Swing, Brother, Swing

‘Disagreeably – yes,’ said Carlisle turning pink. ‘But look here, Aunt Cecile, he’s shooting this nauseating little line with me to – well, to make Fée sit up and take notice.’ Lady Pastern momentarily closed her eyes. This, Carlisle remembered, was her habitual reaction to slang. ‘And, I’m not sure,’ Carlisle added, ‘that she hasn’t fallen for it.’

‘She cannot be anything but disgusted.’

‘I wouldn’t be astonished if she refuses to come to the Metronome tonight.’

‘That is what I hope. But I am afraid she will come. She will not give way so readily, I think.’ Lady Pastern rose. ‘Whatever happens,’ she said, ‘I shall break this affair. Do you hear me Carlisle? I shall break it.’

Beyond the door at the far end of the room, Félicité’s voice rose, in a sharp crescendo, but the words were indistinguishable.

‘They are quarrelling,’ said Lady Pastern with satisfaction.

III

As Edward Manx sat silent in his chair, a glass of port and a cup of coffee before him, his thoughts moved out in widening circles from the candle-lit table. Removed from him, Bellairs and Rivera had drawn close to Lord Pastern. Bellairs’ voice, loud but edgeless, uttered phrase after phrase. ‘Sure, that’s right. Don’t worry, it’s in the bag. It’s going to be a world-breaker. OK, we’ll run it through. Fine.’ Lord Pastern fidgeted, stuttered, chuckled, complained. Rivera, leaning back in his chair, smiled, said nothing and turned his glass. Manx, who had noticed how frequently it had been refilled, wondered if he was tight.

There they sat, wreathed in cigar-smoke, candle-lit, an unreal group. He saw them as three dissonant figures at the centre of an intolerable design. ‘Bellairs,’ he told himself, ‘is a gaiety merchant. Gaiety!’ How fashionable, he reflected, the word had been before the war. Let’s be gay, they had all said, and glumly embracing each other had tramped and shuffled, while men like Breezy Bellairs made their noises and did their smiling for them. They christened their children ‘Gay,’ they used the word in their drawing-room comedies and in their dismal, dismal songs. ‘Gaiety!’ muttered the disgruntled and angry Edward. ‘A lovely word, but the thing itself, when enjoyed is unnamed. There’s Cousin George, who is undoubtedly a little mad, sitting, like a mouth-piece for his kind, between a jive-merchant and a cad. And here’s Fée antic-ing inside the unholy circle while Cousin Cecile solemnly gyrates against the beat. In an outer ring, I hope unwillingly, is Lisle, and here I sit, as sore as hell, on the perimeter.’ He glanced up and found that Rivera was looking at him, not directly, but out of the corners of his eyes. ‘Sneering,’ thought Edward, ‘like an infernal caricature of himself.’

‘Buck up, Ned,’ Lord Pastern said, grinning at him. ‘We haven’t had a word from you. You want takin’ out of yourself. Bit of gaiety, what?’

‘By all means, sir,’ said Edward. A white carnation had fallen out of the vase in the middle of the table. He took it up and put it in his coat. ‘The blameless life,’ he said.

Lord Pastern cackled and turned to Bellairs. ‘Well, Breezy, if you think it’s right, we’ll order the taxis for a quarter past ten. Think you can amuse yourselves till then?’ He pushed the decanter towards Bellairs.

‘Sure, sure,’ Bellairs said. ‘No, thanks a lot, no more. A lovely wine, mind you, but I’ve got to be a good boy.’

Edward slid the port on to Rivera, who, smiling a little more broadly, refilled his glass.

‘I’ll show you the blanks and the revolver, when we move,’ said Lord Pastern. ‘They’re in the study.’ He glanced fretfully at Rivera who slowly pulled his glass towards him. Lord Pastern hated to be kept waiting. ‘Ned, you look after Carlos, will you? D’you mind, Carlos? I want to show Breezy the blanks. Come on, Breezy.’

Manx opened the door for his uncle and returned to the table. He sat down and waited for Rivera to make the first move. Spence came in, lingered for a moment, and withdrew. There followed a long silence.

At last Rivera stretched out his legs and held his port to the light. ‘I am a man,’ he said, ‘who likes to come to the point. You are Félicité’s cousin, yes?’

‘No.’

