A Table Near the Band Read online

  Title

  A. A. Milne

  A TABLE NEAR

  THE BAND

  Contents

  Contents

  A Table Near the Band

  The Prettiest Girl in the Room

  A Man Greatly Beloved

  The Rise and Fall of Mortimer Scrivens

  Christmas Party

  The Three Dreams of Mr. Findlay

  The River

  Murder at Eleven

  A Rattling Good Yarn

  Portrait of Lydia

  The Wibberley Touch

  Before the Flood

  The Balcony

  About the Author

  Dedication

  To

  THE READER

  Whose weekly parcel from the Library has included this or that book, either because it has been recommended by a friend or because the author’s previous work has recommended itself:

  Who has flipped through the pages in happy anticipation and found that it is a book of short stories:

  Who has said disappointedly “Oh! short stories”, and has put it aside and settled down to one of the other books:

  I DEDICATE THIS ONE

  At the same time pointing out to her that completely revealing titles which are both attractive and as yet unused are hard to come by, and that after all one should expect

  A TABLE NEAR THE BAND

  to offer a view of other tables, at each one of which some story may well be in the making.

  A Table Near the Band

  I was giving Marcia lunch at the Turandot.

  She is a delightful girl to give lunch to; very pretty, very decorative; drawing the eyes, admiring or envious, of all the other lunchers, but not (and this, I think, is her most charming characteristic)—not showing any consciousness of it; devoting herself with all her heart (if any), her soul (probably none) and her eyes (forget-me-not blue) to her companion. With it all, she is amusing, in the sense that after a couple of cocktails she makes you feel that either you or she or somebody is being extremely funny, smiles and easy laughter being the pleasant condiments of the meal. In short, a delightful person to take out to lunch.

  It is one of the advantages of lunch that it rarely leads to an unpremeditated proposal of marriage. I have a suspicion, which has never been confirmed, that I did propose to Marcia once, after dinner. If so, she must have refused me, because I am still a bachelor. There is no doubt that up to that evening (a year ago now) I had regarded myself as in love with her, and had assumed that, as a consequence, the moment would arrive when I should suddenly hear myself asking her to marry me. I woke up next morning with the conviction that I had so heard myself. I spent the next six hours trying to imagine our married life together, from dawn to dawn and December to December; and I concluded that the immediate and, indeed, obvious pleasures of such contiguity, enjoyable as they could not fail to be, would have much to contend against. A little nervously I rang her up at tea-time. I am not at my best in a telephone conversation with Marcia, because, even more than most men, I detest telephone conversations, and, even more than most women, she revels in them. She is never handicapped, as I am, by the fear, or even the knowledge, that other people are within hearing. On this occasion I was handicapped further by the uncertainty whether or not I was talking to my betrothed. I gathered fairly soon that I was not, and, a little later, that neither was I a rejected suitor. Our table had been near the band, and I suppose she hadn’t heard.

  Marcia lives in a highly polished flat in Sloane Street. The economics of this flat are something of a mystery; I mean to me, not, of course, to her. Indeed, the economics of Marcia’s whole life are a little mysterious. She has, or has had, a father and a mother. Casual references to one or other of them keep me in touch with their continued existence, but I have never seen them, nor do I know where they live. However, I gather that the father is, or was, in some unnamed profession or business, which permits of his making a quarterly allowance to his daughter; while Marcia herself earns part of her living in some confidential relationship to a firm in Richmond. I know this, because on one or two occasions when she has had to cancel a date with me it has been some sudden need of this firm in Richmond which has so untimely compelled her. ‘You seem to forget, David darling, that I am a working woman,’ she has said reproachfully; and, looking at her, one has, of course, been inclined to forget it. In addition to this, one must remember that the flat is not actually her own, but has merely been lent to her by a friend, referred to sometimes as Elsa and sometimes as Jane. Doubtless this friend has two Christian names, like most of us. Elsa (or Jane) is either on her honeymoon or exhibiting new dress designs in South America; or, possibly, both. I understand that she is likely to be away for some time. One of my delightful discoveries about Marcia is that she has almost as many women friends as men friends; and they are all eager to lend things to her.

