Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 17, No. 90, May 1951

What a Life! by J. B. Priestley[6]

Writing in the “New Statesman and Nation,” of May 7, 1949,]. B. Priestley tells of a short visit he made to Stratford-on-Avon. First, he rhapsodizes on the landscape — “I never saw the countryside looking better... bright with Japanese flowering cherry trees... the balanced green and brown masses and the melting blue distances of the old water-colours... the Cotswold stone soaked in sunlight... Shallow’s orchard, with Cousin Silence invisible beneath the fleecy branches. By Heaven — what a country!... It was the journey, not the end of it, that was Shakespearean. We might have been looking over his shoulder.”

Now, what do you think Shakespeare Town suggested to so eminent a playwright and novelist as Mr. Priestley? An historical drama? A sonnet sequence? It was Mr. Priestley’s first visit to Stratford in “at least ten years,” yet to his creative mind came, of all things — but let the author of THE GOOD COMPANIONS and LABURNUM GROVE speak for himself:

“A good detective story might be written about a scholar, deep in Elizabethan research, who is mysteriously murdered. After the police retire from the case, baffled, the eccentric private detective proves that the murderer was an emissary of the Stratford Town Council, whose spies had learned that the scholar was about to prove once and for all that Shakespeare had not written the plays attributed to him.”

Ah, what a spur to the creative impulses is the theme of detection! Indeed, if Shakespeare were alive today, it is more than probable that even he, the greatest of them all, would still be preoccupied with the enduring verities — madness and murder. And inspired by sciences which were not yet born in his time, would not the good Will have followed through? For in real life today {and surely Will would have remained a realist) is not dementia dogged by diagnosis? And hard on the heels of homicide do we not have the modern manhunter? And so in literature...

It was one of those hotels that are called “quiet hotels for gentle-folk.” Apparently, gentlefolk have a passion for an atmosphere of dinginess and slight decay. This hotel, like many of its kind, had two lounges: one at the front, in which people merely waited for one another and for the telephone, and one at the back, the “Brown Lounge,” in which a number of large pieces of furniture and some gigantic steel engravings waited for the Day of Judgment. It has been often suggested that there should be public lethal chambers for those unfortunates who are bent on suicide. This “Brown Lounge” would make an excellent lethal chamber, for, even as it is, once inside it your thoughts turn naturally to the end of this life. Only young and bold spirits could withstand its insidious melancholy. There are two of them in there now.

“What time does the show start?” said the first young man, who was staying at the hotel. He was engaged in manufacturing motor cars in a provincial town and did not often visit London.

“Half-past eight,” said the other young man, who lived in London and was uproariously in the publicity business.

“Just time for a drink, then,” said the other, ringing the bell.

After a minute or two a waiter appeared, a vague, oldish chap, the sort of waiter you expect to find in that sort of hotel.

“Two whiskies,” said the first young man.

“Two whiskies, sir,” the waiter replied, in a colorless voice. “Yes, sir.” And drifted away.

The second young man yawned and then glanced round the room. “What the devil made you come here?” he demanded. “It’s a ghastly hole.”

“Pretty dismal, I admit. Fellow at the works, one of our designers, said he’d stayed here and it was all right, fairly cheap, and quiet at night.”

“Quiet! It’s dead and buried. Still, I suppose you’re out most of the time.”

“Gosh, yes. If I wasn’t I’d try something livelier than this,” the visitor replied, as the waiter returned with the drinks. “Thanks. How much? Here you are, and keep the change.”

“Thank you, sir,” said the waiter.

“Very quiet here, waiter.”

“Very quiet just now, sir.” And the waiter picked up his tray and departed.

“I suppose that poor devil will spend the rest of the night waiting for somebody to come in.”

“He will,” said the second young man. “Not exactly a whirl of excitement, eh? What a life!”

“What a life!”

“Well, cheerio!”

“Cheerio! I suppose we’d better push off if we want to see that show.” They swallowed their drinks and pushed off, leaving two little glasses in the wilderness of the lounge, which sank into deepest quiet and melancholy again.

It was some time, however, before the waiter cleared away those two glasses. He was not very busy and he was not, as a rule, neglectful of his duty, but it happened that he had been waiting for the telephone bell to ring for him, and it rang before he returned to the lounge.

“Is it for me?” he inquired, eagerly, and for the fifth time that evening.

The reception clerk, who knew what it was all about, nodded, and regarded him sympathetically. “I’ll put it right through to the staff room.”