‘No?’

‘I’m related to her stepfather.’

‘She has spoken of you as her cousin.’

‘A courtesy title,’ said Edward.

‘You are attached to her, I believe?’

Edward paused for three seconds and then said, ‘Why not?’

‘It is not at all surprising,’ Rivera said, and drank half his port. ‘Carlisle also speaks of you as her cousin. Is that too a courtesy title?’

Edward pushed back his chair. ‘I’m afraid I don’t see the point of all this,’ he said.

‘The point? Certainly. I am a man,’ Rivera repeated, ‘who likes to come to the point. I am also a man who does not care to be cold-shouldered or to be – what is the expression – taken down a garden path. I find my reception in this house unsympathetic. This is displeasing to me. I meet, at the same time, a lady who is not displeasing to me. Quite on the contrary. I am interested. I make a tactful inquiry. I ask, for example, what is the relationship of this lady to my host. Why not?’

‘Because it’s a singularly offensive question,’ Edward said and thought: ‘My God, I’m going to lose my temper.’

Rivera made a convulsive movement of his hand and knocked his glass to the floor. They rose simultaneously.

‘In my country,’ Rivera said thickly, ‘one does not use such expressions without a sequel.’

‘Be damned to your country.’

Rivera gripped the back of his chair and moistened his lips. He emitted a shrill belch. Edward laughed. Rivera walked towards him, paused, and raised his hand with the tips of the thumb and middle finger daintily pressed together. He advanced his hand until it was close to Edward’s nose and, without marked success, attempted to snap his finger. ‘Bastard,’ he said cautiously. From the distant ballroom came a syncopated roll of drums ending in a crash of cymbals and a deafening report.

Edward said: ‘Don’t be a fool, Rivera.’

‘I laugh at you till I make myself vomit.’

‘Laugh yourself into a coma if you like.’

Rivera laid the palm of his hand against his waist. ‘In my country this affair would answer itself with a knife,’ he said.

‘Make yourself scarce or it’ll answer itself with a kick in the pants,’ said Edward. ‘And if you worry Miss Wayne again I’ll give you a damn’ sound hiding.’

‘Aha!’ cried Rivera, ‘so it is not Félicité but the cousin. It is the enchanting little Carlisle. And I am to be warned off, ha? No, no, my friend.’ He backed away to the door. ‘No, no, no, no.’

‘Get out.’

Rivera laughed with great virtuosity and made an effective exit into the hall. He left the door open. Edward heard his voice on the next landing. ‘What is the matter?’ and after a pause, ‘But certainly if you wish it.’

A door slammed.

Edward walked once round the table in an irresolute manner. He then wandered to the sideboard and drove his hands through his hair. ‘This is incredible,’ he muttered. ‘It’s extraordinary. I never dreamt of it.’ He noticed that his hand was shaking and poured himself a stiff jorum of whisky. ‘I suppose,’ he thought, ‘it’s been there all the time and I simply didn’t recognize it.’

Spence and his assistant came in. ‘I beg your pardon, sir,’ said Spence. ‘I thought the gentlemen had left.’

‘It’s all right, Spence. Clear, if you want to. Pay no attention to me.’

‘Are you not feeling well, Mr Edward?’

‘I’m all right, I think. I’ve had a great surprise.’

‘Indeed, sir? Pleasant, I trust.’

‘In its way, wonderful, Spence. Wonderful.’

IV

‘There y’are,’ said Lord Pastern complacently. ‘Five rounds and five extras. Neat, aren’t they?’

‘Look good to me,’ said Bellairs, returning him the blank cartridges. ‘But I wouldn’t know.’ Lord Pastern broke open his revolver and began to fill the chamber. ‘We’ll try ’em,’ he said.

‘Not in here, for Pete’s sake, Lord Pastern.’

‘In the ballroom.’

‘It’ll rock the ladies a bit, won’t it?’

‘What of it?’ said Lord Pastern simply. He snapped the revolver shut and gave the drawer a shove back on the desk. ‘I can’t be bothered puttin’ that thing away,’ he said. ‘You go to the ballroom. I’ve got a job to do. I’ll join you in a minute.’

Obediently, Breezy left him and went into the ballroom where he wandered about restlessly, sighing and yawning and glancing towards the door.

Presently his host came in looking preoccupied.

