“It’s all right. Only, of course, you’re not free like the way you used to be. It’s like living at home.”
“Really? I should hardly have thought so.”
“You don’t see what I mean. They’re always going on at you, wanting to do things for your own good. Makes you sick, sometimes. We get three evenings off a week, see, and we have to be back by eleven or our pay packet’s docked. Then there’s the pension scheme – they dock so much for that. Very good it is, but I’d sooner have the money. Then if you ever pick up a man outside there’s trouble if Step gets to know about it. So I generally just go to the pictures with one of the other girls. I love the pictures, don’t you?”
“Sometimes.”
“I saw ever such a nice film last week, an old one; it was on at our local fleapit.
Mrs Miniver,
it was called. Walter Pidgeon and Greer Garson. Have you seen it?”
“I haven’t, as a matter of fact.”
“Oh, you ought to. They’re ever such nice people, Mr and Mrs Miniver, and it’s the war you see, and—” Lily’s voice went on. Anderson closed his eyes and wondered why he had come here. What the relation between his urgent bodily need and that awful scene in the restaurant? His mind shied away from thought of the exhibition he had made of himself.
“—and the planes are flying in formation and they stand watching them from the ruins of the church. That’s the end.”
Anderson opened his eyes and saw that Lily was crying. “It’s so sad,” she said. “Have you a handkerchief?” She lay on the bed naked with Anderson’s handkerchief to her eyes. As Anderson put on his shirt and trousers and stared down at her, he felt desire for her again. “Lily.”
She looked at him and then sat up on the bed. “If you want another appointment you’ll have to speak to Step. Time’s up for this one.”
“No.” Anderson was not sure that he wanted another appointment, and anyway he was not prepared to spend another three guineas. He finished dressing, walked along the corridor and down the stairs. Outside the red curtain the boy was still playing cup and ball. He did not look up as Anderson passed him. In the street Anderson saw a broad-backed bowler-hatted man in front of him. Something about his figure was reminiscent of Inspector Cresse, but the man turned down a side street and when Anderson reached the corner there was no sign of him.
5
The time was four o’clock. It was difficult to return to the office, but more difficult not to do so. Anderson looked up at the sign which read VINCENT ADVERTISING VINCENT ADVERTISING VINCENT and settled his black Homburg hat firmly on his head. Then he walked in and the swing doors hissed behind him.
Upon his table lay the drawings returned from Kiddy Modes and an envelope addressed to him by VV. He tore open the envelope and read in VV’s sprawling hand:
Andy,
What was all that about? Come and tell me when you feel like it. Not today – I’m at a conference all afternoon, New World Coolers.
VV.
There was a postscript in small writing:
“Dare I repeat that you need a holiday?”
Anderson laughed. VV was a good chap. He put the note in his pocket, and looked at the drawings.
Bagseed had made notes upon every one of them in a gentlemanly copperplate hand. “Collar on this jacket won’t do. Refer to model. JB.” “This dress hangs wrongly. Refer to model. JB.” “Neck of frock incorrect as per our discussion. JB.” The drawing with the gym tunic was marked with a large cross and the word “No” simply. This “No” was also initialled “JB.”
As he looked at Bagseed’s comments Anderson found himself becoming angry, and by the time he had read the curt letter that accompanied them he felt the kind of fury known only to advertising men who think they are being treated unfairly. He called in Jean Lightley and pointed to the drawings. “Do you see anything wrong with these?”
She saw Bagseed’s comments and gasped: “Oh, isn’t he fussy?”
He is.”
“Mr Crashaw won’t like making alterations, will he?”
“He will not. Write to Bagseed and tell him that we have looked at the drawings and cannot agree that they are of a nature to depreciate the class of goods sold by Kiddy Modes. We are, however, having alterations made upon the lines laid down in his instructions. Yours, etcetera. Then write to Crashaw: ‘Dear Crashaw, Kiddy Modes have shot these drawings back at us with comments made and bureaucratically initialled. Out of our many pestilential clients Kiddy Modes are perhaps the most pestilential of all. As far as I can see their criticisms on this occasion, as on others, are incompetent, irrelevant and immaterial, and can hardly blame you if you decide to throw in the sponge on this job. I hope, however, that you’ll feel able to play along with us and make the necessary alterations. We have to take the rough with the smooth as you know, and Kiddy Modes are just about the roughest there is. They demand just about six times as much attention as any other client of their size. If you can help us out on this occasion it will be much appreciated by me. Sincerely.’”
