A Crooked Sixpence Page 26

  ‘Come in, please,’ said Marsh.

  The personage backed into the caravan and O’Toole followed. He/she was holding the collar of a huge Alsatian dog which studied O’Toole with angry yellow eyes.

  ‘Down, Bruce,’ said Marsh. The dog obediently crouched in a corner, a yard or so from O’Toole’s foot, which it measured hungrily.

  ‘Do sit down, Mr. O’Toole, and let me make you a cup of tea,’ said Marsh, not so alarming when O’Toole saw her in a better light and heard the familiar invitation. Half-consciously, he judged that, although her hands were on the square side and her face was rather wrinkled for her apparent age, if he’d met her by accident he would have taken her for a woman, and so he decided to treat her as one, conversationally if in no other way.

  ‘I’m rather hard to find here, aren’t I?’ she said. ‘I didn’t really expect you to call in person.’

  ‘Oh, we’re used to difficult addresses,’ said O’Toole. As his hostess made tea, he looked round the caravan. Bruce certainly hadn’t changed his sex, and O’Toole saw that he was a normal enough dog when you got over the surprise of meeting him. He risked a pat on the head, and Bruce made no objection.

  The decor of the caravan was desperately arty. A guitar hung on one wall, with a Spanish comb and lace underneath it: nearby was a hand, hanging from a nail, made of black-painted plaster with the fingernails blood-red, the sort of thing which would have been considered pretty daring by Aleister Crowley’s set forty or fifty years ago. On the opposite wall was a drawing involving tigers, women and curved shapes tinted in dim rainbow colours which might have come from an avant-garde cafe in Wagga Wagga. O’Toole was speculating on what sort of painful or poverty-stricken life, how many shop-assistant’s jobs, provincial coffee-houses, public libraries and last buses had driven Miss Marsh to these frantic straits, and the ultimate castration, to be different, when his hostess put a cup of tea in his hand and sat down opposite him.

  ‘It’s very good of you to come so far to see me, Mr. O’Toole,’ she said, and even in the bizarre surroundings there was Elizabeth’s kind and business-like manner. ‘I hope I will be able to repay you by giving you something interesting to publish. You understand, I don’t ask any payment, but I do ask for your assurance that you will treat my problem seriously, and not as a joke.’

  O’Toole stirred his tea.

  ‘Cub’s honour,’ he said reflectively.

  ‘You were a Scout?’ asked Miss Marsh.

  ‘No,’ O’Toole lied, irritating himself. ‘Tell me, Miss Marsh, why did you write to the Sun? Why us,?’

  ‘Your paper is sort of human, interested in people and their problems, if you know what I mean,’ said Miss Marsh, ‘I never miss it.’

  ‘I see,’ said O’Toole.

  ‘Now let me tell you something of my story,’ said Miss Marsh. Of course, people in my position come in for a lot of ignorant abuse, you understand, but I can see that you are an intelligent person, and you must be tolerant or you wouldn’t have come all this way to see me. Briefly, I first began to have the feeling that a terrible mistake had been made about me when I was at school in Ilkley...’

  O’Toole wasn’t listening. The details of Miss Marsh’s pilgrimage, school, Air Force, break with family, clergymen, psychiatrists, finally surgeons, were irrelevant to the story he had been sent to get: when you got down to it, all Miss Marsh could tell him was what it was like to be a human being in a tight corner and fight it out alone, and he couldn’t take that angle back to the office.

  If only, he thought, Barr had given him a routine story, something funny about dogs or comical foreigners or a man who loved his mother-in-law, something he could like himself for as he wrote it. But on the end of the wish, without a paragraph break, came the recognition that this was a routine story, vastly entertaining to the nasty readers of his nasty paper, O’Toole making his mark as the hammer of homosexuals and champion of sound, clean British sex, practised by numbers wherever the Union Jack waved and the sun never set.

  ‘Is something amusing you?’ Miss Marsh interpolated into her story, a trifle aggrieved. O’Toole discovered he was wearing what must have looked like a dirty smirk.

  ‘Nothing you said, just a passing thought,’ he explained lamely. ‘Please go on.’

