A Foggy Evening

by A J Alan

 

I want to make it quite clear from the very beginning that what I am going to tell you now isn’t a story in any sense of the word; and it most certainly hasn’t got a plot.

If the various happenings I have told you about from time to time had always conveniently arranged themselves into magazine story form, my reputation for telling the truth wouldn’t have lasted very long.

As it is—or, rather, as it is—that reputation is very precious to me, as you can quite imagine.

No, this is just a rambling account of a foggy evening; but it may interest one or two of you as an example of the sort of things that may happen to one, if one’ll only let ‘em, as it were.

Do you remember the ninth of December last?

Probably not, as such; but if you don’t remember the date, you won’t have forgotten the fog.

Well, that’s when it was, anyway.

It’s a little difficult to know where to begin —but there’s always the beginning. One might try that.

It must have been about a quarter to seven when I got home, and my wife met me and said :

“You’re dining out, you are!”

And I said:

“Oh, I am, am I, and what about you, and where am I dining?”

And she said:

“You’re dining with the Lees—she’s just telephoned to say they’re a man short at the last minute, so I’ve lent them you, and I shall have something on a tray”—which, of course, as you all know, means nothing on a tray. But that’s a detail.

Well, my dear wife and Mrs. Lee seemed to have disposed of me all right for the evening, so I went up and changed, and in due course arrived at the Lees—just before eight, that was. They live about seven minutes’ walk from Hampstead Tube Station.

At this time it was beginning to get distinctly foggy. I rang the bell and waited, and nothing happened, so I rang again. This time a terrified-looking parlour-maid opened the door—with her face like a sheet. So much so, that I asked her what was the matter.

It appeared that there’d been a tragedy just a few minutes before. The Lees’ small son, aged eight, had been put to bed early, because of the party. He’d evidently felt bored and had got out of his room and started sliding down the banisters. Unfortunately, he’d crashed and pitched on to his head on the hall floor.

While the maid was telling me about it, Lee came to the door himself and fetched me in.

The boy hadn’t been moved, and a doctor was overhauling him. So far, he’d found a very nasty cut on the head, and bad concussion.

Altogether, it was pretty serious.

Mrs. Lee was, naturally, frightfully upset, and any idea of a dinner-party was a clean washout—I mean it was quite out of the question.

So, after some discussion, it was arranged that I should stand outside the front door (to avoid its being constantly opened) and boom the guests off as they arrived. I did this, and explained matters to five hungry souls, and they were all very concerned, and quite understood, and they just faded away into the fog again

Doctors kept dashing up, too. I let them in. The Lees must have put out a regular district call for doctors. You know what it is when there’s an accident. You telephone wildly round to all the doctors you can think of—and, of course, they’re all out—and you leave a message and then they all roll up in a bunch.

Most of these came out again, and one of them told me that Master Billy had come round—no bones broken—cut being stitched up—in fact, outlook rather brighter. I did Cerberus on the top step for a few minutes more, until all was quiet, and then I cleared off, too.

The fog had been getting steadily worse every minute, and it was now a real, proper pea-souper.

I started off down the hill to where I thought I’d left Hampstead Tube Station, but it didn’t seem to be there. However, that didn’t worry me overmuch because, well, I don’t suppose many people will agree with me, but if you rule out danger to shipping, and flying, and trains, and things like that, fogs can be rather jolly.

I mean, when you can hardly see the ground, and you think you’ve crossed the road and haven’t, and are really back on the same side again—and all that.

Then again, you’ve always got the chance of something amusing happening any minute.

Well, to go back to the evening we are talking about. I was still casting about for Hampstead Tube Station, and not finding it, but I did find a taxi; I ran into it. It was right across the pavement with its nose sticking into the railings. There didn’t seem to be any sign of a driver. He may have got tired of being a taxi-driver and just gone home (people do!).

I opened the door and looked inside—and two voices said: “Go away!” They were evidently fog lovers, too. So I said: “Sorry,” and shut the door again, and went on my way down the hill rejoicing—and possibly even humming a sprightly air. That’s the best of a fog—you can do all sorts of things you wouldn’t do any other time. It’s like having a railway carriage to yourself.

Well, by this time, it was nearly nine o’clock, and I was getting most infernally hungry. So I gave up looking for the Hampstead Tube, and hunted for a place to get something to eat instead—no matter what it was like—coffee stall—somewhere with steam on the window—fish and chip shop—anything you like. But my luck must have been properly in that evening, because I barged into a bay-tree growing in a tub. There were two of them—standing outside a doorway. Over the door was a red lamp, and it said on it: “The Planet Restaurant”.

