In Pursuit of the English - Doris Lessing [30]
‘It seems miles,’ I said.
‘That’s because you don’t know the ropes,’ he said, relaxing, the violence all gone. ‘Seen that building before?’ – pointing to a house a couple of hundred yards away from Flo’s and Dan’s house.
‘They all seem alike,’ I said.
He nodded. ‘Mind you. I’ve been thinking, it might not be possible for you to see that flat this evening. But I’ll telephone to make sure.’ He strode into a telephone box, and went through the motions of telephoning. He emerged with a brisk air. ‘My client isn’t in, after all.’
‘That seems a pity.’
‘I’ll take you for the drink I promised, in any case.’ He applied a tender pressure to my upper arm; but lost interest in the gesture almost at once; his face was already dark with another pressure.
‘I’m taking you to this pub,’ he said, ‘because it’s famous.’
We went into a glossy lounge bar, and he said casually to the barman: ‘I’ll have two of the usual.’
‘What’s your usual?’ said the barman.
‘I’m used to service,’ he began, but the barman had turned away, as if accidentally, to serve someone else. Mr MacNamara took me to a free corner table, and said. ‘This is the best firm in England. Their liquors are all vintage. You know what vintage is?’
‘No, not really.’
Delighted, he said: ‘I do. I mix with the best people. I’m going to marry the daughter of a member of parliament.’
‘Good for you.’
‘Yes. Her father is a lord.’
‘Rose told me your father was a lord, too, from Ireland.’
His body tensed with anger. He narrowed his eyes, and clenched his teeth. Then he controlled himself. The violence in him so strong his whole body quivered as he damped it down. ‘I told you, you shouldn’t believe Rose Jennings. She can’t tell truth from falsehood. Some people are like that.’ He thought a moment and came out with: ‘Actually, my real name’s not MacNamara. It’s Ponsonby. I use MacNamara for business. But I’m Irish all right. Yes, from the Emerald Isle.’
‘I hope you’ve managed to get Mrs MacNamara somewhere to sleep tonight.’
‘Well of course she’d not really Mrs MacNamara. To tell you the truth, I don’t quite know what to do with her. She was going to marry a client of mine. He rang me up this morning – he’s off to Hong-Kong, on business. He left her in my charge.’
‘Poor girl.’
‘I’ve fixed her up for the night in a hotel in Bayswater.’
‘Good.’
‘But perhaps Mrs Bolt can fix her up tomorrow. She said she had a room.’
‘Oh, she did, did she?’
‘Of course it’s not what Miss Powell is used to. But then these days we take what we can get. Like you, for instance, You could afford much better if you were offered it.’
The barman now came over and said: ‘What’ll you have.’
‘Two light ales,’ said Mr Ponsonby.
When the barman brought the ales, Mr Ponsonby said; ‘I say. You’re not going to serve me that? I’m used to the best.’
The barman studied him a moment, his good-humoured eyebrows raised. Then he picked up the glasses, set them on the counter, interposed his back between him and Mr Ponsonby, and after whistling a soft tune between his teeth, lifted them round and set them down again.
‘That’s better,’ said Mr Ponsonby. He handed the barman silver, and gave him a shilling tip.
‘Some mothers do ’ave ’em,’ remarked the barman to the air, still whistling, as he returned behind the bar.
Mr Ponsonby was saying to me: ‘I could put you on to a good thing. A hundred nicker. That’s all.’