“What are you
doing, Robert?” the Frog demanded one lunchtime.
“I am writing poetry,” I said with a sigh, knowing that any such thing was now going to be impossible.
“I like poems. Do you know
Alice in Wonderland
?”
“Know it? I used to live in the wretched place.”This reference to my alma mater went over her head, but it did not stop her pes-tering.
“Robert, please will you write me a poem about a crocodile?” “Oh, very well. If you absolutely promise to go away afterwards.”
Within two minutes I had dashed something off, and read aloud:
“The hunger of the crocodile Is awesome to behold:
For breakfast he eats fifty eggs, Scrambled, then served cold.
He follows that with toast and jam, And oysters, tea and juice,
And when he has no more of those, He likes a roasted goose.
And then he has a plate of ham, Served with English mustard,
A dozen kippers, smoked of course, On which he pours hot custard.
But what he likes to eat the most Is quite another question:
His favorite dish is little girls, Which gives him indigestion.”
She stared at me, open-mouthed.“But that’s brilliant!You really are a poet!”
I sighed.“If only real poetry were that easy.”
“Now can I have one about a caterpillar?” she said hopefully. “I thought you had promised to go away.”
“I promise to go away for three times as long if you write me one more poem. That’s a very advantageous proposition, you know—three aways for two poems.”
“Ah, the famous Pinker gift for negotiation. Let’s see, then . . .
“ ‘This is a curious business,’ The missionary said,
‘I seem to have a caterpillar Living in my head.
‘He must have been inside those pears The cook served up for tea,
And since I ate his old abode His new address is me.
‘I hear him singing in my ear; My mouth is his front door;
And when he has too much to drink I hear the beggar snore.’ ”
The Frog clapped. Emily, who had come into the room as I was extemporizing this nonsense, said, “That is really very sweet, Robert.You should send it to a children’s publisher.”
“I am a poet,” I said tersely. “Heir to a glorious tradition of rebels and decadents. Not a composer of nursery rhymes and doggerel.”
Determined to
find the time to write, I tried doing without sleep, keeping myself up with the help of vast quantities of Pinker’s product. The first time I did this, I was elated to find that I had completed twenty lines of lyric ode. The next night, though, caf-feine and fatigue battled each other to a stalemate, producing only a dull headache and some even duller couplets. Moreover, I was too exhausted the next day to do my job properly. I was so fatigued, in fact, that I was somewhat short with Emily.We had a silly argument over the wording of a paragraph, and she promptly burst into tears.
I was astonished. She had never given any sign of being the sort of girl who cried at small provocations—quite the reverse, in fact. “I’m sorry,” she said, drying her eyes on a handkerchief. “I’m
just a little tired.”
“So am I,” I said with feeling.
“Why is that, Robert?” she asked, and it seemed to me that she looked at me a little oddly.
“I have been trying to work.” “We both have.”
“I mean my
real
work.Writing.”
“I see—and that is the only reason you have been so,” she hesitated,“so off recently?”
“I suppose it must be.”
“I thought perhaps that you were tired of
me.
” “What on earth do you mean?”
“At the ball—Robert, when you kissed me—I thought perhaps . . . but of course, you are a bohemian, a kiss means rather less to you—”
“Emily,” I said, exasperated.“I did not—” I stopped. I had been about to say,“I did not kiss you.” But something made me pause.
I thought: I
would
have kissed her, if I could. If I had known she would not have rejected my advances, or gone running to her fa-ther. And now, it seemed, because of some ridiculous mix-up she had been kissed by a stranger she had believed was me.
And had not minded. Had apparently rather liked it, in fact. I had a choice.
I could tell her the truth, which would both heartily embarrass her and give her the impression that I did not want to kiss her; or I could accept the greater truth of what had happened that evening.
I said slowly,“If I have been short with you, darling Emily, it is because I could not be sure whether I had overstepped the mark.”
“Did I give that impression—in any way?” she said quietly.
I had absolutely no idea. “You did not,” I said. I took a step toward her. I hoped to God my standin had been a good kisser. Though not, of course, so good that I could not live up to his example.“But we had both of us had much to drink that night. I was not certain . . .”