What do you think of that? A place with bay-trees when I should have fairly leapt at “Sausage and mash, eightpence”.

I pushed the door open—swing door it was—and found myself at the bottom of a flight of stairs. The place apparently hadn’t got a ground floor at all—probably the upper part over a shop. Red carpet, brass stair rods, white paint, all new and very swagger. I went up the stairs which finished up in a long, narrow room with tables down each side. There were a few people there finishing dinner, but not very many. The place looked as though it hadn’t been open very long.

A graceful damsel in a red overall took my hat and coat, and shoved me down at a table. She was sorry it was too late for the dinner, but gave me to understand that the grill was still going strong.

“What about a nice fillet steak?”

I said, “Rather!”—and then she produced a wine list.

Most astounding place ! The chef knew his job. The burgundy wasn’t half bad, and was properly warmed. In fact, I tell you, that place was living up to its bay-trees for all it was worth.

Well, while I was having dinner, the rest of the people trickled out by ones and twos, until there was only one other man left—besides me.

He was by himself, at the next table but one. I hadn’t noticed him before, because there had been other people between. Rum-looking bloke he was. He looked rather like a shortsighted sheep-dog. He wore glasses, which kept on slipping down his nose. They evidently got misty, too, as he was always having to polish them.

He seemed to suffer from chronic hotness and botherdom, and he’d evidently got the idea into his head that he knew me. He kept on looking my way and giving little nods. And I was equally certain that I’d never set eyes on him in my life before. Now here was a slight chance of indulging in a little game which always appeals to me very much.

You play it like this. A man—you don’t know from Adam—comes up and wrings you by the hand, and says : “Hallo, old man, how are you?”(It does happen sometimes.) Well, instead of saying : “I’m sorry, sir, but I think you must be making a mistake,” you don’t. You say: “By Jove, this is nicel What brings you here ?” or something original and brilliant like that. And he tells you, and then you lead him on to talk. It’s not a bad plan to find out fairly early in the proceedings when and where you last met. Then he may easily ask after some mutual acquaintance and say : “How’s So-and-So?” And you say: “Haven’t you heard? She’s doing very well. She’s a missionary in China.” And he says: “Good gracious! Has she chucked the stage?”—and so on.

You’ve no idea what fun it is until you’ve tried it. I once kept the game going for a whole evening with a man at the club, and at the end I owned up quite frankly and said: “Look here, I hope you won’t be frightfully sick, but I’ve been playing spoof all the time, and I’m not the bloke you’ve been taking me for.” And he said: “That’s all right, old man, neither am I. I’ve been playing spoof, too!” It was really great.

Well, here was the old boy at the next table but one sort of half-nodding, and fairly asking for it, so I nodded back as though I’d only just recognized him. He immediately came along and said: “You’ve had your hair cut.” And I said: “Quite right, my dear Watson, I have had my hair cut---yesterday, at the R.A.C., if you want to know.” And he said: -Well, do you know it’s altered you so much that I wasn’t sure it was you until you mentioned my name.” Just think of it ! His name actually was Watson. I’d only been quoting Sherlock Holmes in fun. (You know how one does.)

Of course, this was an absolute gift. No—but really, wouldn’t it have been tempting Providence to let such a chance slip? I’m sure you’ve all noticed that the most amusing and exciting things always happen to someone else. Ergo, if you can only get taken for someone else, there’s a much better chance of something amusing and exciting happening to you. Quite sound reasoning.

Very well, then. He was taking me for someone else, all right. Let the thing go on.

He said: “This is splendid, we can go on to the Eldersteins together.” And I said: “All for it,” wondering who the El—er—who the Eldersteins might be. Good old English name, of course. “Was there time for another glass of port?” He thought there just was, and this gave me time to find out that the Eldersteins gave these mysterious parties every now and then; that I sometimes went, and that to-night was a special night.

He was evidently bursting to tell me why—why it was a special night (and I wanted to know, too, of course). So I said: “Tell me exactly what you’ve heard.” (Rather neat, don’t you think?) And he said: “Well, the president really is going to be with us,” and I tried to look as though I was trying not to look surprised, and wished he’d say what president and where he was president of. But he didn’t. All he said was, what fun there’d be about my having had my hair cut; and he chuckled away—quite a nice friendly beast; but I was getting rather bored with having my hair chucked in my teeth.

