To Room Nineteen: Collected Stories Volume One. Doris Lessing

another divan, a long way from Aunt Emma. He looked professionally at Jessie, smiling. She was standing on the carpet, hands linked behind her back, like an admiral on the job, frowning at him.

      ‘You don’t look at all relaxed,’ he said to her gently. ‘It’s really no use at all, you know, unless you are really relaxed all over.’

      ‘I’m perfectly relaxed,’ said Jessie. ‘It’s my cousin here who isn’t relaxed.’

      I said, ‘I don’t see that it matters whether I’m relaxed or not, because it’s not me who is going to be photographed.’ A book fell off the divan beside me on the floor. It was Prancing Nigger by Ronald Firbank. Our host dived for it, anxiously.

      ‘Do you read our Ron?’ he asked.

      ‘From time to time,’ I said.

      ‘Personally I never read anything else,’ he said. ‘As far as I am concerned he said the last word. When I’ve read him all through, I begin again at the beginning and read him through again. I don’t see that there’s any point in anyone ever writing another word after Firbank.’

      This remark discouraged me, and I did not feel inclined to say anything.

      ‘I think we could all do with a nice cup of tea,’ he said. ‘While I’m making it, would you like the gramophone on again?’

      ‘I can’t stand modern music,’ said Jessie.

      ‘We can’t all have the same tastes,’ he said. He was on his way to a door at the back, when it opened and another young man came in with a tea tray. He was as light and lithe as the first, with the same friendly ease of manner. He was wearing black jeans and a purple sweater, and his hair looked like two irregular glossy black wings on his head.

      ‘Ah, bless you, dear!’ said our host to him. Then to us: ‘Let me introduce my friend and assistant, Jackie Smith. My name you know. Now if we all have a nice cup of tea, I feel that our vibrations might become just a little more harmonious.’

      All this time Jessie was standing-at-ease on the carpet. He handed her a cup of tea. She nodded towards me, saying, ‘Give it to her.’ He took it back and gave it to me. ‘What’s the matter, dear?’ he asked. ‘Aren’t you feeling well?’

      ‘I am perfectly well,’ I said, reading the newspaper.

      ‘Stalin is dying,’ said Aunt Emma. ‘Or so they would like us to believe.’

      ‘Stalin?’ said our host.

      ‘That man in Russia,’ said Aunt Emma.

      ‘Oh, you mean old Uncle Joe. Bless him.’

      Aunt Emma started. Jessie looked gruffly incredulous.

      Jackie Smith came and sat down beside me and read the newspaper over my shoulder. ‘Well, well,’ he said. ‘Well, well, well, well.’ Then he giggled and said: ‘Nine doctors. If there were fifty doctors I still wouldn’t feel very safe, would you?’

      ‘No, not really,’ I said.

      ‘Silly old nuisance,’ said Jackie Smith. ‘Should have bumped him off years ago. Obviously outlived his usefulness at the end of the war, wouldn’t you think?’

      ‘It seems rather hard to say,’ I said.

      Our host, a teacup in one hand, raised the other in a peremptory gesture. ‘I don’t like to hear that kind of thing,’ he said. ‘I really don’t. God knows, if there’s one thing I make a point of never knowing a thing about, it’s politics, but during the war Uncle Joe and Roosevelt were absolutely my pin-up boys. But absolutely!’

      Here Cousin Jessie, who had neither sat down nor taken a cup of tea, took a stride forward and said angrily: ‘Look, do you think we could get this damned business over with?’ Her virginal pink cheeks shone with emotion, and her eyes were brightly unhappy.

      ‘But, my dear!’ said our host, putting down his cup. ‘But of course. If you feel like that, of course.’

      He looked at his assistant, Jackie, who reluctantly laid down the newspaper and pulled the cords of a curtain, revealing an alcove full of cameras and equipment. Then they both thoughtfully examined Jessie. ‘Perhaps it would help,’ said our host, ‘if you could give me an idea what you want it for? Publicity? Dust jackets? Or just for your lucky friends?’

      ‘I don’t know and I don’t care,’ said Cousin Jessie.

      Aunt Emma stood up sand said: ‘I would like you to catch her expression. It’s just a little look of hers …’

      Jessie clenched her fists at her.

      ‘Aunt Emma,’ I said, ‘don’t you think it would be a good idea if you and I went out for a little?’

      ‘But my dear …’

      But our host had put his arm around her and was easing her to the door. ‘There’s a duck,’ he was saying. ‘You do want me to make a good job of it, don’t you? And I never could really do my best, even with the most sympathetic lookers-on.’

      Again Aunt Emma went limp, blushing. I took his place at her side and led her to the door. As we shut it, I heard Jackie Smith saying: ‘Music, do you think?’ And Jessie: ‘I loathe music.’ And Jackie again: ‘We do rather find music helps, you know …’

      The door shut and Aunt Emma and I stood at the landing window, looking into the street.

      ‘Has that young man done you?’ she asked.

      ‘He was recommended to me,’ I said.

      Music started up from the room behind us. Aunt Emma’s foot tapped on the floor. ‘Gilbert and Sullivan,’ she said. ‘Well, she can’t say she loathes that. But I suppose she would, just to be difficult.’

      I lit a cigarette. The Pirates of Penzance abruptly stopped.

      ‘Tell me, dear,’ said Aunt Emma, suddenly rougish, ‘about all the exciting things you are doing.’

      Aunt Emma always says this; and always I try hard to think of portions of my life suitable for presentation to Aunt Emma. ‘What have you been doing today, for instance?’ I considered Bill; I considered Beatrice; I considered comrade Jean.

      ‘I had lunch,’ I said, ‘with the daughter of a Bishop.’

      ‘Did you, dear?’ she said doubtfully.

      Music again: Cole Porter. ‘That doesn’t sound right to me,’ said Aunt Emma. ‘It’s modern, isn’t it?’ The music stopped. The door opened. Cousin Jessie stood there, shining with determination. ‘It’s no good,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry, Mummy, but I’m not in the mood.’

      ‘But we won’t be coming up to London again for another four months.’

      Our host and his assistant appeared behind Cousin Jessie. Both were smiling rather bravely. ‘Perhaps we had better all forget about it,’ said Jackie Smith.

      Our host said, ‘Yes, we’ll try again later, when everyone is really themselves.’

      Jessie turned to the two young men and thrust out her hand at them. ‘I’m very sorry,’ she said, with her fierce virgin sincerity. ‘I am really terribly sorry.’

      Aunt Emma went forward, pushed aside Jessie, and shook their hands. ‘I must thank you both,’ she said, ‘for the tea.’

      Jackie Smith waved my newspaper over the three heads. ‘You’ve forgotten this,’ he said.

      ‘Never mind, you can keep it,’ I said.

      ‘Oh, bless you, now I can read all the gory details.’ The door shut on their friendly smiles.

      ‘Well,’ said Aunt Emma, ‘I’ve never been more ashamed.’

      ‘I don’t care,’