Vile Bodies · Chapter 7 (2/2)

As part of his duties, which led him into many unusual places, Adam and Nina went up to Manchester for the November Handicap. Here they had the disheartening experience of seeing Indian Runner come in an easy winner and the totalisator paying out thirty-five to one. It was during the bottle-green bowler campaign, and Adam was searching in vain for any sign of his influence when, suddenly, among the crowd, he saw the genial red face of the drunk Major to whom he had entrusted his thousand pounds at Lottie’s. It seemed odd that a man so bulky could be so elusive. Adam was not sure whether the Major saw him, but in some mysterious way Adam’s pursuit coincided with the Major’s complete disappearance. The crowd became very dense, brandishing flasks and sandwiches. When Adam reached the spot where the Major had stood he found two policemen arresting a pickpocket.

“ ’Ere, who are you pushing?” asked the spectators.

“Have you seen a drunk Major anywhere?” asked Adam.

But no one could help him, and he returned disconsolately to Nina, whom he found in conversation with a young man with a curly red moustache.

The young man said he was fed up with racing, and Adam said he was too; so the young man said why didn’t they come back to London in his bus, so Adam and Nina said they would. The bus turned out to be a very large, brand-new racing car, and they got to London in time for dinner. Nina explained that the young man used to play with her as a child, and that he had been doing something military in Ceylon for the last five years. The young man’s name was Eddy Littlejohn, but over dinner he said, look here, would they call him Ginger; everyone else did. So they began to call him Ginger, and he said wouldn’t it be a good idea if they had another bottle of fizz, and Nina and Adam said yes, it would, so they had a magnum and got very friendly.

“You know,” said Ginger, “it was awful luck meeting you two today. I was getting awfully fed up with London. It’s so damn slow. I came back meaning to have a good time, you know, paint the place red a bit, and all that. Well, the other day I was reading the paper, and there was a bit that said that the posh place to go to dance nowadays was the Casanova Hotel in Bloomsbury. Well, it seemed a bit rum to me⁠—place I’d never heard of, you know⁠—but, still, I’d been away for some time and places change and all that, so I put on my bib and tucker and toddled off, hoping for a bit of innocent amusement. Well, I mean to say, you never saw such a place. There were only about three people dancing, so I said, ‘Where’s the bar?’ And they said, ‘Bar!’ And I said, ‘You know, for a drink.’ And they said, well, they could probably make me some coffee. And I said, ‘No, not coffee.’ And then they said they hadn’t got a licence for what they called alcohol. Well, I mean to say, if that’s the best London can do, give me Colombo. I wonder who writes things like that in the papers?”

“As a matter of fact, I do.”

“I say no, do you? You must be frightfully brainy. Did you write all that about the green bowlers?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I mean to say, whoever heard of a green bowler, I mean.⁠ ⁠… I tell you what, you know, I believe it was all a leg pull. You know, I think that’s damn funny. Why, a whole lot of poor mutts may have gone and bought green bowlers.”

After this they went on to the Café de la Paix, where they met Johnny Hoop, who asked them all to the party in a few days’ time in the captive balloon.

But Ginger was not to be had twice.

“Oh, no you know,” he said, “not in a captive balloon. You’re trying to pull the old leg again. Whoever heard of a party in a captive balloon? I mean to say, suppose one fell out, I mean?”

Adam telephoned his page through to the Excess, and soon after this a coloured singer appeared, paddling his black suède shoes in a pool of limelight, who excited Ginger’s disapproval. He didn’t mind niggers, Ginger said; remarking justly that niggers were all very well in their place, but, after all, one didn’t come all the way from Colombo to London just to see niggers. So they left the Café de la Paix, and went to Lottie’s, where Ginger became a little moody, saying that London wasn’t home to him any more and that things were changed.

“You know,” said Ginger, “all the time I’ve been out in Ceylon I’ve always said to myself, ‘As soon as the governor kicks the bucket, and I come in for the family doubloons and pieces of eight, I’m going to come back to England and have a real old bust.’ And now when it comes to the point there doesn’t seem to be anything I much want to do.”

“How about a little drink?” said Lottie.

So Ginger had a drink, and then he and an American sang the Eton Boating Song several times. At the end of the evening he admitted that there was some life left in the jolly old capital of the Empire.

Next day Mr. Chatterbox’s readers learned that: “Captain ‘Ginger’ Littlejohn, as he is known to his intimates, was one of the well-known sporting figures at the November Handicap who favoured the new bottle-green bowler. Captain Littlejohn is one of the wealthiest and best-known bachelors in Society, and I have lately heard his name spoken of in connection with the marriage of the daughter of a famous ducal house. He came all the way to yesterday’s races in his own motor omnibus, which he drives himself⁠ ⁠…”

For some days Ginger’s name figured largely on Adam’s page, to his profound embarrassment. Several engagements were predicted for him, it was rumoured that he had signed a contract with a film company, that he had bought a small island in the Bristol Channel which he proposed to turn into a country club, and that his forthcoming novel about Singalese life contained many very thinly disguised portraits of London celebrities.

But the green bowler joke had gone too far. Adam was sent for by Lord Monomark.

“Now see here, Symes,” said the great man, “I like your page. It’s peppy; it’s got plenty of new names in it and it’s got the intimate touch I like. I read it every day and so does my daughter. Keep on that way and you’ll be all right. But what’s all this about bottle-green bowlers?”

“Well, of course, sir, they’re only worn by a limited number of people at present, but⁠ ⁠…”

“Have you got one? Show me a green bowler.”

“I don’t wear one myself, I’m afraid.”

“Well, where d’you see ’em? I haven’t seen one yet. My daughter hasn’t seen one. Who does wear ’em? Where do they buy ’em? That’s what I want to know. Now see here, Symes, I don’t say that there ain’t any such thing as a green bowler; there may be and again there mayn’t. But from now on there are going to be no more bottle-green bowlers in my paper. See. And another thing. This Count Cincinnati. I don’t say he doesn’t exist. He may do and he mayn’t. But the Italian Ambassador doesn’t know anything about him and the Almanak de Gotha doesn’t. So as far as my paper goes that’s good enough for him. And I don’t want any more about Espinosa’s. They made out my bill wrong last night.

“Got those three things clear? Tabulate them in the mind⁠—1, 2, 3, that’s the secret of memory. Tab‑u‑late. All right, then, run along now and tell the Home Secretary he can come right in. You’ll find him waiting in the passage⁠—ugly little man with a pince-nez.”