SURBITON AND BATTERSEA

A SUBURBAN NIGHT

Oh, sweetly sad and sadly sweet,
That rain-pearled night at Highbury!
The picture-theatre, off the street,
That housed us from the lisping sleet,
Is a white grave of dreams for me.

Though smile and talk were all our part,
Sorrow lay prone upon your heart
That never again our lips might meet,
And never so softly fall the sleet
In gay-lamped, lyric Highbury.
Love made your lily face to shine,
But oh, your cheek was salt to mine,
As we walked home from Highbury.

O starry street of shop and show,
And was it thus long years ago? Was
the full tale but waste and woe, And Love but
doom in Highbury, My dusty, dreaming Highbury?

A HAPPY NIGHT

When I received the invitation to the whist-drive at Surbiton my first thought was, “Not likely!” I had visions of a boring evening: I knew Surbiton. I knew its elegances and petty refinements. I knew its pathetic apings of Curzon Street and Grosvenor Square. I knew its extremely dull smartness of speech and behaviour. I foresaw that I should enjoy myself as much as I did at the Y.M.C.A. concert where everybody sang refined songs and stopped the star from going on because he was about to sing the “Hymn to Venus,” which was regarded as “a little amorous.” The self-conscious waywardness, the deliberate Bohemianism of Surbiton, I said to myself, is not for me. I shall either overplay it or underplay it. Certainly I shall give offence if I am my normal self. For the Bohemianism of Surbiton, I continued, has very strict rules which nobody in Bohemia ever heard of, and you cannot be a Surbiton Bohemian until you have mastered those rules and learned how gracefully to transgress them. If I throw bread pellets at the girls, they will call me unmannerly. If I don’t they will call me stiff. You may have noticed that those pseudo-intellectuals who like to think themselves Bohemian are always terrified when they are brought up against anything that really is unconventional. On the other hand, your true Bohemian is disgusted if anybody describes him by that word; if there is one word that he detests more than Belgravia, it is Bohemia. No, I shall certainly not go.

Surbiton ... Surbiton. I repeated the name aloud, tasting its flavour. It has always had to me something brackish, something that fills my mind with grey pain and makes me yearn for my old toys. It is curious how the places and streets of London assume a character from one’s own moods. All the big roads have a very sharp character of their own. If all other indications were lacking, one might know at once whether the place were Edgware Road or Old Ford Road, simply by the sounds and by the sweep of it. Pull down every house and shop, and still Oxford Street could never pass itself off as Barking Road. But they have, too, a message for you. I still believe that a black dog is waiting to maul me in Stepney Causeway. I still dance with delight down Holborn. Peckham Road still speaks to me of love. And Maida Vale always means music for me, music all the way. I had my first fright in Stepney Causeway. I first walked down Holborn when I had had a streak of luck. I first knew Peckham Road when first I loved. And I first made acquaintance with Maida Vale and its daintily naughty flats at the idiotic age of seventeen, when I was writing verses for composers at five shillings a time. They all lived in Maida Vale, and I spent many evenings in the music-rooms of those worn-out or budding composers and singers who, with the Jews, have made this district their own; so that Maida Vale smells always to me of violets and apple-blossom: it speaks April and May. The deep blue of its night skies is spangled with dancing stars. The very sweep and sway of the road to Kilburn and Cricklewood is an ecstasy, and the windows of the many mansions seem to shine from heaven, so aloof are they.

Surbiton, I repeated. I shall certainly not go. I know it too well. Surbiton is one of those comfortable, solid places, and I loathe comfortable places. I always go to Hastings and avoid St. Leonards. I always go to Margate and fly from Eastbourne. I always go to Southend and give Knocke-sur-Mer a miss. I like Clacton. I detest Cromer. I love Camden Town. I hate Surbiton. Surbiton is very much like Hampstead, except that, while Hampstead is horrible for 362 days of the year, there are three days in the year when it is inhabitable. On Bank Holidays the simple-minded minor poet like myself can live in it. I was there one August Bank Holiday, and, flushed and fatigued with the full-blooded frolic, I had turned aside to “cool dahn” in Heath Street, when I ran against some highly respectable and intelligent friends.