‘Where’s Carlos?’ Lord Pastern demanded.

‘Still in the dining-room, I think,’ said Bellairs with his loud laugh. ‘Wonderful port you’ve turned on for us, you know, Lord Pastern.’

‘Hope he can hold it. We don’t want him playin’ the fool with the show.’

‘He can hold it.’

Lord Pastern clapped his revolver down on the floor near the tympani. Bellairs eyed it uneasily.

‘I wanted to ask you,’ said Lord Pastern sitting behind the drums. ‘Have you spoken to Sydney Skelton?’

Bellairs smiled extensively: ‘Well, I just haven’t got round …’ he began.

Lord Pastern cut him short. ‘If you don’t want to tell him,’ he said, ‘I will.’

‘No, no!’ cried Bellairs in a hurry. ‘No. I don’t think that’d be quite desirable, Lord Pastern, if you can understand.’ He looked anxiously at his host who had turned away to the piano and with an air of restless preoccupation, examined the black-and-white parasol. Breezy continued: ‘I mean to say, Syd’s funny. He’s very temperamental, if you know what I mean. He’s quite a tough guy to handle, Syd. You have to pick your moment with Syd, if you can understand.’

‘Don’t keep on asking if I can understand things that are as simple as falling off a log,’ Lord Pastern rejoined irritably. ‘You think I’m good on the drums, you’ve said so.’

‘Sure, sure.’

‘You said if I’d made it my profession I’d have been as good as they come. You said any band’d be proud to have me. Right. I am going to make it my profession and I’m prepared to be your full-time tympanist. Good. Tell Skelton and let him go. Perfectly simple.’

‘Yes, but –’

‘He’ll get a job elsewhere fast enough, won’t he?’

‘Yes. Sure. Easy. But …’

‘Very well, then,’ said Lord Pastern conclusively. He had unscrewed the handle from the parasol and was now busy with the top end of the shaft. ‘This comes to bits,’ he said. ‘Rather clever, what? French.’

‘Look!’ said Bellairs winningly. He laid his soft white hand on Lord Pastern’s coat. ‘I’m going to speak very frankly, Lord Pastern. You know. It’s a hard old world in our game, if you under – I mean, I have to think all round a proposition like this, don’t I?’

‘You’ve said you wished you had me permanently,’ Lord Pastern reminded him. He spoke with a certain amount of truculence but rather absent-mindedly. He had unscrewed a small section from the top end of the parasol shaft. Breezy watched him mesmerized, as he took up his revolver and, with the restless concentration of a small boy in mischief, poked this section a short way up the muzzle, at the same time holding down with his thumb the spring catch that served to keep the parasol closed. ‘This,’ he said, ‘would fit.’

‘Hi!’ Breezy said, ‘is that gun loaded?’

‘Of course,’ Lord Pastern muttered. He put down the piece of shaft and glanced up. ‘You said it to me and Rivera,’ he added. He had Hotspur’s trick of reverting to the last remark but four.

‘I know, I know,’ Bellairs gabbled, smiling to the full extent of his mouth, ‘but listen. I’m going to put this very crudely …’

‘Why the hell shouldn’t you!’

‘Well then. You’re very keen and you’re good. Sure, you’re good! But, excuse my frankness, will you stay keen? That’s my point, Lord Pastern. Suppose, to put it crudely, you died on it.’

‘I’m fifty-five and as fit as a flea.’

‘I mean, suppose you kind of lost interest. Where,’ asked Mr Bellairs passionately, ‘would I be then?’

‘I’ve told you perfectly plainly …’

‘Yes, but …’

‘Do you call me a liar, you bloody fellow?’ shouted Lord Pastern, two brilliant patches of scarlet flaming over his cheekbones. He clapped the dismembered parts of the parasol on the piano and turned on his conductor who began to stammer.

‘Now, listen, Lord Pastern, I – I’m nervy tonight. I’m all upset. Don’t get me flustered, now.’

Lord Pastern bared his teeth at him. ‘You’re a fool,’ he said. ‘I’ve been watchin’ you.’ He appeared to cogitate and come to a decision. ‘Ever read a magazine called Harmony?’ he demanded.

Breezy shied violently. ‘Why yes. Why – I don’t know what your idea is, Lord Pastern, bringing that up.’