Miss Lightley murmured, “That’s very strong.”
“So are my feelings. Get those typed as quickly as you can and send them up by hand.” When she had gone Anderson took Val’s letter out of his pocket, read it again and put it back. The telephone rang and the switchboard operator said:
“Oh Mr Anderson, Mrs Fletchley, Mrs Elaine Fletchley, rang twice while you were out. She said it was important.”
“Try and get her for me, will you? at
Woman Beautiful”
The house telephone rang as he picked up the other receiver. He put it to his ear and said: “Anderson.”
“O’Rourke.”
There was a pause. “What do you want?”
“Haven’t we got a date for tonight?”
“We haven’t. I’m busy.”
“What about a drink?”
“I’m sorry. I told you I’m busy.”
There was another pause. “I want to see you, Andy.”
Somebody opened the door. “All right,” Anderson said. “I’ll come in in five minutes.”
“Am I interrupting something?” Wyvern asked. “I can come back.”
Anderson waved him to a chair. “Not a bit. What’s on your mind?”
“I dunno. Bloody old Hey Presto, I suppose. What do you think of that scheme? Tell me honestly, if there’s any honesty among account executives. I’ve got the boys working on half a dozen different ways of presenting that face in the shaving mirror idea, but they all look pretty corny to me.
“Ours not to reason why,” Anderson said absently. Was he mistaken in finding something strange about Wyvern, a suppressed excitement in his manner, a hint of uncomfortable revelations about to be made? Wyvern’s long legs in corduroy trousers were stretched out against the carpet, his lopsided smile seemed to have a special meaningfulness. Anderson slipped his right hand into his jacket pocket. The telephone rang. He pulled out the letter and placed it on the desk, looking all the time at Wyvern.
“Switchboard, Mr Anderson. Mrs Fletchley’s in conference. They’ll tell her you’re in the office as soon as she comes out.”
“There’s another thing,” Wyvern said as Anderson put down the receiver. “Do you know where VV got his bright idea from that he’s thought up all of a sudden? I’ve found the identical layout presentation – face in mirror, product name up above and slogan below – in an old
Saturday Evening Post,
used by Topmost Shaving Creams. What do you know, eh? Doesn’t it stink?”
“We all know there’s nothing new.” Anderson began to play with the sheet of blue writing paper on which Val’s letter was written, curling it up in his fingers and uncurling it, looking steadily at Wyvern.
“Nothing new – it’s bloody well dishonest, and you know it.”
“Dishonest – come now.” Anderson opened out the letter carefully and began curling it the other way.
“Perhaps it’s not in a way – I know what you mean, old cock. You mean VV probably doesn’t realize his own dishonesty; it’s just something that’s stayed in his mind. And you’re quite right, of course; if there’s one thing advertising men do better than taking in the public it’s taking in them-selves. This whole bloody hullabaloo shows that.”
“How do you mean?”
“Why, nobody but an advertising agent would believe this story about a magic cream extracted from the juice of whatever it is. That stinks, too. Don’t tell me there isn’t something phoney about Mr Divenga. With that beard!”
“But –” Anderson raised the letter coiled round one finger and tapped his smooth chin with it. The house telephone rang. Molly’s voice said: “Five minutes, remember?”
“When I’m free.” He put it down.
“I know, I know,” Wyvern said amiably. “Don’t tell me. It works. It’s the most revolutionary etcetera that homo sapiens has ever invented to ease his spirit in the era of the atom bomb. I see it. But I still don’t believe it.” During all this time Wyvern had not appeared to notice the letter in Anderson’s hand. Now he suddenly said, almost with embarrassment:
“What the devil are you doing with that bit of paper, Andy?” Anderson hesitated for only a second. “That bit of paper, as you call it, is a letter from Val.”
“A letter from Val!” Wyvern stared and then said:
“Poor old Val. It was a damned shame; the sort of thing that makes you wonder what life’s all about. You know what – I was remembering only the other day that silly toast we used to drink.”
