Part 2 of a new short story in two parts:

by Harold Acton

In Part I of 'The Operation' the ageing matinee idol Aubrey Vernon underwent obscure but expensive treatments from the fashionable Professor Nagler; he nevertheless found him- self in hospital, under an assumed name, after an embarrassing and even indelicate operation.

The ache of his mutilation was more mental than physical. He was allowed to leave the hospital before it had healed. The nurses had lost interest in him. The woman next door had died. Aubrey muffled his face like a Bedouin and crept furtively out of the vast im- personal building.

He had sent a telegram to Mrs Frost, his female factotum, advising her that he had shortened his holiday and that he hoped she would prepare the flat for his arrival and order a fish supper from Prunier's round the corner, specifying that he yearned for oysters. He explained that the long air journey had worn him out.

'My word, you don't have to tell me that. You look completely done in, dear. So don't you start opening your love letters now. Early bed for you tonight, Master Aubrey !'

A mountain of correspondence was stacked on his desk.

'Poor Miss Loelia's been fretting herself sick about you, telephoning all day and every day. She complained that you hopped off with- out a word or giving her your address. How could you be so cruel to that sweet innocent? And she's really and truly fond of you—no play-acting about her.'

`But I'm a play-actor, Mrs Frost. You ought to know that by now.'

The telephone tinkled. 'Would you mind answering it for me? Pretend I'm still in Bar- bados.'

'ox dear. It's bound to be Miss Loelia again. She worships the ground you tread on, poor Iamb. I hate to disappoint her.'

'Tell her I'll be home in a fortnight.'

Mr Flanagan had exhorted him to take things easy for the next six months but Aubrey was too attached to his profession not to plunge into the study of new parts. Surrounded by photo- graphs of himself in all the pinnacles of his career, he forgot his recent ordeal until it was time to bathe : even then, wrapped in a towel as in a toga, he postured and strutted in front of his pier-glass, declaiming the speeches of Caesar and Mark Antony. If his face was haggard his figure had become more slender in compensation, for he had lost much weight. He applied his Romeo make-up and wore his Renaissance wig. The effect was so rejuvenating that he skipped for joy and blew kisses at his own reflection. Suddenly he thought : I'm making an ass of myself. If anyone could see me now, what would he say?' Yet he could not help it, he grew unaccountably skittish. Hand on hip he minced away from the mirror

with delicate steps and when he reclined on the sofa he toyed with the oblong cushion with the fancy tassels, hugging and embracing it as if it were—whom? Not Loelia certainly. It was as if an amorous siren had taken possession of him and he longed to be gripped and held by two vigorous arms. No doubt it was a passing 'whim.

Alone, except for the photographs lining the walls, Aubrey wondered if he had any indi- vidual being apart from his public appearances: without a packed auditorium he felt curiously limp and empty. His whole life had been lived in public : his most memorable love scenes, all those showers of burning kisses on lips and hands and arms, had had no parallel off the stage except as a form of rehearsal. What was Loelia to him or any of her predecessors but a microcosm of all the females in his audience? He practised his stage business on her: according to her reactions he could discover whether it was effective or not. She would recoil from some embraces with a shudder; to others she would surrender swooningly. He scrapped the former and elaborated the latter, playing variations on them like a composer. And Loelia never guessed.

He was the Aubrey of many scattered hearts; he had created protean images of himself; but the real Aubrey, born Percy Pringle, who was be? Since his operation he did not feel sure that he could repeat his former triumphs. His nerves had been exacerbated during his period in hospital.

He had an impulse to shout for no particular reason and when he shouted he noticed some- thing strange had happened to his voice. It was disconcerting and totally unlike his Shakes- pearian recordings—the cry of some outraged prima donna. Consciously lowering his vocal chords from an inflated chest he repeated a speech from Coriolanus, but the strain involved made it false and artificial. It might be due to his recent operation: perhaps it was premature

to-plunge into Shakespeare. .

Cyrano de Bergerac had been mastered when he invited Loelia to dinner. He would take her to 'Chez Tonton,' regardless of the press photo- graphers who would snap them in intimate col- loquy. He was feeling ready for some advance publicity, in preparation for which he plucked his eyebrows, applied cream and powder to his face after a close shave with the latest invention in razor blades, and sprayed himself with a masculine essence called 'Polo.'