  ‘I suppose it has its funny side,’ said Miss Marsh. ‘Well, as I was saying, this Harley Street doctor told me...’

  But something had to be done, thought O’Toole. Miss Marsh was obviously a pushover: trusting him, not at all afraid of him or the paper, he/she could no doubt be induced to say anything at all, and if he/she wouldn’t come at the proposition that she had had her cock cut off for a new thrill, words to that effect could be invented and put into her mouth without the slightest risk at all. No doubt she would visit the office and complain, but very likely she would accept the explanation that O’Toole hadn’t written the story which was published: O’Toole could see himself in the waiting-room telling her about the mysterious higher-ups who are always responsible for the villainies of the popular Press. And if she didn’t like it, she could sue: O’Toole saw the jury which had put Eileen down listening to him, clean-cut, truthful. colonial, generated the British way, and Miss Marsh, the living representative of the sordidness and horror of life which the jurors themselves were anxious to forget. She didn’t stand a chance. It was easy.

  But, O’Toole decided, he wasn’t going to do it. Barr had been right in selecting this as a test case. This sort of operation was the heart of his business, and no one could get far in it who didn’t wholeheartedly disapprove of Miss Marsh, even having met her and seen she was a human being. Miss Marsh hadn’t asked for money, hadn’t been sly, hadn’t been frightened: she actually believed the paper was what it purported to be, and so, presumably, did thirteen million readers.

  But confidence trickery on this scale, thought O’Toole, was worth more than a pony a week. It was worth more than Barr’s salary, even, whatever that was. Anyone who could lie, and play-act, and angle and slant and rearrange week after week and never be caught, and who was prepared to do it for a bank manager’s wages was himself the victim of a confidence trick. A rogue who is another rogue’s fool is a pitiable object.

  ‘...and that brings you more or less up to date,’ said Miss Marsh. ‘I live in this caravan because no one bothers me here, but it’s a lonely life, and I thought that someone should make a start toward breaking down the terrible barriers between people over things like this. Don’t you agree?’

  ‘I’ll see what I can do,’ said O’Toole. ‘I’ll have to be getting back now, but I’ll discuss your problem with my editor.’

  ‘Are you sure you have the details? I didn’t see you making any notes.’

  ‘Don’t have to,’ said O’Toole. ‘Fantastic memory.’

  ‘Oh!’ said Miss Marsh doubtfully.

  ‘You’ll be hearing from us,’ said O’Toole, rising to go. ‘I’ve been most interested in your story. I’d like to talk to you about it sometime.’ He was outside, on the snowy ground, and Miss Marsh was standing puzzled in the lit doorway of the caravan with her hand on the dog’s collar.

  ‘Thanks,’ said O’Toole, and turned and walked rapidly over the field. Final service to the industry, he thought, I left her sweet for someone else to have a go.

  He almost ran to the station and was alone in the carriage up to London. From Blackfriars he again half-ran up Fleet Street to the office, coming close to bowling over three or four homing typists, but he never saw them. The newsroom, as he crossed, was deserted, but the light was on in Barr’s office and the editor was bowed over a proof. He looked up with a start as O’Toole, breathless, came in.

  ‘What is it, laddie?’ asked Barr. ‘I was just on the point of leaving.’

  ‘I won’t keep you,’ said O’Toole. ‘I just want to tell you that I made a mess of that job, but it doesn’t matter to me. I resign. I quit. I’m through.’

  ‘Now there’s no need to be hasty,’ said Barr. ‘I may
have sounded a trifle harsh this morning, perhaps...’

  ‘No, it’s not that, Mr. Barr,’ said O’Toole. ‘This has been growing on me. I’m just not cut out for this business. I don’t know what I am cut out for, but it’s not this.’

  ‘You don’t want time to think this over?’ Barr asked.

  ‘No,’ said O’Toole, ‘I just want my cards.’