  It will be seen, then, that with all these resources Marcia is well able to afford the Sloane Street flat. I am not sure now why I suggested that there was anything mysterious about it. For all I know she may be a rich woman in her own right, with money inherited from an ancestral brewery or a doting godfather. She has not mentioned yet that this is so, but it may well be. In any case it is no business of mine. All that matters to me is that she is a delightful person to give lunch to; and that this is what I was doing at the Turandot one day last week.

  At the moment we weren’t lunching, we were sitting in the lounge drinking cocktails. They were doubles, of course, because in these days one is apt to mislay a single at the bottom of the glass, and one can’t afford to do that. We raised our glasses to each other, and murmured compliments. One of the things which I like about Marcia is that she doesn’t expect all the compliments for herself. She is the only woman who has told me that I remind her of Robert Montgomery. She will say ‘You look divine in that suit, darling, you ought always to wear brown’— or whatever it is. This is a very endearing habit of hers, and one which none of my female relations has fallen into as yet.

  She took the mirror out of her bag; I suppose to see if she was looking as lovely as I had just said she did. She has beautiful hands, and, possibly for that reason, made a good deal of play with this bag, so that I felt impelled to say ‘Hallo, I haven’t seen that before, have I?’ This is a fairly safe line to take with anything of Marcia’s, and often gets me credit for that habit of ‘noticing’ which all women expect from their men.

  ‘This?’ she said, holding the bag up at me. ‘I shouldn’t think so.’

  Some comment was called for. Unfortunately bags do very little for me. I never know what to say to a new one; just as, I suppose, a woman wouldn’t know what to say to a new cricket-bat. Obviously the thing has got to be the right shape and, in the case of a bag, the appropriate colour, but one can’t praise a thing for its obvious qualities. ‘It’s charming’ was the best I could do.

  ‘David!’ she said reproachfully. ‘This old thing? Oh, but I oughtn’t to say that. Let’s talk of something else. Wait a moment.’ She opened the bag again, seemed to be looking for something, and then, realising that she wouldn’t find it, snapped the catch and murmured ‘Of course! I was forgetting.’

  I took the bag off her lap. I considered both sides of it, and put it back. I saw now that it wasn’t new.

  ‘Mother lent it to me,’ she explained. This, as it were, gave her mother another six months of life. She was last heard of in the spring.

  ‘But why?’ I asked. I felt that she was using up her mother unnecessarily. A bag is as essential to a woman as braces to a man; one doesn’t have to explain how one comes to be wearing them.
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  ‘Just motherly love, darling,’ she smiled.

  ‘Yes, but——’

  ‘Oh, David, don’t go on about it, or I shall cry. If I’ve got a handkerchief,’ she added, opening the bag again.

  ‘Marcia, what is all this?’

  She looked at me pathetically, and her eyes glistened as though she were crying already.

  ‘I didn’t want to tell you, and spoil our lovely lunch together, but the most tragic thing has happened.’ She emptied her glass, as if to give herself courage to look back on it, and said, ‘I lost my bag yesterday. With everything in it. Oh, but everything!’

  ‘Clothing coupons?’ I asked in horror. It was the first thing I thought of.

  ‘Of course! The whole ration book. How do you think I live?’

  Well, I didn’t know. But thinking it over, I did see that she might want a ration book for breakfast.

  ‘Everything,’ she went on quietly. ‘Identity card, ration book, driving licence, car insurance, money, latchkey, flap-jack, of course, and lip-stick, everything.’ And in a whisper she added ‘Including my cigarette-case.’