Loelia flung her arms about his neck and in the hungry kiss that ensued she bit his lower lip until it bled while he crushed her bosom and clutched the small of her bare back. Breathless they tumbled on the sofa.

`Darling, this won't do. We'll be too dishevelled to dine in public,' he gasped, when she unbuttoned his jacket. 'Let's save our ecstasies for later on.'

'`No, now! I can't wait another moment. I must have a morsel of Aubrey before dinner. Don't I deserve it, you magnificent beast?'

He let her fumble through his clothes with frantic fingers and lolled passively until she .touched his truss. This made him jump, for that part of him was curiously sensitive.

'Do control yourself my pet. "Chez Tonton" is always crowded and Louis won't reserve the table if we arrive too late. I'm famished. Aren't you, dear?'

`How can you talk of food at such a moment? You men are so materialistic ' Gently he withdrew from her to button his shirt and adjust his necktie.

`Chez Tonton' was packed. The stage cele- brities of London were on display at separate tables, ranging from Noel Coward to Terence Rattigan. Many of them greeted Aubrey and continued to watch him obliquely Their sharp eyes could not fail to detect a difference in him as he followed Loelia with a cautious glide in- stead of his self-confident 'here I am' swagger.

Aubrey was acutely conscious of the eyes observing him. Prior to his operation he might have been pleased and flattered, but now he wondered if they had noticed any change. He wriggled in his chair and remained distrait throughout the meal while Loelia prattled on between mouthfuls of smoked salmon and braised sweetbread.

`Isn't that Laurence Olivier behind those blue goggles? I love this place. It makes me feel like a celebrity too.'

She clasped his hand and gazed tenderly into his nostrils while a press photographer clicked his camera close by. From Loelia's point of view Aubrey had not changed a whit. Not so far. She saw him as he had been before his operation. But his nervousness increased as the evening wore on: his eyes blinked incessantly, his mouth and nose twitched like a rabbit's, and his feet tapped restlessly under the table. Should he or shouldn't he put his amorous powers to the test? Was it too soon? He remembered Mr Flanagan's assurance that all would be plain sailing under the sheets.

Loelia mistook his tapping for fond dalliance: she pressed one foot upon his until it pinched and he withdrew it. Late to arrive, they were late to leave the restaurant. Derek appeared from nowhere and joined them for a liqueur. !Congratulations on your recovery. I've been hearing all about it from the Professor.'

- Aubrey nudged him to make him change the subject but Derek was either obtuse or wantonly malicious. 'By the looks of you nobody would guess what you'd been through,' he went on. Aubrey tried again to stop him with winks and signs, but he rattled on like a train. 'Have you decided where to convalesce? Don't be- lieve the surgeons: it takes a whole year to re- cover from such a butchery. Why not join Mona and me in St Moritz?'

`An operation!' Loelia exclaimed. 'And you never breathed a word about it to little me! Aubrey, you're incorrigible. I thought something odd must have happened. You're definitely a great deal thinner.'

`Oh dear, have I dropped a brick?' asked Derek naively.

`I'm afraid you have. Loelia wasn't intended to know.'

`Sorry, old boy. I thought everybody knew you'd been under the knife.'

Loelia had never seen Aubrey in such 1 temper. His hand trembled so violently while pouring a glass of water that he slopped it over the tablecloth. His face was livid.

Aubrey's hand was still shaking when he signed the bill. 'Let's go home,' said Loelia. 'You look tired and upset.'

'I'm merely exasperated by Derek. Let's go to that night club you mentioned.'

'Dewdrop's' was even more crowded than 'Chez Tonton' but a table was found for Aubrey and Loelia in the space reserved for performing artists. Though he was obliged to pay for cham- pagne Aubrey drank Vichy water with a couple of vitamin pills.

Drat it, there was Derek again. 'It's a wee world,' he remarked sententiously. 'What a funny spot you have chosen to convalesce in. Mind if I join you? So many queers in the offing that a lone wolf feels kind of embarrassed.'

'Aubrey has never seen Dewdrop,' said Loelia. 'The point about Dewdrop is that he's square in private life, happily married with a large family in Dorking.'