‘I’ve half a mind,’ Lord Pastern said darkly, ‘to write to that paper. I know a chap on the staff.’ He brooded for a moment, whistling between his teeth and then barked abruptly: ‘If you don’t speak to Skelton tonight, I’ll talk to him myself.’

‘OK, OK I’ll have a wee chat with Syd. OK.’

Lord Pastern looked fixedly at him. ‘You’d better pull y’self together,’ he said. He took up his drumsticks and without more ado beat out a deafening crescendo, crashed his cymbals and snatching up his revolver pointed it at Bellairs and fired. The report echoed madly in the empty ballroom. The piano, the cymbals and the double-bass zoomed in protest and Bellairs, white to the lips, danced sideways.

‘For chrissake!’ he said violently and broke into a profuse sweat.

Lord Pastern laughed delightedly and laid his revolver on the piano. ‘Good, isn’t it?’ he said. ‘Let’s just run through the programme. First, there’s “A New Way With Old Tunes.” “Any Ice Today?” “I Got Everythin’,” “The Peanut Vendor”, and “The Umbrella Man”. That’s a damn’ good idea of mine about the umbrellas.’

Bellairs eyed the collection on the piano and nodded.

‘The Black and White parasol’s m’wife’s. She doesn’t know I’ve taken it. You might put it together and hide it under the others will you? We’ll smuggle ’em out when she’s not lookin’.’

Bellairs fumbled with the umbrellas and Lord Pastern continued: ‘Then Skelton does his thing. I find it a bit dull, that number. And then the Sandra woman does her songs. And then,’ he said with an affectation of carelessness, ‘then you say somethin’ to introduce me, don’t you?’

‘That’s right.’

‘Yes. Somethin’ to the effect that I happened to show you a thing I’d written, you know, and you were taken with it and that I’ve decided that my métier lies in this direction and all that. What?’

‘Quite.’

‘I come out and we play it once through and then we swing it, and then there’s shootin’, and then, by God, I go into my solo. Yes.’

Lord Pastern took up his drumsticks, held them poised for a moment and appeared to go into a brief trance. ‘I’m still not so sure the other routine wasn’t the best after all,’ he said.

‘Listen! Listen!’ Breezy began in a panic.

Lord Pastern said absently: ‘Now, you keep your hair on. I’m thinkin’.’ He appeared to think for some moments and then, ejaculating: ‘Sombrero!’ darted out of the room.

Breezy Bellairs wiped his face with his handkerchief, sank on to the piano stool and held his head in his hands.

After a considerable interval the ballroom doors were opened and Rivera came in. Bellairs eyed him. ‘How’s tricks, Carlos?’ he asked dolefully.

‘Not good.’ Rivera stroking his moustache with his forefinger, walked stiffly to the piano. ‘I have quarrelled with Félicité.’

‘You asked for it, didn’t you? Your little line with Miss Wayne …’

‘It is well to show women that they are not irreplaceable. They become anxious and, in a little while, they are docile.’

‘Has it worked out that way?’

‘Not yet, perhaps. I am angry with her.’ He made a florid and violent gesture. ‘With them all! I have been treated like a dog. I Carlos de …’

‘Listen,’ said Breezy, ‘I can’t face a temperament from you, old boy. I’m nearly crazy with worry myself. I just can’t face it. God, I wish I’d never taken the old fool on! God, I’m in a mess! Give me a cigarette, Carlos.’

‘I am sorry. I have none.’

‘I asked you to get me cigarettes,’ said Breezy and his voice rose shrilly.

‘It was not convenient. You smoke too much.’

‘Go to hell.’

‘Everywhere,’ Rivera shouted, ‘I am treated with impertinence. Everywhere I am insulted.’ He advanced upon Bellairs, his head thrust forward. ‘I am sick of it all,’ he said. ‘I have humbled myself too much. I am a man of quick decisions. No longer shall I cheapen myself by playing in a common dance band …’

‘Here, here, here!’

‘I give you, now, my notice.’

‘You’re under contract. Listen, old man …’

‘I spit on your contract. No longer shall I be your little errand boy. “Get me some cigarettes.” Bah!’

‘Carlos!’

‘I shall return to my own country.’

‘Listen, old boy … I – I’ll raise your screw …’ His voice faltered.

