Brighton Rock by Graham Greene
At the saloon bar they made way for him with respect. In the mirror marked Booth’s Gin he could see his own reflection—the short flaming hair, the blunt and open face, broad shoulders. He stared like Narcissus into his pool and felt better; he wasn’t the sort of man to take things lying down; he was valuable. ‘Have a whisky?’ somebody said. It was the greengrocer’s assistant from the corner shop. Cubitt laid a heavy paw across his shoulder, accepting, patronizing: the man who had done a thing or two in his time chummy with the pale ignorant fellow who dreamed from his commercial distance of a man’s life. The relationship pleased Cubitt. He had two more whiskies at the grocer’s expense.
‘Got a tip, Mr Cubitt?’
‘I’ve got other things to think of beside tips,’ Cubitt said darkly, adding a splash.
‘We were having an argument in here about Gay Parrot for the two-thirty. Seemed to me. . . ’
Gay Parrot. . . the name didn’t mean a thing to Cubitt: the drink warmed him: the mist was in his brain: he leant forward towards the mirror and saw ‘Booth’s Gin. . . Booth’s Gin’, haloed above his head. He was involved in high politics: men had been killed: poor old Spicer. Allegiances shifted like heavy balances in his brain: he felt as important as a Prime Minister making treaties.
‘There’ll be more killing before we’re through,’ he mysteriously pronounced. He had his wits about him: he wasn’t giving anything away; but there was no harm in letting these poor sodden creatures a little way into the secrets of living. He pushed his glass forward and said, ‘A drink all round,’ but when he looked to either side they’d gone; a face took a backward look through the pane of the saloon door, vanished; they couldn’t stand the company of a Man.
‘Never mind,’ he said, ‘never mind,’ and drank down his whisky and left. The next thing, of course, was to see Colleoni. He’d say to him, ‘Here I am, Mr Colleoni. I’m through with Kite’s mob. I won’t work under a boy like that. Give me a Man’s job and I’ll do it.’ The mist got at his bones: he shivered involuntarily: a grey goose. . . He thought: if only Dallow too. . . and suddenly loneliness took away his confidence; all the heat of the drink seeped out of him, and the mist like seven devils went in. Suppose Colleoni simply wasn’t interested. He came down on to the front and saw through the thin fog the high lights of the Cosmopolitan: it was cocktail time.
Cubitt sat down chilled in a glass shelter and stared out towards the sea. The tide was low and the mist hid it: it was just a sliding and a sibilation. He lit a cigarette: the match warmed for a moment the cupped hands. He offered the packet to an elderly gentleman wrapped in a heavy overcoat who shared the shelter. ‘I don’t smoke,’ the old gentleman said sharply and began to cough: a steady hack, hack, hack towards the invisible sea.
‘A cold night,’ Cubitt said. The old gentleman swivelled his eyes on him like opera glasses and went on coughing: hack, hack, hack: the vocal chords dry as straw. Somewhere out at sea a violin began to play: it was like a sea beast mourning and stretching towards the shore. Cubitt thought of Spicer who’d liked a good tune. Poor old Spicer. The mist blew in, heavy compact drifts of it like ectoplasm. Cubitt had been to a séance once in Brighton: he had wanted to get in touch with his mother, dead twenty years ago. It had come over him quite suddenly—the old girl might have a word for him. She had: she was on the seventh plane where all was very beautiful: her voice had sounded a little boozed, but that wasn’t really unnatural. The boys had laughed at him about it, particularly old Spicer. Well, Spicer wouldn’t laugh now. He could be summoned himself any time to ring a bell and shake a tambourine. It was a lucky thing he liked music.
Cubitt got up and strolled to the turnpike of the West Pier, which straddled into the mist and vanished towards the violin. He walked up towards the Concert Hall, passing nobody. It wasn’t a night for courting couples to sit out. Whatever people there were upon the pier were gathered every one inside the Concert Hall. Cubitt turned round it on the outside looking in: a man in evening dress fiddling to a few rows of people in overcoats, islanded fifty yards out to sea in the middle of the mist. Somewhere in the Channel a boat blew its siren and another answered, and another, like dogs at night waking each other.