'I suspect that's hooey,' said Derek. 'No man with such mannerisms could possibly be normal. His mother must have dressed him up as a girl soon after his birth. I'll bet you he's been doing it all his life.'

'And I'll bet you I could do the same stunts just as well," said Aubrey.

'OK. I'll take you on for fifty quid.'

'You'll be the loser, cheri? Aubrey retorted in a strident voice.

Derek guffawed uncomfortably. He had been drinking steadily since dinner and his glazed eyes were glued to Loelia's bosom, whose pearly whiteness became more pronounced in the pen- umbra. Her scent was aphrodisiac in this atmosphere. He drew his knee closer to hers and she did not resist. She too was flushed with food and wine and a vague sensuality. Parties were simmering and mellowing at every table; conversations were growing more incoherent on the tiptoe of expectation.

Dewdrop was shrewd enough to keep the audience waiting until his aficionados began to fidget, shuffle and shout : 'Dewdrop! We want our precious Dewdrop!' Waiters whizzed to and fro with napkin-corseted bottles.

There was a crescendo of clapping when an angular girl in a close-fitting garment of rippling gold and a huge ostrich feather fan willowed across the clearing under the spotlight and waved the fan flirtatiously at the audience. 'You perfect dears, each and every one of you,' she gushed. 'I'm in the mood for love and I hope it's mutual. Good evening, boys and girls—I mean good morning! Not so much noise in that ingle-nook, please, if you want to hear your Dewdrop. Hush over yonder! Now I've guessed what you want me to warble : "Down in the forest something stirred".'

After a burst of applause there was breathless silence. To begin with Dewdrop emulated the dusky tones of Miss Dietrich with eyelids in- credibly languid and parted hungry lips, then he proceeded to render the ballad in the wail- ing manner of Piaf and the jaunty fashion of Miss Gracie Fields. The late-night sophisticates bellowed 'Encore!'

Aubrey borrowed Loelia's lipstick, powder and pocket mirror, and after a lightning trans- formation of his face he grabbed her mink coat and minced towards Dewdrop's microphone. 'Make room for me, dear,' he muttered. Before Dewdrop had time to object he crooned a dif- ferent version of the song in which the forest and the bird had become suggestively Freudian.

Outraged at first, the audience rocked and fell off their seats with ribald laughter, while Dew- drop bashfully spread his ostrich feathers in front of his false bosom and tried desperately to recapture attention with startled cluckings.

Derek and Loelia drew closer together in their astonishment. 'He must be demented,' said Derek. 'This will do him no end of harm if it gets into the newspapers.'

But the audience, which was peculiar to night clubs, failed to recognise the interloper in the mink coat who slithered back to his table in the penumbra.

'I fancied I was all alone in the great big world,' cooed the Dewdrop, 'and lo and behold I've found a kindred spirit. Isn't she ravishing?'

Before Dewdrop could drag Aubrey back to the microphone Derek gripped his arm and growled: 'Let's be off. I don't like being made conspicuous. Enough's as good as a feast.' Aubrey was smuggled away from the scene of his meteoric debut as a transvestite.

'What on earth made you do it?' asked Loelia indignant and hurt.

Aubrey seemed dazed : he did not know what to reply. He could not explain the impulse which had driven him to compete with Dewdrop.

'Well, you've won your bet,' snapped Derek. 'I'll write you out a cheque.'

'I thought you were a better loser,' said Aubrey.

Loelia sat between Aubrey and Derek in the latter's Rolls, which gave Derek a chance to pursue the pressure of her knee. She refused Aubrey's invitation to join him 'for a nightcap': it was getting late and she was feeling sleepy.

Aubrey protested 'Surely not,' but he was in- wardly relieved, for his impromptu performance at Dewdrop's had left him exhausted. However, he was unable to sleep, perhaps because he had been over-excited. Was he developing a bosom? He ran his fingers over his nipples and it seemed as if twin mounds were bubbling under his touch. He anointed them with cream, quivering with an unaccustomed thrill in his crepe de Chine pyjamas. For a while he wriggled like a restless debutante itching for a Hercules to clasp her in hairy arms. A fabulous career flickered before his dreamy eyes : he would become an- other person. He must send himself some orchids in the morning.

