here when they were going, but he had already a preoccupied sense that he had to get back to Ivan.
‘We’ll see you again, I’m sure,’ said Freddie, while Clover nodded in her oddly teasing solidarity with him, and they set off carefully downstairs, with one or two sharp admonitions to each other. Johnny watched the candlelight inattentively pass a dark portrait below, and then fan and fade when they’d turned the corner and were hidden by the cage of the lift.
‘Oh, are they going.’ It was Ivan, beside him, amused but unsurprised.
‘Oh hello!’ – with the soft jolt of happiness he touched his arm. Then, ‘You’re not going too?’
‘I’m not going anywhere.’
‘Oh, good,’ said Johnny boldly.
Now Ivan leant to his ear: ‘My dear, I live here.’
‘Oh, do you? What, in this house . . . ?’
Ivan stood close, looking over his shoulder as if quickly assessing the situation. ‘Come and see my room if you like.’