Presently we paid our bills and started off for the Eldersteins—me taking great care not to let on that I hadn’t the vaguest idea where we were going to. Luckily it wasn’t far, and the fog was as thick as ever. So we blundered along, round all sorts of corners, barking our shins—and finally we fetched up at a door in some mews. Well, “My dear Watson” gave four taps at this door and a man in chauffeur’s uniform opened it.

We went in and found ourselves in a garage. There was a door at the back with a long passage leading on from it. Watson evidently knew the ropes and led the way down this passage.

By this time I really was beginning to hope that he was taking me somewhere not quite respectable. No, but it did rather look like it, didn’t it?—going in the back way—four taps on the door—and all that.

However, presently we got to a sort of lobby place, where a maid took our hats and coats and gave us tickets for them. There were evidently a good few people there, judging from the number of coats.

A little way past the lobby was a glass door, and through it we could see into a very large room. There was clearly some sort of entertainment going on—several rows of gilt chairs, with people in ‘em.

We slipped in quietly and stood by the wall—and the moment we were inside I realized that a woman was doing a recitation, so I tried to get out again, but my dear Watson rather had me by the arm, and one couldn’t exactly have a scuffle in the doorway without being a bit conspicuous, so I had to make the best of it.

He said :

“I’m glad we haven’t missed this ; she’s the best diseuse in East Finchley.”

And I said:

“Lor!” There was nothing else to say. So I devoted my attention to the best diseuse in East Finchley.

She was a shapeless female in a green velveteen frock, bobbed hair, horn-rimmed spectacles, and a slightly foreign accent, which I couldn’t for the moment quite place. She wasn’t really reciting—not what I call reciting—she was reading aloud from a limp brown book. I don’t honestly think I should have minded so much if it had been a stiff’ blue book, but somehow the limpness and brownness seemed to make it worse.

It was all about a little boy. He was being gradually murdered on the other side of an iron door in a bleak castle in Norway—or Denmark—or somewhere in Scandinavia—and his aunt, or cousin, or some female relative, who was on the wrong side of the door, seemed to be rather inclined to go in off the deep end about it.

She kept on saying:

“Oh, Tintagiles, Tintagiles, speak to me, my little Tintagiles!”

And then she did Tintagiles replying—very weak—only about strength one. And so on—for hours.

And Watson said :

“Don’t you adore Ibsen?”

And I said:

“Er—of course,” and felt frightfully ignorant —because up till then I’d thought it was Maeterlinck.

But I couldn’t take my eyes off the woman. She was standing on a little stage—funny little thing—I think it was an orange-box with red baize on it, and footlights—at least, there were two. The stage was so small that it wouldn’t hold more than two—and they were a pity. I mean, without them it wouldn’t have been so frightfully obvious that the poor lady’s stockings didn’t quite match and that one of them was coming down. Well, perhaps, not exactly ; but it looked very much as though it might, and I wondered what on earth I should do if it did. However, I managed to pull myself together, and had a look round the room.

There didn’t seem to be anyone at all like me, as far as one could see, so perhaps my long-haired alter ego had got lost in the fog, which was just as well.

Most of the people looked like foreigners. All the women were bobbed, or shingled, or shackled, or poodled, or otherwise unattractive.

If this had happened yesterday instead of three months ago, I shouldn’t have been a bit surprised to have seen a woman there with her hair “bargled”.

For the benefit of those of you who don’t yet know what bargling is, I should explain that it’s the very latest thing in hairdressing, and it originated in Bukharest, of all places.

What it means, quite simply, is shaving a large bald patch right on the top of the head, leaving only a straggling fringe of hair all round, just like a monk.

As a matter of fact, the—er—process gets its name from the Roumanian word “Barglos”, which means “monk”, or, perhaps, more literally, “Lay brother”. The fashion was started by a leader of society in Bukharest, who, presumably, found herself getting a bit thin on top. So she made a vice of necessity, so to speak, and went the whole hog.

For some reason or other this horrible idea caught on, and now it’s spreading across Europe like wildfire.

I haven’t actually seen anyone who’s been done yet, but the other day a man I know in Vienna sent me a photograph of a “Bar-glee”, and it made me feel very ill indeed. It looks so utterly repulsive that it’s sure to be all the rage when it does get here. So when you see a notice stuck up in a hairdresser’s window: “Bargling done here”, you’ll know what it means.

To—er—resume. The men at this place were a pretty average set of freaks, too. One of them had a dinner-jacket with a velvet collar, and no one seemed to mind, so you can imagine what they were like. Altogether, they were rather a moth-eaten crowd.