“What!” they said. “You here to-day? Ah! observing, I suppose? Getting copy? Or perhaps as a literary man you come here for Keats ... Coleridge ... and all that?”

“No,” I answered. “I come here for boatswings. I come here to throw sticks at coconuts. I come here to buy ticklers to tickle the girls with. I come here for halfpenny skips. I come here for donkey rides. I do not come for Keats. I do not care a damn for Coleridge. I do not come to gloat about Turner or Constable or anybody else who lived at Hampstead a hundred years ago. I come here to enjoy myself for roundabouts, cockles and whelks, steam-organs which, after all, are the same thing as Keats or Coleridge. They’re Life.”

Wherefore I felt determined that I could not and would not go to a whist-drive at Surbiton, when I could get the real thing in Upper Street, Islington.

Then Georgie called for me at the office, and we went out to lunch. Georgie had sold a picture. He had five pounds in his pocket. We went to Maxim’s and had lunch. Georgie insisted on sparkling Moselle, and we had two bottles, and three rounds of Cointreau triple sec. By that time it was too late to think of going back to work, so I took Georgie to tea at a literary club, and we talked. I then discovered in a panic that it was half-past six. The whist-drive was at eight, and I had yet to dine and get down to Surbiton. Georgie, by that subtle magnetism which he possesses, had drawn a bunch of the boys about him, and had induced them to make a night of it with him; so we went to Simpson’s to eat, and I left them at the table, very merry, and departed to Waterloo. Somewhere, between lunch and dinner, I had unconsciously decided, you see, that I would go to Surbiton. I can’t remember just when the change in my attitude took place; but there it was. I went to Surbiton, feeling quite good and almost in love with Surbiton.

The whist-drive was to be held in the local hall, and when I arrived cabs and motors were forming a queue. Each cab vomited some dainty arrangement in lace or black cloth. Everybody was “dressed.” (I think I said that it was Surbiton.) Everybody was on best behaviour. Remembering the gang at Simpson’s, I felt rather a scab, but a glance in the mirror of the dressing-room reassured me. I recollected some beautiful words of Mr. Mark Sheridan’s, “If I’m not clever, thank God, I’m clean.” The other fellows in the dressing-room were things of beauty. Their public-school accent, with its vile mispronunciation of the English tongue, would have carried them into the inner circles of any European chancellery. I never heard anything so supernally affecting. I have heard many of our greatest actors and singers, but I have never heard so much music put into simple words, as, “I say, you fellers!”

Everybody was decent. Everybody, you felt sure, could be trusted to do the decent thing, to do whatever was “done,” and to leave undone those things that were not “done,” and, generally, to be a very decent sort. Their features were clean and firm; they were well-tended. Their minds were clean. They talked clean; and, if they did not display any marked signs of intelligence or imagination, if they had not the largeness of personality for the noble and big things of life, you felt that at least they had not the bent for doing anything dirty. Altogether, a nice set, as insipid people mostly are: what are known in certain circles as Gentlemen.

The girls.... Well, they, too, were a decent sort. Not so decent as the boys, of course, because they were girls. They scanned one another a little too closely. They were too obviously anxious to please. They were too obviously out for the evening. Those who were of the at-home type simpered. They talked in italics. The outdoor type walked like horses. They looked unpleasant, too. I wonder why “Madge” or “Felice” or “Ermyntrude,” or some other writer of toilet columns in the ladies’ papers, doesn’t tell her outdoor girl readers how hideous they look in evening frocks. Why don’t they urge them not to uncover themselves? For the outdoor girl has large hands and large arms, both of a beefy red. She has a face and neck tanned by sun and wind, and her ensemble, in a frock cut to the very edge of decency, shows you red hands and forearms, with a sharp dividing line where the white upper arm begins, and a raw face and neck, with the same definite line marking the beginning of white bosom and shoulders. The effect is ridiculous. It is also repulsive. I think they ought to know about it.

