Vile Bodies

It was clearly going to be a bad crossing.

With Asiatic resignation Father Rothschild S.J. put down his suitcase in the corner of the bar and went on deck. (It was a small suitcase of imitation crocodile hide. The initials stamped on it in Gothic characters were not Father Rothschild’s, for he had borrowed it that morning from the valet-de-chambre of his hotel. It contained some rudimentary underclothes, six important new books in six languages, a false beard and a school atlas and gazetteer heavily annotated.) Standing on the deck Father Rothschild leant his elbows on the rail, rested his chin in his hands and surveyed the procession of passengers coming up the gangway, each face eloquent of polite misgiving.

Very few of them were unknown to the Jesuit, for it was his happy knack to remember everything that could possibly be learned about everyone who could possibly be of any importance. His tongue protruded very slightly and, had they not all been so concerned with luggage and the weather, someone might have observed in him a peculiar resemblance to those plaster reproductions of the gargoyles of Notre Dame which may be seen in the shop windows of artists’ colourmen tinted the colour of “Old Ivory,” peering intently from among stencil outfits and plasticine and tubes of watercolour paint. High above his head swung Mrs. Melrose Ape’s travel-worn Packard car, bearing the dust of three continents, against the darkening sky, and up the companionway at the head of her angels strode Mrs. Melrose Ape, the woman evangelist.

“Have you anything to declare?”

“Wings.”

“Have you wore them?”

“Sure.”

“That’s all right, then.”

“Divine Discontent gets all the smiles all the time,” complained Fortitude to Prudence. “Golly, but it’s good to be on dry land.”

Unsteadily, but with renewed hope, the passengers had disembarked.

Father Rothschild fluttered a diplomatic laissez-passer and disappeared in the large car that had been sent to meet him. The others were jostling one another with their luggage, trying to attract the Customs officers and longing for a cup of tea.

“I got half a dozen of the best stowed away,” confided the journalist. “They’re generally pretty easy after a bad crossing.”

“Don’t ring twice,” said a very angry old man. “What do you want?”

“Is Mr. Blount in?”

“There’s no Mr. Blount here. This is Colonel Blount’s house.”

“I’m sorry.⁠ ⁠… I think the Colonel is expecting me to luncheon.”

“Nonsense. I’m Colonel Blount,” and he shut the door.

The Ford had disappeared. It was still raining hard. Adam rang again.

“Yes,” said Colonel Blount, appearing instantly.

“I wonder if you’d let me telephone to the station for a taxi?”

“Not on the telephone.⁠ ⁠… It’s raining. Why don’t you come in? It’s absurd to walk to the station in this. Have you come about the vacuum cleaner?”

“No.”

“Funny, I’ve been expecting a man all the morning to show me a vacuum cleaner. Come in, do. Won’t you stay to luncheon?”

“I should love to.”

“Splendid. I get very little company nowadays. You must forgive me for opening the door to you myself. My butler is in bed today. He suffers terribly in his feet when it is wet. Both my footmen were killed in the war.⁠ ⁠… Put your hat and coat here. I hope you haven’t got wet.⁠ ⁠… I’m sorry you didn’t bring the vacuum cleaner⁠ ⁠… but never mind. How are you?” he said, suddenly holding out his hand.

They shook hands and Colonel Blount led the way down a long corridor, lined with marble busts on yellow marble pedestals, to a large room full of furniture, with a fire burning in a fine rococo fireplace. There was a large leather-topped walnut writing-table under a window opening on to a terrace. Colonel Blount picked up a telegram and read it.

Presently cars began to drive away again. Miss Runcible said that she had heard of a divine night club near Leicester Square somewhere where you could get a drink at any hour of the night. It was called the St. Christopher’s Social Club.

So they all went there in Ginger’s car.

On the way Ginger said, “That cove Miles, you know, he’s awfully queer⁠ ⁠…”

St. Christopher’s Social Club took some time to find.

It was a little door at the side of a shop, and the man who opened it held his foot against it and peeped round.

They paid ten shillings each and signed false names in the visitor’s book. Then they went downstairs to a very hot room full of cigarette smoke; there were unsteady tables with bamboo legs round the walls and there were some people in shirt sleeves dancing on a shiny linoleum floor.

There was a woman in a yellow beaded frock playing a piano and another in red playing the fiddle.

They ordered some whisky. The waiter said he was sorry, but he couldn’t oblige, not that night he couldn’t. The police had just rung up to say that they were going to make a raid any minute. If they liked they could have some nice kippers.

Miss Runcible said that kippers were not very drunk-making and that the whole club seemed bogus to her.

Ginger said well anyway they had better have some kippers now they were there. Then he asked Nina to dance and she said no. Then he asked Miss Runcible and she said no, too.

“First ’e takes off ’is boots in the saloon bar,” she said, enlisting the sympathy of her new audience, “which is not the action of a gentleman.”

“They was wet,” said the little man, “wet as ’ell.”

“Well, and who wants your wet boots on the counter, I should like to know. Then, if you please, he calls me a conspiring woman because I tells him to stop and put them on before he goes ’ome.”

“Want to go ’ome,” said the little man. “ ’Ome to my wife and kids. Trying to keep a man from ’is wife.”

“No one wants to keep you from your wife, you old silly. All I says is for Gawd’s sake put on your boots before you go ’ome. What’ll your wife think of you coming ’ome without boots.”

“She won’t mind ’ow I come ’ome. Why, bless you, I ain’t been ’ome at all for five years. It’s ’ard to be separated from a wife and kids by a conspiring woman trying to make yer put on yer boots.”

“My dear, she’s quite right, you know,” said Miss Runcible. “You’d far better put on your boots.”

“There, ’ear what the lady says. Lady says you’ve to put on your boots.”

The little man took his boots from the landlady, looked at Miss Runcible with a searching glance, and threw them into the canal. “Lady,” he said with feeling. “Trousers,” and then he paddled off in his socks into the darkness.