There was nothing colorless about his voice now, as he answered the call. It was not the voice of a waiter at all, and there was a terrible urgency in it. As he spoke, a faint ring of moisture appeared just below the line of his graying hair.

“Hello, hello! Yes, that’s me,” he cried. “A daughter, eh? Yes, yes, that’s all right. Is she? You’re sure about that? Both of them? Did she say anything? Did she? Is that right? Oh, that’s fine. Yes, of course. How soon? All right, then, I’ll be round at ten in the morning. And thank you very much. Yes, I’m sure she is. Thank you. And tell her how glad I am, don’t forget that. Yes, at ten.”

After he had put down the receiver, he drew a long breath, waited a moment and wiped his forehead, then went back to the office. “It’s all right,” he said to the reception clerk. “I’ve finished.”

“What’s the news?” that young lady inquired.

“A daughter, and they’re both doing fine.”

“That’s good. What’s the baby like?”

“Only a little one — six pounds and a bit,” replied the waiter.

“The little ones are nearly always the best. That’s what my cousin says, and she does maternity work. Well, you’re a grandfather now.”

“So I am,” said the waiter. “I never thought of that. An hour ago I was just a father, and now I’m a grandfather. That’s queer, you know.”

“It’s a queer world, that’s what I always say. Let me see, haven’t I met your daughter? Hasn’t she been round here to see you once or twice?”

“That’s the one,” said the waiter, and there was a distinct note of pride in his voice. It suggested that the baby had been lucky to find such a mother, that he had been lucky to have such a daughter, and that even the reception clerk had been lucky in merely meeting such a girl. A proud grandfather, a partly relieved though still anxious father, the waiter now withdrew, to think things over. It had been his job to see his daughter through this queer and difficult time. It was her first baby, and her husband, a good lad but not quite as steady as he might be, was now trying his hand at being a steward on a big cargo boat, and at this moment was somewhere off Sydney. If you had seen the waiter clearing away those two glasses in the Brown Lounge, you would not have realized that his forehead was still damp with perspiration and that his head was humming with plans.

Nothing happened in the Brown Lounge until a little after nine. Then the massive sideboard, the grim armchairs, and the sad steel engravings were disturbed by the entrance of a woman in a rather dubious fur coat. She still carried with her, at once defiantly and anxiously, the red and bronze remains of somewhat hard good looks. She belonged to that mysterious class of women who are often found behaving “like perfect ladies” in places that perfect ladies usually contrive to avoid. Once inside the lounge, this woman rang the bell and then made several movements that suggested, with truth, that she was in an agitated state of mind.

The bell was answered by our friend the waiter. He came in as a waiter, but the moment he saw who it was that had rung the bell, all the waiterishness departed from him and he looked what he was — namely, a surprised, annoyed middle-aged man.

“What do you want?” he asked.

“Wanted to talk to you, Joe,” the woman replied, promptly, “and I thought the easiest way would be to come in here and not go asking for you at the back. Nobody’ll come in, will they?”

“They might.”

“Yes, and then they might not,” she retorted.

“Well?”

“Listen, Joe,” she said, in a very different tone of voice, “what about Alice? How’s she getting on?”

“Who told you about Alice?”

“What’s it matter who told me? If you want to know, I saw Mrs. Brewer, and she told me you’d told her Alice was going to have a baby. Joe, tell me — what’s happened? Is it all right?”

The waiter was silent for a moment.

The woman gave a little yelp of impatience, then seized his arm and shook it. “Come on. Don’t stand there like that. What is it? My God, if she’s—”

“She’s all right, at least so far she is,” he told her, curtly. “It happened tonight and she’s doing well.”

“What is it?”

“A girl.”

“A girl!” the woman cried, with a little emotional gulp. “A girl! Poor little devil! And they’re all right?”

“They’re both all right.”

The woman laughed, not very pleasantly. “And now I’m a grandmother. My God! — think of that. Grannie! That puts the years on you, doesn’t it? But never mind about that. Listen, Joe — and I’m serious now — I’ve got to see her. Where is she?”

“Don’t you worry. She’s all right.”

“Don’t be a fool, Joe. I’ve got to see her now. Where is she?”

“I’ve told you — she’s all right. I’m looking after her.”

“Do you mean you’re not going to let me see her now?” The woman’s voice rose almost to a scream.

“Not so much noise,” he told her.

