The Walking Stick Read Free Page A

sit on the arm of the settee nearby.
    ‘Hello,’ he said. ‘Remember me?’
    ‘Not very well.’
    ‘I’m that fresh guy who insulted you by admiring your hair.’
    I didn’t reply, and after waiting he said: ‘I suppose the old cold shoulder is the easiest way of keeping wolves like me at bay.’
    I met his eyes. They were grey, absolutely clear grey, with whites nearly as bright as his teeth. ‘I haven’t any trouble usually. After the first howl or so, they don’t come
after me.’
    He continued to look. ‘Because you’re lame, you mean?’
    Most people weren’t quite tactless enough to spell it out. But all I said was, ‘It could be,’ and turned to speak to David Hambro, who was squatting on a cushion nearby. I
carefully didn’t turn back for quite a time, and knew he was sitting there more or less isolated, because the girl on the settee was chatting to Arabella. I tried to think of a way I could
get up and leave without speaking to him again, but presently he got up himself and crossed the room. It was funny how angry one could still become, because it probably hadn’t been intended
as offensive. You shouldn’t victimize a man for speaking the truth . . .
    He came back carrying two glasses. ‘You were nearly empty so I’ve brought you a refill,’ he said.
    ‘Thanks, but I’m fine with what I’ve got.’
    ‘Well, let me exchange a new one for the old. It tastes better out of a clean glass.’
    I smiled at him. ‘No, really, I don’t slobber. This is perfect, thanks.’
    He sat down on the arm of the settee. ‘OK, I’ll drink them both.’
    That ended diplomatic relations for quite a while. About midnight one or two couples began to dance, and David Hambro asked Arabella. Hartley slipped down onto the cushion and hugging his knees
looked up at me.
    He said: ‘You’re quite right, you don’t slobber. I’ve been watching.’ He went on: ‘I’m not really a wolf, you know. Haven’t the time.’
    I smiled again, but thoughtfully.
    He said: ‘Well, stone the crows, but you’re really beautiful. Maybe it is a bore to you, but think of the kick it gives other people.’
    The disc ran out at last, and couples stopped dancing, and Sarah went to turn the thing over. It was long-playing and I could see I was stuck for another twenty minutes.
    ‘Why haven’t you the time?’ I asked. ‘You should make it.’
    ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, ‘but sarcasm is almost always lost on me.’
    ‘You still haven’t answered.’
    ‘I paint.’ He bit it off with his teeth, like someone biting the end of a cigar.
    ‘Oh, I see, that explains the yellow.’
    ‘What yellow?’
    ‘You said something about Naples yellow before supper.’
    ‘Well, yes. Well, it explains me, see. I’m the uncouth type. Haven’t had time to pick up the graces of society.’
    I looked at his hands: they were broad and stubby; he might more probably have been an engineer or a carpenter. His clothes were odd too, quite good but overstyled. A few people were going now;
two of them came across to say good night to me. My stick got in the way, and one of them stumbled over it. The music was late-night music, dreamy, beat stuff suitable for amorous couples and a
crowded floor. I wished I hadn’t come. I wished so much that Sarah wouldn’t ask me. She did it always out of a loving goodness of heart and trying to draw me into the circle of her
friends, and always it was a failure.
    ‘What do you paint?’
    ‘Pictures. You know. With a brush. Oil on canvas. Or hardboard when I’m short of cash. Or canvas paper when I’m broke. It’s a simple question of economics.’
    ‘What isn’t?’
    ‘Well, you aren’t . . . I shouldn’t think so anyway.’
    ‘Are you a good painter?’
    ‘No.’ He stopped looking at me and looked through me. ‘I’m a good draftsman. But that isn’t enough.’
    That was original anyway. Or maybe it was just a new line. ‘You’re modest.’
    ‘No – clearsighted.’
    ‘In that