  I knew that cigarette-case. It was in gold and platinum with an ‘M’ in little diamonds. Desmond had given it to her, just before he went out to Burma, where he was killed. She was to have married him as soon as the war was over. He wouldn’t marry her before: he said it wouldn’t be fair to her if he were missing.

  While I was wondering what to say which didn’t sound either callous or sentimental—(after all, he died three years ago)—she added in a smiling voice, ‘I felt absolutely naked when I discovered what had happened.’

  This took us off the emotional plane, and I asked the obvious question, ‘When did you discover?’

  ‘Getting out of the taxi last night. I’d been down to Letty’s for the week-end. Morrison paid the man and let me in with his pass-key, and I rang up Victoria at once, of course, but it was one of those trains which goes backwards and forwards all day—darling, what a life!—and it was now on its little way to Brighton again. With my lovely bag in it. Of course, somebody has just taken it.’

  ‘No news of it at Brighton?’

  ‘No. I rang up again this morning.’

  ‘But Marcia, darling—wait a moment, we want some more drinks for this.’ I caught a waiter’s eye and ordered two more doubles. Marcia gave me her loving, grateful smile—‘What I was going to say was, However does a woman leave her bag in the train? It’s part of her. I should have thought you’d have felt absolutely naked as soon as you got on to the platform.’

  ‘That was the idiotic part. I’d been reading a magazine in the train, and I’d put my bag down, and then I put the magazine under my arm—oh, David, I know I’m a fool, but it’s no good saying it.’

  ‘I wasn’t going to, darling. I’m terribly sorry, and I wish I could help.’

  ‘I know. You’re sweet.’

  ‘How about all the things you’ve got to renew? Ration book and licences and all that? Can’t I help there?’

  ‘It’s lovely of you, David, but it’s all what they call “in train”.’ She laughed and added, ‘Like the bag, unfortunately. I’ve been rushing about like a mad thing all morning.’

  ‘Was there much money in it?’

  She shrugged and said, ‘About ten pounds, and quarter-day a long way off. I shall have to go carefully for a bit. But, of course, that’s the least of it. It’s—everything else.’ I felt uncomfortably that she was thinking of Desmond again. She must have realised this—she is very quick, bless her—because she said at once, ‘I mean the bag itself, it’s so hateful to think of my lovely, lovely bag being worn by some horrible woman in Brighton, or wherever she is.’

  ‘Do I remember it?’

  ‘Well, darling, you ought to, seeing that it’s the only one I’ve got. Only I haven’t got it.’

  I always thought that women had lots of bags, but I suppose it’s like men with pipes. We have half a dozen, but the others are always the ones we can’t smoke at the moment.

  ‘I seem to remember a black one,’ I said tentatively.

  ‘Of course, darling. I always wear a black bag—when I have it. But never mind my silly troubles, tell me about yourself. You wrote that you were spending the weekend with your married sister. How was she?’

  Marcia has a very sweet way of taking an interest in people she has never met. I told her that Sylvia was well. We then went in to lunch. It was, for these days, a very good lunch, and we chattered and laughed and said no more of the bag.

  Marcia didn’t want me after lunch. I took her to where her car was parked, and she went off to Richmond or somewhere; on business for the firm, I suppose, as otherwise she wouldn’t have had the petrol. I wasn’t sorry to be alone, because I had something I wanted to do.

  I had thought of it almost at once, and now I thought of it again; and the more I thought of it, the more I felt that it was up to me to replace that bag. No doubt it was the cigarette-case for which Marcia was really grieving, but Desmond had given it to her, and I couldn’t do anything about that. Nor could I have afforded to do anything about it: the economics of my life don’t include platinum and gold cigarette-cases. But I thought that they did include a bag on an occasion like this for a very attractive and much-to-be-pitied young woman. After a few enquiries I wasn’t so sure. However, I was committed to it now, at whatever cost, and in the end I felt fairly satisfied with the result. Bags, as I think I have said, all look much the same to me; but this one was certainly black and certainly expensive, and presumably, therefore, just what Marcia wanted. The girl in the shop was sure it was. She said Moddom would rave about it.