Go to Colleoni and say. . . it was all quite easy; the old man ought to be grateful. . . Cubitt looked back towards the shore and saw above the mist the high lights of the Cosmopolitan, and they daunted him. He wasn’t used to that sort of company. He went down the iron companionway to the gents and drained the whisky out of him into the movement under the piles and came up on to the deck lonelier than ever. He took a penny out of his pocket and slipped it into an automatic machine: a robot face behind which an electric bulb revolved, iron hands for Cubitt to grip. A little blue card shot out at him: ‘Your Character Delineated.’ Cubitt read: ‘You are mainly influenced by your surroundings and inclined to be capricious and changeful. Your affections are more intense than enduring. You have a free, easy, and genial nature. You make the best of whatever you undertake. A share of the good things of life can always be yours. Your lack of initiative is counter-balanced by your good common sense, and you will succeed where others fail.’
He dragged slowly on past the automatic machines, delaying the moment when there would be nothing for him to do but go to the Cosmopolitan. ‘Your lack of initiative. . . ’ Two leaden football teams waited behind glass for a penny to release them: an old witch with the stuffing coming out of her claw offered to tell his fortune. ‘A Love Letter’ made him pause. The boards were damp with mist, the long deck was empty, the violin ground on. He felt the need of a deep sentimental affection, orange blossoms and a cuddle in a corner. His great paw yearned for a sticky hand. Somebody who wouldn’t mind his jokes, who would laugh with him at the two-valve receiving set. He hadn’t meant any harm. The cold reached his stomach, and a little stale whisky returned into his throat. He almost felt inclined to go back to Frank’s. But then he remembered Spicer. The boy was mad, killing mad, it wasn’t safe. Loneliness dragged him down the solitary boards. He took out his last copper and thrust it in. A little pink card came out with a printed stamp: a girl’s head, long hair, the legend ‘True Love’. It was addressed to ‘My Dear Pet, Spooner’s Nook, With Cupid’s Love’, and there was a picture of a young man in evening dress kneeling on the floor, kissing the hand of a girl carrying a big fur. Up in a corner two hearts were transfixed by an arrow just above Reg. No. 745812. Cubitt thought: it’s clever. It’s cheap for a penny. He looked quickly over his shoulder: not a soul: and turned it quickly and began to read. The letter was addressed from Cupid’s Wings, Amor Lane. ‘My dear little girl. So you have discarded me for the Squire’s son. You little know how you have ruined my life in breaking faith with me, you have crushed the very soul out of me, as the butterfly on the wheel; but with it all I do not wish anything but your happiness.’
Cubitt grinned uneasily. He was deeply moved. That was what always happened if you took up with anything but a buer; they gave you the air. Grand Renunciations, Tragedies, Beauty moved in Cubitt’s brain. If it was a buer of course you took a razor to her, carved her face, but this love printed here was class. He read on: it was literature: it was the way he’d like to write himself. ‘After all, when I think of your wondrous, winsome beauty, and culture, I feel what a fool I must have been to dream that you ever really loved me.’ Unworthy. Emotion pricked behind his eyelids and he shivered in the mist with cold and beauty. ‘But remember, dearest, always, that I love you, and if ever you want a friend just return the little token of love I gave you and I will be your servant and slave. Yours broken-heartedly, John.’ It was his own name: an omen.
He moved again past the lighted concert hall and down the deserted deck. Loved and Lost. Tragic griefs flamed under his carrot hair. What can a man do but drink? He got another whisky just opposite the pier head and moved on, planting his feet rather too firmly, towards the Cosmopolitan—plank, plank, plank along the pavement as if he were wearing iron weights under his shoes, like a statue mig
‘I want to speak to Mr Colleoni.’ He said it defiantly. The plush and gilding smoothed away his confidence. He waited uneasily beside the desk while a pageboy searched through the lounges and boudoirs for Mr Colleoni. The clerk turned over the leaves of a big book and then consulted a Who’s Who. Across the deep carpet the page returned and Crab followed him, sidling and triumphant with his black hair smelling of pomade.
‘I said Mr Colleoni,’ Cubitt said to the clerk, but the clerk took no notice, wetting his finger, skimming through Who’s Who.
‘You wanted to see Mr Colleoni,’ Crab said.
‘That’s right.’
‘You can’t. He’s occupied.’
‘Occupied,’ Cubitt said. ‘That’s a fine word to use. Occupied.’
‘Why, if it isn’t Cubitt,’ Crab said. ‘I suppose you want a job.’ He looked round in a busy preoccupied way and said to the clerk, ‘Isn’t that Lord Feversham over there?’
‘Yes, sir,’ the clerk said.