“If you overstep,” she said,“I will be sure to tell you.”
She tasted of cream, of meringues and vanilla and milky coffee, with a faint far-off tang of cigarettes.
I paused.“Have I overstepped yet?”
“Robert,” she cried,“can you never be serious?”
I kissed her again.This time I pressed my hand into the small of her back, gently drawing her in to me. It seemed to me that, even in the midst of that wonderful kiss, she gasped with pleasure. I slipped my tongue between her lips, and after a moment’s resistance, felt them parting, inviting me deeper. . . . Good heavens, I thought, astonished: she is more passionate than I had ever imagined.
Footsteps! We drew apart just as the door opened. It was Jenks.
We both took a step back—Emily turning away in confusion, her color high.The secretary threw us a suspicious glance.
“I am getting honeysuckle, floral aromas, very bright and smooth,” I said quickly.“Perhaps a little citrus. But the mouthfeel is excellent.”
Jenks’s eyes raked the room. He saw, I am sure, that there was no coffee on the table, but he said nothing.
“Emily?” I said.
“Yes?” She turned back toward me. “What did you think?”
“It was—it was quite pleasant, Robert.Though perhaps a trifle strong. Excuse me—I have left something—something downstairs.”
It was much later
when she returned carrying a thick folder of papers, which she placed in front of her at the table and ostentatiously began to review.
“Every minute you were not with me was an age,” I began. “Not now,” she interrupted.“We have work to do.”
I was baffled. “I thought—before—you seemed to prefer my attentions to work.”
There was a brief silence. “That was before Jenks surprised us.
It has brought me to my senses.”
“Jenks? What does Jenks matter? What does anyone matter?” “We are both my father’s employees.We should not—we must
not—do anything unprofessional.We cannot betray his trust.” “Now you’re being inconsistent.”
“There must be no more kissing.” She said it firmly. “Promise me that, at least.”
“Very well. I will try not to think of kissing you more than— what? Once every—six or seven seconds?”
Silence.
“That’s twice already—three times, now.” “Robert!”
“I cannot help the way I feel, Emily. And no more, I think, can you. But if you wish it, I will refrain from kissing you again.”
We kissed
beside the river, we kissed behind her sisters’ backs, we kissed with the
crema
of a freshly made coffee still mustachioing our lips. Sometimes she would murmur, “Robert—we mustn’t,” but she kissed me anyway.
Once she said, “I wish I did not like it so much, and then I might find it easier to stop.”
“But why should we stop?” “Because it is wrong.”
“But how can it be wrong? Art shows us, surely, that life should be a succession of exquisite sensations. Of course you must kiss me.”
“I am not quite sure if you are flattering me now, or yourself,” she muttered.“You are a good kisser, but ‘exquisite sensations’ may be pushing it a bit.”
“We must seize the moment, for joy is fleeting, and besides, I think I hear Ada clumping up the stairs.”
[
sixteen
]
here shall we eat today?”
“Unfortunately, I shall not be able to have lunch with you today, Robert.”
“Is it something I said?”
“No, something I have said.A promise to the Suffrage Society. I am to go out selling their leaflets.”
“You mean, in public?”
“Yes. Don’t look so surprised. Someone has to do it.”
It would have been easy enough to have a disagreement about that particular statement, I reflected. But I saw the look on Emily’s face and kept my own counsel. “Then I will come with you. We can have lunch afterwards.”
She frowned. “I suppose you could stand next to me and look helpful. But you will have to promise not to pass any of your flippant remarks.”
We took up
position next to the entrance to the Underground station on King William Street in the City. Emily held up one of
her leaflets, and in a querulous small voice called: “Votes for women! The truth for a penny!”
A couple of people glanced at us curiously, but no one stopped. “Oh dear,” she said anxiously. “They don’t seem terribly keen. Votes for women!”
An elderly gentleman with muttonchop whiskers paused. “What have we here?” he said in a kindly voice, taking the pamphlet from her and examining it.