But in the morning he was appalled by the recollection of last night's behaviour. The pic- tures on the wall were solemn reminders that he was the most admired figure on the English stage. It would be better to retire from the stage altogether than to destroy the personality he had created, to whose power of magnetism a shelf of bound press-cuttings and a cabinet crammed with fan mail were ample testimony.

Loelia, who had spent the rest of the night. or rather the early hours of the morning, in Derek's bed, rang up shamefacedly to inquire after Aubrey's health.

'I've been anxious about you. You were so unlike yourself. Your act at Dewdrop's was eccentric, to say the least. I felt just as embar- rassed as Derek.'

'I see. You went to bed with Derek and this is your excuse. I must say it's a lame one. You'll have Mona to cope with now. I don't envy you and I don't want Derek's leavings. Goodbye, Loelia.' He rang off.

He was glad she had ended the affair with- out putting the remains of his virility to the test. It had been a convenient solution. Sooner or later she would have discovered that he was merely miming with her. Now he could get back to business.

Within a month Cyrano de Bergerac was under rehearsal at the Pearl Theatre. 'We must play it as a surrealistic romance,' he told the be- wildered cast. 'Colour and flamboyance will de- light the public after so much drabness.'

Flamboyance in scenery and costume was supplied by Sylvester Todd, an international by- word for the dernier cri in lavishness.

The company thought it was a crazy gamble but under Aubrey's inspiration they threw them- selves into the spirit of the straightforward plot and complex action. As the grotesque hero with the heart of gold Aubrey pranced through his part like a vocal ballet dancer. His voice ranged from baritone to alto : the odd break in it accen- tuated, as it were, the monstrosity of his false nose and added such poignancy to his self- sacrifice that there were few dry eyes and many damp handkerchiefs among the snuffling audi- ence. And all the while Aubrey swashbuckled and cut his capers he was challenging his in- ward sense of degradation with an intensity that made the toughest critics gasp. The play might be tripe but there was a consensus of opinion that it was worth seeing for Aubrey's pyrotechnical performance. He had gambled with heavy stakes and won, as so often before.

The queues before the Pearl Theatre grew larger and more obstructive and the play was assured of an exceptionally long run. Yet be- hind the scenes the other members of the cast were perplexed by Aubrey's tactics. He who had always appeared a paragon of normality had taken to kicking up his legs in a ludicrous can- can on the way to his dressing room, where he lolled on a sofa crooning to himself so mourn- fully that those who heard him shuddered with a premonition of disaster. When they looked in for a chat he hid his face in his hands and burst into tears. They feared he was on the verge of a breakdown.

He became even kinkier after the hundredth performance. Instead of his former dignified bows and self-deprecating smiles when he was called before the curtain, he skipped along like a tipsy chorus girl, rolling his eyes and blowing kisses right and left, to the disgusted amaze- ment of his erstwhile admirers. The majority suspected he had taken to the bottle.

One Saturday night he returned alone to Dew- drop's. Nobody recognised him for he was dressed as a merry widow of the nineteen-twen- ties with a platinum blonde wig, a monocle, and a long jade cigarette holder. When the sable slipped off his bare shoulders at a table near the demented drummer, the paillettes of his black gown glittered like cat's eyes in the semi-dark- ness.

"Hello there!" shrilled Dewdrop, who had spotted him during his preliminary patter. "Let's welcome the Queen of the Night. Will you be our guest-performer, Mam? Boys and girls, let's give her Majesty a big hot hand!"

Aubrey rose and bowed with becoming modesty and Dewdrop curtseyed before usher- ing the guest with his ostrich fan towards the microphone.

"I'm in one of my magnanimous moods to night," said Aubrey, opening his arms as if to clasp the whole audience. Swaying slightly, he ran his fingers along the bulge of his bust and announced: T11 sing you a dear old ballad you must have heard in the nursery: "I can't give you anything but love, baby." ' As from a mossy bed with velvety huskiness the voice rose and quivered through the floating screen of cigarette smoke. Those night-clubbers whom the tepid champagne had melted gazed liquid-eyed at their companions when Aubrey wailed out the last words : 'I can't give you any- thing but love.'

Dewdrop was deeply affected. 'You've wrung my heart,' he whispered, wiping a tear from one eye.

