you lucky,’ he said with obvious relish and added: ‘Not but what she isn’t a lady when she takes the fit for it.’
He was eating something. The movement of his jaws, the succulent noises he made and the faint odour of food were an outrage. She could have screamed her hunger at him. Her mouth filled with saliva.
‘He says to open the star room,’ he said. ‘Come on froo while I get the keys. I was ’avin’ me bitter supper.’
She followed him into a tiny room choked with junk. A kettle stuttered on a gas-ring by a sink clotted with dregs of calcimine paint and tea leaves. His supper was laid out on a newspaper: bread and an open tin of jam. He explained that he was about to make a cup of tea and suggested she should wait while he did so. She leant against the door and watched him. The fragrance of freshly brewed tea rose above the reek of stale size and dust. She thought: ‘If he drinks it now I’ll have to go out.’
‘Like a drop of char?’ he said. His back was turned to her.
‘Very much.’
He rinsed out a stained cup under the tap.
Martyn said loudly: ‘I’ve got a tin of meat in my case. I was saving it. If you’d like to share it and could spare some of your bread …‘
He swung round and for the first time she saw his face. He was dark and thin and his eyes were brightly impertinent. Their expression changed as he stared at her.
‘’Allo, ’allo!’ he said. ‘Who gave you a tanner and borrowed ’alf a crahn? What’s up?’
‘I’m all right.’
‘Are you? Your looks don’t flatter, you, then.’
‘I’m a bit tired and –’ Her voice broke and she thought in terror that she was going to cry. ‘It’s nothing,’ she said.
‘’Ere!’ He dragged a box out from under the sink and not ungently pushed her down on it. ‘Where’s this remarkable tin of very perticerlar meat? Give us a shine at it?’
He shoved her suitcase over and while she fumbled at the lock busied himself with pouring out tea. ‘Nothing to touch a drop of the old char when you’re browned off,’ he said. He put the reeking cup of dark fluid beside her and turned away to the bench.
‘With any luck,’ Martyn thought folding back the garments in her case, ‘I won’t have to sell these now.’
She found the tin and gave it to him. ‘Coo!’ he said, ‘looks lovely, don’t it? Tongue and veal and a pitcher of sheep to show there’s no deception. Very tempting.’
‘Can you open it?’
‘Can I open it? Oh, dear.’
She drank her scalding tea and watched him open the tin and turn its contents out on a more than dubious plate. Using his clasp knife he perched chunks of meat on a slab of bread and held it out to her. ‘You’re in luck,’ he said. ‘Eat it slow.’
She urged him to join her but he said he would set his share aside for later. They could both, he suggested, take another cut at it tomorrow. He examined the tin with interest while Martyn consumed her portion. She had never before given such intense concentration to a physical act. She would never have believed that eating could bring so fierce a satisfaction.
‘Comes from Australia, don’t it?’ her companion said, still contemplating the tin.
‘New Zealand.’
‘Same thing.’
Martyn said: ‘Not really. There’s quite a big sea in between.’
‘Do you come from there?’
‘Where?’
‘Australia.’
‘No. I’m a New Zealander.’
‘Same thing.’
She looked up and found him grinning at her. He made the gesture of wiping the smile off his face. ‘Oh, dear,’ he said.
Martyn finished her tea and stood up. ‘I must start my job,’ she said.
‘Feel better?’
‘Much, much better.’
‘Would it be quite a spell since you ate anything?’
‘Yesterday.’
‘I never fancy drinking on an empty stomach, myself.’
Her face burnt against the palms of her hands. ‘But I don’t … I mean, I know. I mean I was a bit faint and somebody … a girl … she was terribly kind …’
‘Does your mother know you’re aht?’ he asked ironically and took a key from a collection hung on nails behind the door. ‘If you must work,’ he said.
‘Please.’
‘Personally escorted tour abaht to commence. Follow in single file and don’t talk to the guide. I thank you.’
She followed him to the stage and round the back of the set. He warned her of obstructions by bobbing his torchlight on them and, when she stumbled against a muffled table, took her hand. She was disquieted by the grip of his fingers, calloused, and wooden, and by the warmth of his palm which was unexpectedly soft. She was oppressed with renewed loneliness and fear.
‘End of the penny section,’ he said, releasing her. He unlocked a door, reached inside and switched on a light.
‘They call this the greenroom,’ he said. ‘That’s what it was in the old days. It’s been done up. Guvnor’s idea.’
It was a room without a window, newly painted in green. There were a number of armchairs in brown leather, a round table littered with magazines, a set of well-stocked bookshelves and a gas-fire. Groups of framed Pollock’s prints decorated the walls: ‘Mr Dale as Claude Amboine’, ‘Mr T. Hicks as Richard I’, ‘Mr S. French as Harlequin’. This last enchanted Martyn because the diamonds of Mr French’s costume had been filled in with actual red and green sequins and he glittered in his frame.
Above the fireplace hung a largish sketch – it was little more than that – of a man of about thirty-five in medieval dress, with a hood that he was in the act of pushing away from his face. The face was arresting. It had great purity of form being wide across the eyes and heart shaped. The mouth, in particular, was of a most subtle character, perfectly masculine but drawn with extreme delicacy. It was well done: it had both strength and refinement yet it was not these qualities that disturbed Martyn. Reflected in the glass that covered the picture she saw her own face lying ghost-wise across the other; their forms intermingled like those in a twice-exposed photograph. It seemed to Martyn that her companion must be looking over her shoulder at this double image and she moved away from him and nearer to the picture. The reflection disappeared. Something was written faintly in one corner of the sketch. She drew closer and saw that it was a single word: ‘Everyman’.
‘Spitting image of him, ain’t it?’ said the doorkeeper behind her.
‘I don’t know,’ she said quickly; ‘is it?’
‘Is it! Don’t you know the guvnor when you see ’im?’
‘The governor?’
‘Streuth, you’re a caution and no error. Don’t you know who owns this show? That’s the great Mr Adam Poole, that is.’
‘Oh,’ she murmured after a pause and added uneasily, ‘I’ve seen him in the pictures, of course.’
‘Go on!’ he jeered. ‘Where would that be? Australia? Fancy!’
He had been very kind to her but she found his remorseless vein of irony exasperating. It would have been easier and less tedious to have let it go but she found herself embarked on an explanation. Of course she knew all about Mr Adam