‘I’ve often seen him at Doncaster,’ Crab said, squinting at a nail on his left hand. He swept round on Cubitt. ‘Follow me, my man. We can’t talk here,’ and before Cubitt could reply he was sidling off at a great rate between the gilt chairs.
‘It’s like this,’ Cubitt said, ‘Pinkie—’
Half-way across the lounge Crab paused and bowed and moving on became suddenly confidential. ‘A fine woman.’ He flickered like an early movie. He had picked up between Doncaster and London a hundred different manners; travelling first-class after a successful meeting he had learnt how Lord Feversham spoke to a porter: he had seen old Digby scrutinize a woman.
‘Who is she?’ Cubitt asked.
But Crab took no notice of the question. ‘We can talk here.’ It was the Pompadour Boudoir. Through the gilt and glass door beyond the boule tables you could see little signboards pointing down a network of passages—tasteful little chinoiserie signboards with a Tuileries air: ‘Ladies’. ‘Gentlemen’. ‘Ladies’ Hairdressing’. ‘Gentlemen’s Hairdressing.’
‘It’s Mr Colleoni I want to talk to,’ Cubitt said. He breathed whisky over the marquetry, but he was daunted and despairing. He resisted with difficulty the temptation to say ‘sir’. Crab had moved on since Kite’s day, almost out of sight. He was part of the great racket now—with Lord Feversham and the fine woman. He had grown up.
‘Mr Colleoni hasn’t time to see everyone,’ Crab said. ‘He’s a busy man.’ He took one of Mr Colleoni’s cigars out of his pocket and put it in his mouth: he didn’t offer one to Cubitt. Cubitt with uncertain hand offered him a match. ‘Never mind, never mind,’ Crab said, fumbling in his double-breasted waistcoat. He fetched out a gold lighter and flourished it at his cigar. ‘What do you want, Cubitt?’ he asked.
‘I thought maybe,’ Cubitt said, but his words wilted among the gilt chairs. ‘You know how it is,’ he said, staring desperately around. ‘What about a drink?’
Crab took him quickly up. ‘I wouldn’t mind one—just for old time’s sake.’ He rang for a waiter.
‘Old times,’ Cubitt said.
‘Take a seat,’ Crab said, waving a possessive hand at the gilt chairs. Cubitt sat gingerly down. The chairs were small and hard. He saw a waiter watching them and flushed. ‘What’s yours?’ he asked.
‘A sherry,’ Crab said. ‘Dry.’
‘Scotch and splash for me,’ Cubitt said. He sat waiting for his drink, his hands between his knees, silent, his head lowered. He took furtive glances. This was where Pinkie had come to see Colleoni—he had nerve all right.
‘They do you pretty well here,’ Crab said. ‘Of course Mr Colleoni likes nothing but the best.’ He took his drink and watched Cubitt pay. ‘He likes things smart. Why, he’s worth fifty thousand nicker if he’s worth a penny. If you ask me what I think,’ Crab said, leaning back, puffing at the cigar, watching Cubitt through remote and supercilious eyes, ‘he’ll go in for politics one day. The Conservatives think a lot of him—he’s got contacts.’
‘Pinkie—’ Cubitt began and Crab laughed. ‘Take my advice,’ Crab said. ‘Get out of that mob while there’s time. There’s no future. . . ’ He looked obliquely over Cubitt’s head and said, ‘See that man going to the gents. That’s Mais. The brewer. He’s worth a hundred thousand nicker.’
‘I was wondering,’ Cubitt said, ‘if Mr Colleoni. . . ’
‘Not a chance,’ Crab said. ‘Why, ask yourself—what good would you be to Mr Colleoni?’
Cubitt’s humility gave way to a dull anger. ‘I was good enough for Kite.’
Crab laughed. ‘Excuse me,’ he said, ‘but Kite. . . ’ He shook his ash out on to the carpet and said, ‘Take my advice. Get out. Mr Colleoni’s going to clean up this track. He likes things done properly. No violence. The police have great confidence in Mr Colleoni.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Well, well, I must be going. I’ve got a date at the Hippodrome.’ He put his hand with patronage on Cubitt’s arm. ‘There,’ he said. ‘I’ll put in a word for you—for old times’ sake. It won’t be any good, but I’ll do that much. Give my regards to Pinkie and the boys.’ He passed—a whiff of pomade and Havana, bowing slightly to a woman at the door, an old man with a monocle on a black ribbon. ‘Who the hell—’ the old man said.