“Shorter days – longer nights.”
“That’s right.” The suppressed excitement had gone from Wyvern’s manner, if it had ever been there. He now looked simply uneasy. “Forgive me for saying so, Andy, but it’s no use harking back. We all do it, I know. I often wonder what would have happened to me if I’d left home when I was twenty-one. My mother wasn’t bedridden then, and I could have done it. If I had done – but you see it’s no use harking back. Get rid of memories, destroy letters, otherwise they haunt you.”
“Haunt you?”
“When I was out in the desert I used to look up at the stars and think about my mother, make decisions about what I’d do when I got back. I was going to leave home and make her an allowance. I was going to get out of advertising for good. And there you are – look at me now.”
Anderson was not listening. “This letter arrived yesterday morning,” he said.
“Yesterday morning! But, Andy, Val died more than three weeks ago.”
“That’s exactly what I’m getting at. I found this letter on my desk yesterday morning.”
At last he had spoken out, and for the first time he had told another human being the incredible truth. The moment remained in Anderson’s memory through a pattern of colours. The green carpet, the brown panelling on the walls, Wyvern’s stone-coloured corduroy trousers, the white hands resting on them that tightly pressed his knees. He felt, with a kind of triumph, the tension in the room. Something significant had happened, something more significant still would happen in a moment, a gesture would be made or a word spoken that had the quality of a revelation.
The house telephone rang. Molly. He snatched at it and shouted: “I said when I’m free.”
“This is Rev here, Andy. You sound het up.”
“I’m sorry, Rev. I thought—”
“That’s all right. I know you’re up to the eyes. Can you come in just for a minute? It’s just a little job to be done.”
“Right away.”
He replaced the receiver, and the moment had gone. Wyvern was standing up, a long thin figure looking down with the oddest expression on his face. “I wanted to know if you had any other Hey Presto ideas we could work on, but we can talk about it some other time.” He stopped at the door and said: “If I were you I’d forget all about that letter. I wouldn’t tell anyone else about it.”
When Anderson left his room to go in to see Rev he heard the sharp rings of the house telephone, but he did not go back. The little job that Reverton wanted done was, as he had said, only a little job: what he had omitted to say was that it was a job he was supposed to do himself. The job was connected with the Crunchy-Munch account. Vincent’s had obtained the Crunchy-Munch advertising on the strength of a slogan invented by VV: “First you Crrrunch it Then you Munch it – that’s CRUNCHY – MUNCH.” This slogan, with a few variations, had been the basis of Crunchy-Munch advertising for several years. Now they had suddenly become dissatisfied with it; and although every bar of Crunchy-Munch was sold on the chocolate ration, they had begun to worry about the effect of the advertising on their sales when sweets were unrationed. “Shall we be ready to go full steam ahead,” the Crunchy-Munch advertising manager had asked, in one of those metaphors favoured by all advertising men, when we get the green light?” He was paid a handsome salary for worrying about such things, and it was customary to send him a yearly memorandum, which had become a sophistical exercise in evolving theories about the effect of various advertising approaches on the techniques of sweet-selling, if it ever became necessary to sell sweets. The purpose of this memorandum was to give the Crunchy-Munch advertising manager something to occupy his time, and also to present a picture of the situation which implied both that a continual jockeying was taking place for future leadership in the confectionery field, and that in this race Crunchy-Munch, thanks to the mental agility of their advertising agents, were always leading by a quarter of a length. This year, however, the memorandum would be a little different; it would have to justify the new scheme which was to be discussed the following morning. Reverton suggested that, since Anderson was in charge of the new scheme, he should write the memorandum, too. “It’s not the kind of job I like to delegate,” Reverton said with a shake of his square sensible head, “but I’ve got so much on my plate I think I’ll just have to. Anyway, you’re right on top of the new scheme, Andy; you’re the man to write the memo.” Reverton paused and added casually: “By the way, what is the new scheme?”
“We’re putting up two ideas.” Reverton raised his eyebrows. “One’s Lessing’s and one’s mine. The studio is working on them now. They’ll be on the table tomorrow, for you and VV.”
“Two schemes, eh? Differences of viewpoint?” Reverton said mildly.
“Just two ways of presenting it. When will you want the memorandum finished?”