The hall was tastefully decorated with white flowers and palms. There was a supper-room, which looked good. The prizes, arranged on a table by the platform, were elegant, well chosen, and of some value. I started at a table with an elderly matron, a very self-conscious Fabian girl, and a rather bored-looking man of middle age, who seemed to be bursting to talk which is the deadliest of sins at a Surbiton whist-drive. The whist that I play is the very worst whist that has ever been seen. I told my partner so, and she said, “Oh, really!” and asked me if I had had any tennis yet. Then some one begged us to be seated, and, with much arrangements of silks and laces and wraps, we sat down and began to play whist. As I moved from table to table I made no fresh partners. They were differently dressed, but otherwise there was no distinction. They were a very decent sort....

After many hours we stopped playing whist, and broke up for chewing and chatting. The bored-looking man of middle age picked me up, and we took two stray girls in tow for wine and sandwiches. The manners at the supper-crush were elegance itself. The girls smoked cigarettes just a little too defiantly, but they were quite well-bred about it. A lot of well-bred witticisms floated around, with cool laughter and pretty smiles. A knot of girls with two boys talked somewhat decryingly of Shaw and Strindberg; and one caught stray straws of talk about Masefield, Beecham opera, Scriabine, Marinetti, Augustus John. Two girls were giving a concert at the Steinway next week. Others were aiming at the Academy. Another had had a story accepted by the English Review. They were a very decent sort.

The bored man plucked at my arm and suggested that we get rid of the girls, and go across to “The Railway” and have one. We did. In the lounge of “The Railway” he told me the one about the lady and taxi. It was very good, but extremely ill-bred. He was a prominent local doctor, so I told him the one about the medical man on the panel, and about the Bishop who put gin in his whisky. Then he told me another ... and another. He remembered the old days at the London.... He said he had had to go to this show because his boy and girl were there. Cards bored him to death, but he liked to be matey with the youngsters. Suppose we had just one more?

We had just one more. From across the way came, very sweet and faint, the sound of laughter and young voices. Some one had started a piano, and the Ballade in A Minor was wandering over Surbiton. I looked into my brandy-glass, and, as I am very young, I rather wanted to cry. I don’t know why. It was just the mood ... the soft night, Surbiton, young boys and girls, Chopin, Martell.... I said I had to catch an immediate train to Waterloo, and I drank up and bolted.

The other Saturday morning I met a friend at the Bedford Street Bodega. He said, “Laddie, doing anything to-night?” I said, “No; what’s on?”

He said: “Like to help your old uncle?”

I said: “Stand on me.”

“Well, it’s a little charity show. A Social at Battersea Town Hall. Some local club or tennis-party or some jolly old thing of that sort. All receipts to the local hospital. All the gang are going to do something kind of informal, you know. I’m the Star. Yes, laddie, I have at last a shop, for one night only. My fee seven-and-sixpence and tram-fares. All other services gratuitous. No platform. No auditorium. Just a little old sit-round, drinking limp coffee and eating anæmic pastry, and listening. Come?”

I said I would, and we adventured along the dreary Wandsworth Road, down the evil-smelling Lavender Hill, into the strenuous endeavour of Clapham Junction. It was gay with lights and shoppers and parading monkeys. Above us hung a pallid, frosty sky. No stars; no moon; but down in the streets, warmth and cheer and companionship. We called at the blazing, bustling “Falcon,” which is much more like a railway-junction than the station itself, and did ourselves a little bit of good, as my professional friend put it. Then we mounted to the gas-lit room where the fun was to take place. We wandered down long, stark passages, seeking our door. We heard voices, but we saw no door.