  ‘I see,’ said Barr. He rose from his desk. ‘Well, I don’t say I disagree with you, O’Toole. If you’ll pardon my saying so, you seem to be somewhat unstable for our kind of organisation. There’s a touch of the prima donna about you which doesn’t go well in a team. I’ll have your cards sent to you, but don’t hesitate to drop into the office if there’s anything you want to talk over...Take a few weeks off, eh, and get things sorted out? You’ve got ability, O’Toole, and when you settle down in the Old Country you’ll find your niche, all right. I’d be glad to give you an introduction to the Pic, or the Graphic, or indeed any paper which you fancy might suit you.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr. Barr,’ said O’Toole.

  ‘Well, laddie, perhaps you’re doing the right thing,’ said Barr, holding out his hand. ‘No hard feelings, eh?’

  ‘None at all, Mr. Barr,’ said O’Toole, shaking. ‘Thanks for the chance, anyway.’

  ‘I’m not sorry,’ said Barr. ‘Good luck, laddie.’

  It seemed superfluous to wish Barr good luck, so O’Toole said ‘Thanks’ and left his office. There was no sign of Starsh or Knight, Jacobs or Sprogg or any of the staff in the newsroom, and O’Toole wasn’t sorry: he didn’t want to see any of them for the time being, perhaps forever.

  Passing the waiting-room for the last time on his way out, O’Toole thought of all the people he had seen there, and for some reason the pale, collarless, crucified face of Father Sweeney lingered longest in his mind.

  On his way home, he thought that Barr was the man he had met in Fleet Street whom he least understood: he had been unexpectedly decent about O’Toole’s leaving, and his last offer of introductions was probably quite genuine: yet he must have met people other than sycophants and shareholders some time in his life, he must have some idea, however dim, that the world was not as the Sunday Sun presented it.

  Probably not, O’Toole concluded. Very likely, the only mystery about Barr was that he had long since become a machine: there was nothing to understand.

  There was no one at home when O’Toole arrived at the flat, but there was a telegram, sent from Dunkirk that day:

  ARRIVING VICTORIA 2030 MEET ME JOWLS

  O’Toole ate alone in the coffee-shop in South Kensington where he had kept his first appointment with Elizabeth, and then walked to Victoria to meet his friend. Outside the station, he studied the scene. Marshal Foch, the disposals stores and the rubber goods shops: Jowls was going to ask him what he thought of London, and he hadn’t the faintest idea. He knew of nothing in Jowls’ experience with which he could compare it.

  The Dover train was punctual, and one of the first off was his friend, loping eagerly over the platform to meet him, big, burly, loose-jointed, with the hooked nose and hooded, deep-set eyes he remembered, now mere points in the crinkles of a joyous smile of greeting. The newcomer wore the wide baggy trousers and broad lapels of too thin material for the English winter, which mark the Australian visitor.

  ‘Hello, Jowls,’ said O’Toole.

  ‘Shoulders, me old cobber, it’s good to see you,’ said Jowls, wringing his hand.

  O’Toole was startled. It was many months since he had heard an Australian voice: it was true, it sounded like lock-jawed Cockney.

  ‘You look fit, Jowls,’ said O’Toole.

  ‘I’m ready for anything,’ said Jowls. ‘The night-clubs, Buck Palace, the Cliveden Set, lead me to ‘em.’

  ‘I’ve got a few things to discuss with you,’ said O’Toole. ‘Let’s get your bags home, shall we?’

  ‘Okay, the penthouse,’ said Jowls. ‘I hope this clobber is good enough for your friends. This suit set me back sixty rugs just before I left.’

  ‘It’s adequate,’ said O’Toole. ‘Let’s get a cab.’

  Jowls was bubbling with excitement as the cab took them to South Kensington, ‘I see you’re splashed all over the papers, Shoulders,’ he said. ‘I picked up the London papers in Dunkirk this morning. The big vice exposer, eh? I’m really looking forward to meeting Norman Knight and all the Fleet Street big-shots, I can tell you.’

  ‘Don’t get too eager,’ said O’Toole.

  ‘What’s the trouble, cobber?’ said Jowls, turning to look at him. ‘You look pale, come to think of it. Climate getting you down, eh? I’m all fixed for that. I’ve got a couple of sets of long woollen underwear and some tinned butter and a load of vitamin tablets, just in case.’