“What do I care how much noise I make! You’ve got to tell me where Alice is and I’ve got to see her. I’m her mother, aren’t I?”

“You ought to have thought about that a long time ago, before you decided to let some of the flash fellows keep you.” The waiter was very grim now. He kept his eyes fixed on those of the woman standing in front of him. They were hard blue eyes that he saw there; and he knew them only too well, especially in this mood of rising anger, heading towards either tears or screams and curses; and as he stared at them it occurred to him that it was very odd that they should be the eyes of a woman whose name was still his, who was still his wife. They had made no attempt to live together for the last ten years, but they had not been divorced. He did not want to marry again, and she did not seem to find it difficult to call herself Mrs. This and then Mrs. That.

“You always was a mean devil, Joe,” his wife proclaimed.

“Yes,” he put in, hastily, bitterly, “I’ve no doubt you’ve found ’em not so mean where you’ve been since.”

“Well, if you want to know, I have. Now, look here, Joe. I’m the girl’s mother, and this is the time when a girl wants to see her mother, and I’m going to see her. Where is she?”

“I’m not going to tell you, and you’re not going to see her. Leave her alone. She doesn’t want you, and I don’t — I only want you to be a long way off.”

“Don’t worry, I’m not after you. You never was any catch at any time, and you’re not one now, I can tell you. But I’ve a right to see my own child. She’s my daughter.”

“Not now, she isn’t,” the waiter told her. “You’ve done. I’ll see to that.”

“You’ll see to a lot, won’t you?” she jeered. “One thing’s certain, though. She’s my daughter. She might be yours, and then she might not.”

“What!” He shot out a hand, and it fastened on her wrist. “What’re you trying to tell me now? What’s the idea?” He was really ferocious now, unlike any respectable waiter.

This sudden ferocity left the woman uneasy. She wrenched her arm away, and then said, hastily: “Oh, don’t be a fool, Joe. You know very well she was yours, all right. Where is she? I only want to see her and the baby together. What’s the harm in that?”

“That’s my business. I’ve not interfered with you, so don’t you interfere with me. You’ve gone your own way, so just keep to it. And leave Alice alone. I warn you — leave her alone.”

At this moment, while they were still glaring at one another, somebody came quietly into the room. She was a tiny old woman, all rings and brooches and lilac silk and black satin, and the waiter knew her well, for she came up from the country regularly.

“There you are, waiter,” she said, nodding and smiling at him. “Now I needn’t ring, need I? Could you get me a nice cup of tea, just a cup?”

“Cup of tea? Certainly, m’,” said the waiter, and without another glance at his wife, he walked out. When he came back five minutes later, his wife had disappeared.

“You know, waiter,” the old lady remarked as he set the tea before her, “some people say tea at night keeps you awake, but I don’t find it so. I don’t like to go to bed without my cup of tea.”

“All a matter of habit, m’.”

“I expect it is,” said the old lady.

“I’m sure it is. I like a cup myself.”

The old lady, who was a friendly soul, nodded brightly at this, and kept him there a minute or two longer while she told him how long she had been having her late cup and what various relations thought about it. And when she had done, she gave him a sixpenny tip, which was very hand-some for a single cup of tea. The waiter could not help reflecting how surprised she would have been if she had learned that the woman who had just gone out was the waiter’s wife and a good many other things besides.

Twenty minutes later the bell in the lounge rang again, and the waiter found that the old lady, now sitting in a dream over her empty cup, had company in the shape of a bulky, florid-faced fellow who was smoking a cigar. He looked at the waiter and gave him a tiny knowing grin. The waiter stared for a moment, then promptly relapsed into blank waiterdom.

“Yes, sir?”

“Oh — yes — er — let me see, waiter. I think I’ll have a double Scotch and a small soda. I’m not staying here, but that’s all right, isn’t it? I want to see somebody here.” He put a curious emphasis into this last.

“That’s all right,” the waiter muttered, removing the old lady’s cup.

“What time is it?” the old lady inquired.

Before the waiter could reply, the newcomer, with a flourish, had taken out a heavy gold watch, and replied: “Five minutes to ten.”

“Thank you. Time for me to go to bed, then,” she told them both; and the waiter held, the door open for her and then retired to get the whisky.

“Two and tenpence,” said the waiter, the moment after he had placed the drink in front of the visitor.

The bulky, florid-faced man grinned, and then, with a careful and rather praiseworthy attempt at complete nonchalance, remarked: “You’re not going to stand me this one, Joe?”