“Harold,” said some one, “sometimes wish you wasn’t quite such a fool.”

“What’s the matter now, Freddie?” asked A Voice.

“Why, you know very well it’s ten to eight, and you ain’t even pulled the piano out.”

“Gaw! Lucky you reminded me. Come on, old chew-the-fat, give us a hand with the musical-box.”

There were noises “off,” from which it seemed that some one had put something on top of something else. There were noises of some one hitting a piece of wood with another piece of wood.

Then “Damn!” cried A Voice. “Steady on my feet, can’t yeh? Bit more to the right. Whoa! Up your end a bit. ’At’s it. When was she tuned last? Give us a scale.”

Some one flourished, and then a bright door opened, and two young men in shirt-sleeves with tousled brows, appeared.

“Laddie,” cried my friend, dramatically, “is this the apartment for the Young People’s Society In Connection With The Falcon Road Miss ?”

“That’s us!” cried, I imagine, Freddie.

“Then I am Victor Maulever.”

“Oh, step inside, won’t you. Bit early, I’m ’fraid. Mr. Diplock ain’t here yet. But come in. We got a fire going, and it’s sort of turning chilly out, eh?”

We stepped in, and Freddie introduced us. “Harold this is Mr. Maulever, the actor. Mr. Maulever, may I introduce our sec’t’ry, Mr. Worple Mr. Harold Worple, I should say.”

Mr. Worple came forward and shook hands. “’Scuse my shirt-sleeves, won’t you, sir?”

“Certainly, laddie, cer-tain-ly,” said Victor, with that empressement which has earned him so many drinks in Maiden Lane. “Cer-tain-ly. And how are you?”

“Nicely, thanks,” said Harold. “How’s ’self?”

“So-so, just so-so. Now just tell me about your little affair, so I can get ’em fixed good and plenty before I start. What d’you think’ll go best; you know ’em better than I do? Shakespeare what? Bransby Williams? ‘Dream of Eugene Aram’? ‘Kissing Cup’s Race’? Imitations of Robey, Formby, Chirgwin what?”

Harold pondered a moment. Then he had an inspiration. “Sort ’em up if I was you, sir. Sort ’em up. Then ev’body’ll get something they like, see?”

We entered the clubroom where the Social was to be held a large, lofty room, genial, clean, and well-lighted, The floor was bare, but a red rug before the leaping fire gave a touch of cosiness. Small tables were scattered everywhere; draughts here, dominoes there, chess elsewhere, cards in other places. Chairs were distributed with a studied air of casual disorder. Newspapers littered a side-bench. The grand piano, by Cadenza of The Emporium, stood diagonally across the left centre, and on it lay the violin-case of Freddie, who told us, with modesty, that he “scraped nows and thens.” Along the length of the farther wall stood a large, white-robed table, heaped with coffee-urns, sandwiches, buns, cakes, biscuits, bananas, and other delicacies. All these arrangements were the joint work of Freddie and Harold. At five minutes to eight the company arrived. At first it trickled in by stray couples, but later it swelled to a generous flood, each couple nodding in acknowledgment of the deprecatory greetings of the stewards: “Here we are again, what-oh?” and, in more professional tones: “Gentlemen’s Room to the Right, Ladies’ Room to the Left!” Victor and myself stood by the fire, Victor receiving bashful but definitely admiring glances from the girls, for he is of the old school, and looks more like Sir Henry Irving even than Mr. H. B. Irving, except that he does not limp. For the first few minutes the atmosphere was cold. The boys obviously wanted to talk to Victor, but they seemed all too shy; so I gave Victor the tip, and with his exquisite courtesy he moved over to a group of the boys and the girls and, with a bow, asked a girl with a baby face, that burnt delightfully red under his attention, if he might take a seat on that settee. In just a minute and a half the thaw set in, and he had the company about him bubbling with laughter and excited comment. As other groups came in from the dressing-rooms they made at once for the centre of attraction, and soon Victor was the centre of a crowd that buzzed about him like bees about a flower, seeking the honey of laughter. I doubt if he was ever so much on the “spot” before. I could see him revelling in it. I could see him telling Rule’s about it. But in the middle of his best story, Freddie bustled up.