  And, in fact, Moddom did.

  I spent the week-end at Waylands. I am 36, and what is called a commercial artist. No doubt you have seen me among the advertisements: represented as often as not by an athletic young man and a superb young woman in very little on the beach. This can call your attention to anything, from your favourite laxative to your favourite cigarette or soft drink; from National Savings (the holiday you can look forward to, if you save now) to pocket cameras (the holiday you can look back upon afterwards). Altogether I don’t do too badly; and the only reason why I am mentioning this is because a bachelor of 36, who is understood not to be doing too badly, gets invited to houses a little out of his social and financial class. It was in this way, and again at this week-end, that I met Maddox.

  Maddox, I suppose, is about 50, and something pretty big in the City. He has known Marcia longer than I have, and he talks to me about her whenever we happen to meet; as if I were waiting anxiously for him to talk to me, and this was the only subject of conversation which could possibly interest us both; as, indeed, it is. Then, having put me at my ease, he leaves me as soon as possible for somebody richer or more noble. He has this natural flair for putting people at their ease. If he had met Shakespeare in his prime (Shakespeare’s prime) he would have asked him if he were doing any writing just now—thus showing that he was in touch with the literary fashion of the moment—and drifted away without waiting for the answer.

  He is not in the least jealous of my friendship with Marcia. The fact that I am a bachelor assures him in some way that there can be no rivalry between us. He himself is married; and the only thing which has prevented him from marrying Marcia (so Marcia tells me) is this wife of his. Either she is a Catholic and won’t divorce him, or she is in a Home for Incurables and he can’t divorce her. I forget which, but I know that it is all very hard on him—and, of course, on his wife, if she is in a Home for Incurables.

  On this occasion we saw more of each other than usual, because we travelled down together. I stepped into his carriage when it was too late to step out again, and he went through the usual drill of seeming surprised to find me in such good company.

  ‘Hallo, young fellow! You?’

  I admitted it.

 
He nodded, as if to confirm my admission, and gave himself a moment in which to place me. Then he asked if I had seen the little girl lately.

  ‘Marcia?’ I asked coldly.

  ‘Who else?’

  I said that I had seen her fairly lately.

  ‘You didn’t hear what the little idiot had done? No, you couldn’t have.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Left her bag in the train, with £20 in it.’

  ‘Good lord!’

  ‘And, of course, everything else. What’s really worrying the poor girl is the cigarette-case.’

  ‘Cigarette-case?’

  ‘A beauty. Platinum and gold. But the tragic thing is that it’s the one Hugh gave her.’

  I wanted to say ‘Who’s Hugh?’ because I had never heard of him, but it didn’t sound right somehow. It was no matter, because he went on: ‘The feller she was engaged to. You wouldn’t have met him, you’ve only known her for the last year.’

  ‘Two years,’ I corrected.

  ‘Poor kid, it was a tragedy for her. Hugh was in the Air Force, and they were going to get married as soon as he got a ground job. And then, just at the end of his last tour, on his very last operation, he was shot down over the North Sea. That cigarette-case was all she had had of him. He’d meant to make a will, he had quite a bit to leave, but like a damned young fool he put it off. Tough luck on Marcia.’

  ‘Very tough,’ I said. ‘I know the cigarette-case, of course, but she’s never told me about Hugh. I suppose she wouldn’t like to talk about him.’

  ‘That’s right. Naturally she told me, because—well, that’s different.’

  ‘Naturally. No hope of getting the bag back?’

  ‘Well, hardly—with all that in it. Of course, one would gladly give her a cigarette-case to take the place of Hugh’s, but——’ he gave a little shrug of his shoulders—‘one can’t, can one?’

  I saw that he wanted to be admired for the delicacy of his feelings, so I shook my head and said, ‘Too expensive nowadays, with the purchase tax.’