“I’m not.”

The other handed over three shillings. “Keep the change,” he cried, giving a creditable burlesque of a generous visitor.

The waiter said nothing, but merely swept the coins into his pocket and began moving away.

“Wait a minute, Joe, wait a minute. It’s no use pretending not to know me.”

“Oh, I knew you all right, Bobby,” said the waiter, as he stopped and turned. “But what of it?”

“I told you just now I came in here to see somebody. Well, you’re him.”

“How did you know I was here?” the waiter asked.

“I ran into Maggie not half a mile away,” the bulky man explained, with a flowing gesture, “and she told me she’d just been having a little talk with you in here. Full of it, she was. You ought to have heard her, Joe. It’s a long time since I met Maggie — I mean before tonight — but she’s not changed a bit. Still got a lively tongue in her head. Cor! — you, ought to have heard her going on about you, Joe. I tell you what it is — you can’t handle women, Joe. You never could.”

“You didn’t come here to tell, me that, did you, Bobby?” the waiter inquired. “Because if you did, you’re wasting your valuable time.” And he made another move as if to depart.

“Just a minute, Joe. Don’t be so impatient. I came in here to have a look at you, Joe, in your nice waiter’s clothes, and I also came in here just to have a look around. Nice quiet hotel, Joe, very nice quiet hotel this. Not the sort of place where anybody would expect any trouble. The police don’t worry you much here, Joe, do they? I shouldn’t think they would. Very nice and quiet — and gentlemanly.”

“Cut it short, Dobby.”

Dobby grinned again. He appeared to be enjoying himself. “Well, joe, if you want it short, you shall have it short. Now I’ve got a little scheme. I won’t tell you what it is now, but you know my little schemes — you’ve met ’em before, haven’t you, Joe? And for this little scheme I want a nice quiet place to stay in for a week or two, just like this, and so I thought I’d stay here and then you could help me, couldn’t you, Joe?”

“Nothing doing,” the waiter announced.

“Nowdon’t be hasty, Joe. You don’t know what it is you’ve got to do.”

“And I don’t want to know. But understand this, Dobby — you don’t let me in for it and you don’t try anything on here.”

“Oh, I don’t, eh?” The bulky man seemed to be amused.

The waiter was not amused. He was very grim, and there was a curious strained look about his eyes. He came a little nearer now, and though, when he spoke, he was quieter than he had been before, there was a very unpleasant quality in his voice. “You know very well I’m running straight now, Dobby. You’re not going to try anything on here, and that’s flat.”

“Going back on your old friends, eh, Joe? Do you think that’s wise?”

“I’ve told you,” said the waiter. “I’m running straight now.”

“A nice respectable waiter in a nice respectable hotel. That’s the line, is it, Joe?”

Dobby looked at his cigar, put it down, then finished his whisky in one big gulp. He looked up. “It’s no good coming the high and mighty with me, Joe, and you know it. How did you get this job? Never mind. I don’t want to know. But I’ll bet they don’t know here that you’re an old lag.”

The waiter tried to moisten his lips. “They don’t,” he admitted.

“Of course they don’t. Nice respectable, gentlemanly hotel like this. What! — have an old lag as a waiter? Dear me, couldn’t be done! A convicted—”

“All right, all right,” the waiter interrupted hastily.

“A word from me to the management and where’s the nice job then?”

“You wouldn’t do that, Dobby,” the waiter cried.

“I don’t want to do it, Joe, but if an old friend won’t do a little job for me, quite a safe job, safe as houses, well, then, I might have to make trouble. And that would be very, very easy.”

“Why can’t you leave me alone? I’m not interfering with you. I’ve finished with your lot. I’ve had my medicine — and that’s a damn’ sight more than you’ve had yet, Dobby, don’t forget that.”

“Ah, you see, Joe, I’m not only lucky but I’m clever,” Mr. Dobby protested airily. “I don’t look it, I know. But I’m clever.”

“I’m going straight. I earn what I make, and I’m interfering with nobody. For God’s sake, leave me alone, Dobby.”

“Can’t do that, Joe. Sorry, but it can’t be done. You can’t go back on your old friends like that. If you help me with this little idea of mine, there’s no trouble coming to you, nothing but a little present from an old friend. But if you’re going to be awkward, Joe, you’re not going to get away with it. We can’t have you pretending to be respectable any longer. You’re losing this job, see? And you won’t get another in a hurry, will you? And then there’s this daughter of yours who’s just had the baby.”