“Oh, ’scuse me, sir, but I forgot to tell you before. I said sort ’em up, but ... you might just be careful, ’cos the Vicar’s dropping in during the evening. I’ll give you the word when he’s here, so’s you’ll be sure to hand ’em something quiet. It’s all right until he comes. Just give ’em anything you like.”

And Victor waved a faded hand, and said, “Righto, laddie, righto. I get you,” and turned again to the blushing little girl, who certainly seemed now to be Quite The Lady in her manner of receiving his attentions. Under his expansive mood everybody seen knew everybody else, and all traces of stiffness vanished. The company was a little mixed, and it was inevitable that there should be démarcations of border, breed, and birth. Some were shop-assistants, some were mechanics, some were clerks, some were even Civil Servants; and as all were Christians they were naturally hesitant about loving one another. But Victor broke down all barriers by his large humanity and universal appeal.

Suddenly, there was a hammering on the floor, and a voice called, “Attention, please!” And then “Duet for violin and piano: Miss Olive Craven and Mr. Fred Parslow.”

We broke into little groups, and settled ourselves. Then came a crash of chords from the piano, and a prolonged reiteration of the A while Freddie tuned. They set to work. I heard the opening bars, and I held my breath in dismay. They were going to play a Tchaikowsky Concerto. But the dismay was premature. They played; both of them. I do not know whether Freddie was engaged to Olive, but there was a marvellous sympathy uniting them; and, though little technical flaws appeared here and there, the beauty of the work was brought right out. Freddie and Olive were musicians. It was a delicious quarter of an hour. They got a big handful of applause, and then Freddie asked: “Ready, sir?” and Victor said he was, and Freddie said, “What is it?” and conveyed the answer to the portly old fellow who seemed to be president. After a minute or so, during which the girls chattered and giggled and compared ribbons and flounces, he called again for silence, and a tremendous outburst of clapping and stamping followed his announcement: “Mr. Victor Maulever, the famous West End actor, will recite ’Who’ll have a Blood Orange?’”

Victor made good with his first three sentences. In the language of his profession, he got ’em with both hands. They rose at him. He had ’em stung to death. He did what he liked with ’em. The girls giggled and kicked little feet. They shamelessly broke into his periods with “Isn’t he IT?” and he had to wait while the laughs went round.

When he had finished he got such a hand as I’m sure he never had in the whole of his stage career. They wouldn’t let him sit down. They would give him no rest; he must go straight on and give more. So he gave them two more, including his impressions of George Robey, G. P. Huntley, Joe Elvin, R. G. Knowles, and Wilkie Bard singing “Little Grey Home in the West.”

Then the President appealed to the audience to let poor Mr. Maulever have a rest and a little refreshment; and at once the girls rushed to the table and fought with one another for sandwiches and coffee and cakes with which they might minister to the exhausted Thespian. The boys did not get savage about this; they seemed to share in the fun, and when new girl-arrivals came in, they were solemnly introduced to the star. “Oh, Mr. Maulever, may I introduce my friend, Miss Redgrove?” Miss Redgrove smiled becomingly, and Victor rose, bowed, extended his graceful hand, and said: “Delighted, Miss Redgrove!” and Miss Redgrove said: “Pleased to meet you!” And in reply to Victor’s inquiry: “I hope you’re well?” she said that she mustn’t grumble.

A few of the girls wore evening frocks; others, with more limited means, contented themselves with Sunday frocks or delicately coloured robes that had been manoeuvred into something that showed enough white neck and bosom to be at once alluring and decorous. There was nothing of the plain or the dowdy. They were all out for enjoyment, and they meant to make the best of everything, themselves included. Frills and fluffiness were the order. They were all darlings.