Talking of eating, there were refreshments. Oh, yes! They were on a long table by the wall near where we were standing. They seemed to consist chiefly of cress sandwiches, which had evidently been there for quite a long time; they were curling up and gnashing their cress at you. Fierce-looking things, they were. And water, in great glass jugs. It must have been water—it couldn’t have been gin, in such quantities. Besides, no one was having any.

I know it sounds rotten to go to a party and then run it down, especially when you haven’t been asked, but really, one couldn’t help beginning to feel that there was something rather rum about this one.

I mean, the whole entertainment was, on the face of it, a farce. The green velveteen horror on the orange-box was so bad that—well, if she’d performed at the most primitive penny reading she’d have heard herself walk off. And the fog was quite thick enough to prevent people going to a symphony concert, even if they’d paid for their seats—which is saying quite a lot—and yet, practically all the chairs were full.

I said to myself:

“Why is this preposterous female allowed to go on making the welkin ring?”—or do I mean the Wrekin? No, that’s in Shropshire. Obviously, she must be just filling up time until the real show, whatever it might be, began.

It was then that people began to keep looking towards a door on the other side of the room, and “My dear Watson” said’:

“I’m afraid the president’s a bit late.”

And I said:

“What can you expect on a night like this?”

Finally, Tintagiles faded clean out, and the “best diseuse in East Finchley” shut her book and stepped off the orange-box—and everyone got up.

Watson said:

“Let’s go and say ‘how do you do’ to the Eldersteins,” and I followed him through the giddy throng, wondering how much longer my luck was going to hold. However, it did go on holding—my luck, that is—and we shook hands with a man and woman—evidently our host and hostess—but they were both so busy watching the door that they didn’t take the slightest notice of either of us. So we drifted past, and just then the president came in.

Most distinguished-looking old boy, very tall—Elderstein looked a shrimp beside him. Head rather like a lion—you know how a lion does its hair—brushed back and lots of it—well, it was like that. He was wearing several orders. I don’t know whether they were really his, or whether he’d just found them in a drawer. Anyway, he’d got ‘em on. He rather reminded me of an English duke I once saw in an American film, except that the film bloke wore tight short trousers, and turned his toes in.

Well, everyone crowded respectfully round and some were presented, or whatever you are to a president. The Eldersteins fussed about and talked perfectly appalling French. The president spoke French, too, but he certainly wasn’t French. I don’t know what he was—at least, I didn’t then.

There was apparently going to be no more reciting, for which I was most thankful, and presently a general move was made through the door the president had come in at. We crossed a square entrance hall and went into what was evidently the dining-room.

This was set out, not for a meal, as one might reasonably expect, but for a committee meeting, or conference. There were chairs drawn up round a great long table with a green cloth on it, and sheets of paper and pencils, and so on. And I thought, hooray, this is a meeting of some secret society, and I’m going to be at it.

The president sat down in a big chair at the head of the table, and the rest of us wedged ourselves in anyhow. Then it appeared that we were one chair short. Elderstein, who was doing secretary to the meeting, counted a lot of cards he had in front of him and made them 27. Then he counted the chairs and made them 27, and one man standing up.

That seemed to tear it. Elderstein jumped up, very excited, and said some impostor must be in the room. And everyone looked very suspiciously at everyone else. Then the president got up on his hind legs, and said:

“Laties and Shentlemans”(I can’t do his accent) —“Ladies and Gentlemen. Let us be quite calm. The proceedings have not started and no harm is done, nicht wahr? Will the stranger please stand up?”

Well, I dare say one could have gone on bluffing for some time longer, but it would have meant telling a whole pack of lies, which, of course, I couldn’t do. So I stood up and made a little speech; said I’d only come for fun, and apologized for interrupting their meeting—and what did they want done about it?

While I was talking there was a whispered confab going on between the president, Elderstein, and Watson, and when I’d done the president addressed me in his best presidential manner and told me that my intrusion was most unwarrantable and all the rest of it; that it was only a strong resemblance to one of their members which had prevented my being found out long before. Now that I had been unmasked would I kindly withdraw?

Well, of course, I hadn’t got a leg to stand on. If they’d been real people I should have felt very much ashamed of myself. But I defy anyone to say they were real people, because—why, because they—they weren’t.

I offered to join their blooming society for one consecutive night, because I did so want to know what they were going to do, but they wouldn’t let me. So I had to come away—very disappointed—and there it was.

I told this story to several friends, but they were none of them very helpful. Most of them wanted to know what I’d had for dinner. Perhaps someone will kindly tell me. What is this new and intriguing game which one plays at twelve o’clock at night—with a pencil and paper?

Oh!—and I ought to add that the paper was plain—and not ruled in squares.