Cubitt drained his drink and followed. An enormous depression bowed his carrot head, a sense of ill-treatment moved through the whisky fumes—somebody some time had got to pay for something. All that he saw fed the flame: he came out into the entrance hall: a pageboy with a salver infuriated him. Everybody was watching him, waiting for him to go, but he had as much right there as Crab. He glanced round him, and there alone at a little table with a glass of port was the woman Crab knew. He watched her with covetous envy and she smiled at him—‘I think of your wondrous, winsome beauty and culture.’ A sense of the immeasurable sadness of injustice took the place of anger. He wanted to confide, to lay down burdens. . . he belched once. . . ‘I will be your loving slave.’ The great body turned like a door, the heavy feet altered direction and padded towards a table where Ida Arnold sat.
‘I couldn’t help hearing,’ she said, ‘when you went across just now that you knew Pinkie.’
He realized with immense pleasure when she spoke that she wasn’t class. It seemed to him like the meeting of two fellow countrymen a long way from home. He said, ‘You a friend of Pinkie’s?’ and felt the whisky in his legs. He asked, ‘Mind if I sit down?’
‘Tired?’
‘That’s it,’ he said, ‘tired.’ He sat down with his eyes on her large friendly bosom. He remembered the lines on his character. ‘You have a free, easy and genial nature.’ By God, he had. He only needed to be treated right.
‘Have a drink?’
‘No, no,’ he said with woolly gallantry, ‘it’s on me,’ but when the drinks came he realized he was out of cash. He had meant to borrow from one of the boys—but then the quarrel. . . He watched Ida Arnold pay with a five-pound note.
‘Know Mr Colleoni?’ he asked.
‘I wouldn’t call it know,’ she said.
‘Crab said you were a fine woman. He’s right.’
‘Oh—Crab,’ she said vaguely, as if she didn’t recognize the name.
‘You oughter steer clear though,’ Cubitt said. ‘You’ve no call to get mixed up in things.’ He stared into his glass as into a deep darkness: outside innocence, winsome beauty and culture—unworthy, a tear gathered behind the bloodshot eyeball.
‘You a friend of Pinkie’s?’ Ida Arnold asked.
‘Christ, no,’ Cubitt said and took some more whisky.
A vague memory of the Bible, where it lay in the cupboard next the Board, the Warwick Deeping, The Good Companions, stirred in Ida Arnold’s memory. ‘I’ve seen you with him.’ she lied: a courtyard, a sewing wench beside the fire, the cock crowing.
‘I’m no friend of Pinkie’s.’
‘It’s not safe being friends with Pinkie,’ Ida Arnold said. Cubitt stared into his glass like
‘What do you know about Fred?’
‘People talk,’ Ida Arnold said. ‘People talk all the time.’
‘You’re right,’ Cubitt said. The stained eyeballs lifted: they gazed at comfort, understanding. He wasn’t good enough for Colleoni: he had broken with Pinkie. Behind her head through the window of the lounge darkness and retreating sea. ‘Christ,’ he said, ‘you’re right.’ He had an enormous urge to confession, but the facts were confused. He only knew that these were the times when a man needed a woman’s understanding. ‘I’ve never held with it,’ he told her. ‘Carving’s different.’
‘Of course, carving’s different,’ Ida Arnold smoothly and deftly agreed.
‘And Kite—that was an accident. They only meant to carve him. Colleoni’s no fool. Somebody slipped. There wasn’t any cause for bad feeling.’
‘Have another drink?’
‘It oughter be on me,’ Cubitt said. ‘But I’m cleaned out. Till I see the boys.’
‘It was fine of you—breaking with Pinkie like that. It needed courage after what happened to Fred.’
‘Oh, he can’t scare me. No broken banisters. . . ’
‘What do you mean—broken banisters?’
‘I wanted to be friendly,’ Cubitt said. ‘A joke’s a joke. When a man’s getting married, he oughter take a joke.’
‘Married? Who married?’
‘Pinkie, of course.’
‘Not to the little girl at Snow’s?’
‘Of course.’
‘The little fool,’ Ida Arnold said with sharp anger. ‘Oh, the little fool.’
‘He’s not a fool,’ Cubitt said. ‘He knows what’s good for him. If she chose to say a thing or two—’
‘You mean, say it wasn’t Fred left the ticket?’