  ‘The war’s been over for fifteen years, you know,’ said O’Toole. ‘Still, you’ll learn.’

  They had arrived at the flat, and the two friends carried Jowls’ luggage upstairs. There was still no one at home as O’Toole led the way to his room, opened the door and said, ‘This is it.’

  ‘Good God,’ said Jowls. ‘This joint’s unfurnished!’

  ‘It is a bit bleak,’ said O’Toole. ‘You can sleep there for the night.’

  ‘But it’s a bus seat!’ said Jowls. ‘This is staggering.’

  ‘It’s a tough country, you know,’ said O’Toole.

  ‘I never expected anything like this,’ said his friend.

  ‘You might as well know the worst,’ said O’Toole. ‘I’m out of work.’

  ‘But you had a job yesterday,’ said Jowls.

  ‘I know. I quit today.’

  ‘You quit?’

  ‘That’s it. I walked out.’

  ‘In trouble?’

  ‘Not particularly. Let’s say, it was a matter of values.’

  ‘Values? You mean you don’t know what things cost?’

  ‘I’m beginning to find out.’

  ‘I don’t know what to say,’ said Jowls. ‘What’s happened to Jenny?’

  ‘I haven’t seen her,’ said O’Toole. ‘Painful subject.’

  ‘Didn’t you find another girl?’

  ‘She’s gone, too.’

  ‘This is crazy,’ said Jowls. ‘The country’s lousy with good sorts. I knocked back three or four offers on the boat coming over because I thought you’d have something special lined up.’

  ‘You find your own, and good luck to you,’ said O’Toole.

  ‘What on earth’s happened to you, Shoulders?’ asked Jowls, if I had a job paying a pony a week I’d have my own place and you wouldn’t see my dust. Where’s your get up and go? It sounds like it got up and went. This Jenny bitch has leucotomised you, by the look of it. You’ve got to snap out of it, sport, and get on with your life.’

  ‘It’s more complicated than you think, Jowls,’ said O’Toole.

  ‘This job you left, is it still going?’ asked Jowls.

  ‘I suppose so. My seat’s hardly cold.’

  ‘Expenses reasonable?’

  ‘Not too bad, by London standards.’

  ‘Your own by-line?’

  ‘That’s easy here,’ said O’Toole. ‘Even on things you don’t write.’

  ‘Could they use a good man?’

  ‘There are never enough.’

  ‘Well, that will do me, for a start...You’ve let the Poms get you down, mate. How did you get the job?’

  ‘I just wrote a bright, snappy letter to all the papers, and they were the first one to reply.’

  ‘There’s not a second to lose,’ said Jowls. ‘We’ll starve to death if one of us doesn’t get off his arse straight away. I’ll get my typewriter and you can dictate me a letter.’

  Jowls unpacked his portable and found a sheet of paper. Okay, let’s have it,’ he said.

  ‘I would suggest something like this,’ said O’Toole. ‘Dear Sir: I wonder if there is an opening on your staff for a young Australian journalist looking for a break in Fleet Street after a fe
w hours in the Old Country. Then say you know he’s a busy man, and give a list of your details and qualifications with sideheads like age, experience, ambition and so on. I’d stress that you are a sincere specialist in human interest.’

  ‘You think it will work?’

  ‘I wouldn’t be surprised,’ said O’Toole, in fact, nothing would surprise me anymore.’

  ‘I can see I’m going to have to have a serious talk with you, Shoulders,’ said Jowls. ‘You can’t just spend the rest of your life mooning on a bus seat in this crummy little room waiting for something to surprise you when the biggest city in the world is out there waiting for you to take over. What are you going to do?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said O’Toole, ‘I don’t know at all.’

  …ends…

  REQUEST FROM THE PUBLISHER

  Thank you so much for reading our book, we hope you really enjoyed it.

  As you probably know, many people look at the reviews before they decide to purchase a book.

  If you liked the book, could you please take a minute to leave a review with your feedback?

  60 seconds is all I’m asking for, and it would mean the world to us.

  Thank you so much,

  Muriwai Books