“The truth for a penny,” she said promptly. “The case for woman suffrage.”
“And how much for a fuck?” he said in the same kindly tone.
For a moment neither of us reacted.Then Emily gasped, and I said furiously,“How dare you?”
“Are you with this creature?” he said to me.
“I am with this woman. And you have insulted her.”
“She is standing in the street peddling her wares, is she not? In my experience only one sort of woman does that.” He walked away, not bothering to return the pamphlet.
“I’ll kill him,” I said hotly, starting after him.
“Robert, don’t.” Emily caught at my arm. “We are under instruction not to make trouble.”
“So you may be, but I won’t stand by—”
“Please, Robert. In any case, I’ve heard worse language used by my father’s porters.” She raised her arm, and her voice, simultaneously.“Votes for women! The truth for a penny!”
An urchin ran up to her and shouted, “I’d vote for yer, love!” He accompanied his comment with an unambiguous gesture of the hips, dodging my foot as I lashed out at his scrawny buttocks.
“Remind me,” I said grimly,“why we are doing this.” “Because men and women need to have the same rights before
they can truly communicate with each other as equals.”
“Oh yes, of course.And how long do we have to do it for?”
“Until the leaflets are gone,” she said firmly.
I held out my hand.“You had better give me half.” “Are you sure?”
“If it means I get some lunch, most certainly. In any case, you are doing it all wrong.There is an art to selling things.”
“I am doing it exactly as the Society instructed.”
“Then we shall see who is more successful.” I crossed over the road. There was an elderly lady coming along the pavement. I stopped her.“Excuse me, madam—may I sell you this pamphlet? It contains everything you need to know about the suffrage movement.”
“Oh.” She smiled without examining the leaflet. “How much is it?”
“One penny, though you can give more if you like.”
“Here’s a sixpence—I shan’t want change,” she said, giving me a coin.
“Thank you,” I said, pocketing the money.“Have a pleasant day.” “Votes for women,” Emily called on the other side of the road, waving her pamphlet aloft. There was a frown on her face. I laughed: I knew that frown; she was irritated that I had been
proved right.
Two young women with their hands pushed deep into fur stoles walked past me.“Excuse me,” I said, catching them up.“You look as if you ought to read about votes for women.” I pushed two pamphlets into their hands.“That’ll be tuppence, please.”
Smiling back at me, the younger one found me the money. “What is it all—” she began, but once I had the coins I didn’t have time to chat.Turning to a young office clerk, I said,“Chum—want to find out what women
really
think? It’s all in here.”Within moments I had my next sale.
I glanced across the street. Emily had realized that my method of directly accosting people worked better than her shouting, and
was now following suit. I saw her make a sale to two elderly ladies, and another to a woman out shopping with her daughter.
A middle-aged man was heading toward me. “This leaflet,” I said, walking alongside him and showing him the cover,“contains all the filthy arguments of the suffragists. Sexual equality, free love—it’s all in there.”
“I’ll take two,” he said, eyeing the leaflet anxiously.
“Good man.That’ll be a shilling.”As he walked away I could see Emily giving me a furious look—I had sold almost half my leaflets, and she only one or two. “The one who sells least buys lunch!” I called. She scowled, but I noticed that she redoubled her efforts.
“Good afternoon, ladies,” I said to a group of shopgirls. “Sensational stuff, this—everyone’s reading it.” I quickly made four sales, and turned my attention to a matron who was struggling with her shopping.“No more burst paper bags when women have the vote! It’s all in here, and I’ll even carry your potatoes to the pavement.”
When I had finished picking up potatoes I strolled across the road.“All gone,” I reported smugly.
“People are only buying them from you because you’re a man,” Emily said crossly.“It’s the same old problem all over again.”
“Well, whatever the reason, I seem to have made a nice profit. And now I shan’t even have the expense of lunch, since you’re paying.”
“Robert,
will you tell me a poem?” the Frog asked hopefully.
I was still in an indulgent mood after lunch. “Very well. What sort of poem?”
“The same one you told me last time, the one about the caterpillar.”
“You can’t have that one.As an artist, I must be original.”