“You’ve got hold of that, too, have you?” said the waiter, bitterly. “Not much you miss, is there, Dobby?”

“Got it all from Maggie tonight. I tell you, Joe, when women are angry, they spill it all. You don’t know how to manage ’em, Joe, and that’s where you get yourself into trouble. Now what’s it going to be? Are you going to be awkward or am I?”

The waiter came nearer still, very close indeed, leaning on the little table and gradually lowering his head. He looked monstrously unlike any possible waiter; a dangerous man. “Now you’ve got to listen to me a minute, Dobby,” he began, in a tone that was hardly above a whisper. “It’s taken me some time to get going. I’m all right here. But if you shop me, I’ll have to go.”

“Yes, and then — what?”

“I know. You needn’t tell me. I’m telling you now. If you shop me, and they turn me off here, I’ve finished. It’s taken me years to get as far as this, but it won’t take five minutes to push me back again. I’m through then. But what about you, Dobby, what about you?”

“What d’you mean?” Mr. Dobby must have been feeling rather uneasy, for he was blustering a little now. “You can’t shop me, Joe, and you needn’t think it. Cleverer men than you have tried to do that, and they missed the bus all right.”

The waiter produced what must have been the shortest and most unpleasant laugh ever heard in that room. He put out a hand, resting all his weight on the other, and though it was a waiter’s hand, it was very large and powerful. “I sha’n’t bother about that, Dobby,” he whispered. “I’ll do it all myself. I’ll put you where you won’t make any trouble again. I sha’n’t have any work to do, and I sha’n’t want any. I’ll spend all my time looking for you, Dobby, and when I’ve found you, I’ll make a good job of it.”

Mr. Dobby was no longer as florid-looking as he had been before, but he tried to carry off the situation. “And that’s been said before, and tried before, and it hasn’t come off.”

“It will this time,” said the waiter. “I sha’n’t do it myself, either. There’ll be two of us. I know where Raspy is. Raspy’s out, y’know, Dobby.”

“Raspy’s out,” the other admitted, uneasily. “But he’s dead.”

“He’s not dead. I saw him, spoke to him, not two months since, and I know where he is now. He wants to meet you again, Dobby, but he thinks you’re a long way off, in South America. You should hear what he says about you, Dobby, and what he’d like to do to you. And the minute I’m turned off here I’m going to Raspy, and then we’ll come looking for you, Dobby. And I mean that. Leave me here and I’ll interfere with nobody, but get me turned out into the street again and I’m a desperate man, see?”

“I see, Joe.”

The waiter drew back from the table. “So just take your little schemes somewhere else, Dobby. You’re not trying anything on here.”

Mr. Dobby rose from his chair and made for the door. “All right, Joe. Keep on being a good boy. So long.” He carried it off with his customary swagger, but there could be no denying that he had lost the rubber.

The waiter did not follow him out. He stood motionless for several minutes, breathing deeply, like a man who had just saved his skin only by the fraction of an inch. Then something seemed to happen to him; he shrank a little; the light died out of his eyes; certain lines vanished from his face; and, in fact, he turned into a middle-aged waiter again. There were a glass and an empty soda-water bottle to remove. He removed them.

“Well, here we are again,” said the first young man.

“I’ll push off in a minute, old man,” said the second young man, seating himself on the arm of a chair. “I’ve a busy day tomorrow.”

“You’ve time for a quick one.”

And he rang the bell. The same old waiter appeared. “Two whiskies, please.”

“Two whiskies, sir,” the waiter replied, in a colorless voice. “Yes, sir.”

The second young man yawned and then glanced round the room. “Don’t: stay in this hole again.”

“Wait a minute,” cried the first young man. “This room has actually had a customer or guest or visitor in it since we left. I smell cigar smoke and I see here the stump of a cigar. You know my methods, Watson.”

“I can’t believe it. I think the waiter must have come in and smoked it on the sly.”

The waiter returned. “I’m going off duty now, sir, but if you want anything else, the night porter’ll get it.”

“Thanks, but I sha’n’t. Here you are.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Still very quiet here, waiter.”

“Very quiet just now, sir,” And the waiter picked up his tray and departed.

“Not a bad chap, that waiter, but — my hat! — what a life!”

“What a life! Well — cheerio!”

“Cheerio!”