A gentle raillery was the note of intercourse between girls and boys. One of the little girls, a typist, I gathered, in a mercantile office, whispered to her boy that Victor was A Love, and added that she always did like men best when they were old and had grey hair. They were so ... kind of ... if he knew what she meant. She said she would most likely fall in love with a grey-haired man, and her boy said: “Yes, of course you would.” Whereupon she told him not to be so sarcastic.

The attitude of gentlemen to ladies was also delightful. Some of the gentlemen were guilty of bad manners, in the Surbiton sense of the word. That is to say, they did not all do what was “done,” and they very frequently did things that were not “done” by Good People. But everything they did was inspired by a consideration for the comfort of others. They committed gaucheries, but the fount thereof was kindliness.

The conversation was varied. Some talked frocks, some music, some picture-palaces, some odds-and-ends. Those who affected theatres stuck firmly to Victor, and lured him on to talk about the idols of the stage. The dear boy might have told them things ... he might have disillusioned their golden heads about certain actor-managers of whom he has had intimate experience; but he didn’t, and I rather liked him for it. While more recitations and more music went round, he told them heroic stories about their heroes. He told them strange stories and beautiful stories and funny stories; but never, never disparaging stories. One saw their faces glow with wonder. Then the time came for him to work again. He certainly earned that seven-and-six. This time the Vicar was there, so he handed them “The Dream of Eugene Aram.”

Again he got ’em. The girls shivered and moved nearer to their boys. He got his horror in voice and face and gesture and pauses. There was perfect silence while he did it. There was perfect silence for some seconds afterwards. Then came a rain of clapping, and the Vicar walked across to him and shook him by the hand, showering warm compliments upon him, and trusting that he would be kind enough to come again.

Then, while we drank coffee and handed cakes to the girls, the reverend gentleman stood on the rug before the fire and gave us an informal address. It was all very bright and homely, and the merry twinkle in the old man’s eye when he saw the cluster of girls about Victor told us that he was very much alive to this world.

At half-past ten the meeting broke up, with a final effort by Victor in two of Albert Chevalier’s songs. The girls pelted to the dressing-rooms and returned, robed for the street and radiant, and all anxious to shake hands and bid farewell to the Star. They literally danced round him, and fought to shake hands with him, and the boys fought with them. Then, when all had saluted him, each boy appropriated a girl. Those who were known tucked arms in arms and marched off. Those who were strangers approached deferentially, and said: “You got a friend, miss? If not ... m’I see you home?” and were at once elected.

Victor and the Vicar and the President and myself remained behind till the last, while Freddie and Harold “cleared up the mess,” as they said. Then Victor winked at the two boys, and lured them to the passage. “Well, boys,” he said, jingling his three half-crowns which had just been paid him, “what about it? A short one at ’The Falcon’ what?”

They really blushed. The honour was too much. “Oh really well very kind of you, Mr. Maulever, I’m sure.” They stammered through their hot smiles, but they came along, and after the short one at “The Falcon” they lingered a moment. They appeared nervous. It seemed that they had something on their minds. Harold looked at Freddie and Freddie looked at Harold, and Freddie said emphatically, “You.” So Harold, very rapidly, turned and said

“I was going t’say, Mr. Maulever I mean, would you ah might I ask if you and your friend’d have another with us?” He was obviously glad to get it over.

Victor smiled. “Well, laddie, it’s a cold night. Dammit, we will have another.”

So we did. As a matter of fact, we had three others; and in the loud passage of “The Falcon” we parted with the lads, who wrung Victor’s hand, and said he’d given them a delightful evening, and they hoped he’d recite for their next Social, adding that he was a real sport.

I saw Victor to his ’bus, and as he leaped aboard he said he had enjoyed himself. He turned half-way up the stairs to cry his customary valediction.

“Si longtemps, old kiddo. Cling good and tight to the water-wagon!”