Rivera looked at him and smiled. ‘Indeed? By how much? It would be by perhaps five pounds?’

‘Have a heart, Carlos.’

‘Or if, for instance, you would care to advance me five hundred …’

‘You’re crazy! Carlos, for Pete’s sake … Honestly, I haven’t got it.’

‘Then,’ said Rivera magnificently, ‘you must look for another to bring you your cigarettes. For me it is … finish.’

Breezy wailed loudly: ‘And where will I be? What about me?’

Rivera smiled and moved away. With an elaborate display of nonchalance, he surveyed himself in a wall-glass, fingering his tie. ‘You will be in a position of great discomfort, my friend,’ he said. ‘You will be unable to replace me. I am quite irreplaceable.’ He examined his moustache closely in the glass and caught sight of Breezy’s reflection. ‘Don’t look like that,’ he said, ‘you are extremely ugly when you look like that. Quite revolting.’

‘It’s a breach of contract. I can …’ Breezy wetted his lips. ‘There’s the law,’ he mumbled. ‘Suppose …’

Rivera turned and faced him.

‘The law?’ he said. ‘I am obliged to you. Of course, one can call upon the law, can one not? That is a wise step for a band leader to take, no doubt. I find the suggestion amusing. I shall enjoy repeating it to the ladies who smile at you so kindly, and ask you so anxiously for their favourite numbers. When I no longer play in your band their smiles will become infrequent and they will go elsewhere for their favourite numbers.’

‘You wouldn’t do that, Carlos.’

‘Let me tell you, my good Breezy, that if the law is to be invoked, it is I who invoke it.’

‘Damn and blast you,’ Breezy shouted in a frenzy.

‘What the devil’s all the row about?’ asked Lord Pastern. He had entered unobserved. A wide-brimmed sombrero decorated his head, its strap supporting his double-chin. ‘I thought I’d wear this,’ he said. It goes with the shootin’ don’t you think? Yipee!’

V

When Rivera left her, Félicité had sat on in the study, her hands clenched between her knees, trying to bury quickly and forever the memory of the scene they had just ended. She looked aimlessly about her, at the litter of tools in the open drawer at her elbow, at the typewriter, at familiar prints, ornaments and books. Her throat was dry. She was filled with nausea and an arid hatred. She wished ardently to rid herself of all memory of Rivera and in doing so to humiliate and injure him. She was still for so long that when at last she moved, her right leg was numb and her foot pricked and tingled. As she rose stiffly and cautiously, she heard someone cross the landing, pass the study and go into the drawing-room next door.

‘I’ll go up to Hendy,’ she thought. ‘I’ll ask Hendy to tell them I’m not coming to the Metronome.’

She went out on the landing. Somewhere on the second floor her stepfather’s voice shouted: ‘My sombrero, you silly chap – somebody’s taken it. That’s all. Somebody’s collared it.’ Spence came through the drawing-room door, carrying an envelope on a salver.

‘It’s for you, Miss,’ he said. ‘It was left on the hall table. I’m sure I’m very sorry it was not noticed before.’

She took it. It was addressed in typescript. Across the top was printed a large ‘Urgent’ with ‘by District Messenger’ underneath. Félicité returned to the study and tore it open.

Three minutes later Miss Henderson’s door was flung open and she, lifting her gaze from her book, saw Félicité, glowing before her.

‘Hendy – Hendy, come and help me dress. Hendy, come and make me lovely. Something marvellous has happened. Hendy, darling, it’s going to be a wonderful party.’

CHAPTER 5 A Wreath for Rivera

Against a deep blue background the arm of a giant metronome kept up its inane and constant gesture. It was outlined in miniature lights, and to those patrons who had drunk enough, it left in its wake a formal ghost-pattern of itself in colour. It was mounted on part of the wall overhanging the band alcove. The ingenious young man responsible for the décor had so designed this alcove that the band platform itself appeared as a projection from the skeleton tower of the metronome. The tip of the arm swept to and fro above the bandsmen’s heads in a maddening reiterative arc, pointing them out, insisting on their noise. This idea had been considered ‘great fun’ by the ingenious young man but it had been found advisable to switch off the mechanism from time to time and when this was done the indicator pointed downwards. Either Breezy Bellairs or a favoured soloist was careful to place himself directly beneath the light-studded pointer at its tip.

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