Aubrey was beginning to feel faint. 'Excuse me, dear,' he muttered to Dewdrop. 'I've the curse coming on. I must loosen my stays.'

When the couples returned to rocking and rolling, snapping fingers and stomping feet, it was easy for Aubrey to vanish. He was forced to realise that he did not belong to the 'sixties.

The crisp early-morning air rushed into his Bungs refreshingly as he drove home in his Jaguar through the empty streets. Unused to high heels his feet ached intolerably, and the ache spread upwards through his silk-stockinged legs. He asked himself what subconscious urge had lured him to Dewdrop's after what he knew to have been his finest and most strenuous performance in Cyrano. For once he had felt his pre-opera- tional self, ready to embark on an affair with a new Loelia. Yet, as if hypnotised by Professor Nagler, he had rigged himself out with bor- rowed plumes from his theatrical store and ap- plied his cosmetics with consummate artifice before wending his way automatically to the night-club. The sequel he could hardly remem- ber, he was so tired. 'Too tired to wash the dishes, too tired, too tired,' he hummed as he kicked off his shoes and unzipped his gown. He thought of visiting the Professor in feminine disguise and venting his pent-up spleen. Aware of the Professor's partiality for titles, he de- cided to call himself Lady Muriel Beckley. Otherwise he would have to wait a month for an appointment.

Miss Kunkel purred over the telephone when he told her in accents of impeccable gentility as Lady Muriel that he longed to consult the marvellous Professor, of whose miracles he had heard so much from bosom friends.

'Next Wednesday, Lady Muriel, at eleven o'clock, the Professor will be free for a con- sultation. I hope that is convenient for you.' `Convenient? I shall be enchanted to come at that hour. Allow me to say that I've seldom heard a sweeter voice than yours. It makes me feel better already. Am I speaking to Mrs. Nagler?'

'I'm only Grace Kunkel, the Professor's pri- vate secretary.'

`Well, I'm sure you are as charming as your voice and I look forward to meeting you, too.

Till Wednesday as ever is, dear Miss Kunkel.' When he appeared, Miss Kunkel failed to see the disguise.

'You're every bit as winsome as your voice!' Aubrey gushed.

'I fear you flatter me,' Miss Kunkel simpered. T11 send word to the Professor that you're here.

He happens to be engaged at the moment with the Duchess of Tonbridge. She's his favourite patient.'

`Lucky Duchess! In that case I suppose he charges her less than the others. Between our- selves I'm rather nervous about his fees. A little hird told me that they are apt to be astrono- mical. I should hate to have to sell my family jewels. I'm not nearly as rich as my reputation, you know.'

Miss Kunkel's manner changed. Though she knew nothing whatever about Lady Muriel's reputation she suspected something fishy from her speech.

She wished she could warn Professor Nagler about her misgivings. This newcomer had roused her distrust.

'What a fascinating collection of photos you have on the mantelpiece. I don't think Aubrey Vernon's does justice to him. No doubt the Professor makes special terms for celebrities like Aubrey Vernon. They are excellent pub-. licity. So am I as a matter of fact. Cosmeticians have offered me fabulous sums for the use of my picture on their advertisements.'

Miss Kunkel tried to discourage further con- versation by blowing her nose.

'I wish I could emit so pure a note,' said Aubrey. 'You must have exceptional nostrils. May I look into them? I'm particularly intrigued by the human trumpet and its possi- bilities.'

Miss Kunkel concluded that Lady Muriel was unbalanced. She tapped her forehead and winked at Professor Nagler when he escorted his favourite duchess to the lift, but he was too engrossed in his rococo compliments to notice Miss Kunkel's signals.

Aubrey marched straight into the consulting room and occupied the Professor's chair.

`You've kept me waiting an unconscionable time,' he remarked. 'I hope you won't over- charge me for it. As I was telling your secretary with the noisy nostrils, I should be sorry to have to part with the Beckley jewels.'

The Professor contrived a smile but his eyes blazed with indignation. 'I adore your English sense of humour,' he said. 'May I ask who recommended you to visit me?'

'0 dozens of people, beginning with my old friends Derek and Mona Mortimer who swear by you. You've got to help me out of a mess. To cut a long story short, Professor, I'm neither man nor woman. I want to be one thing or the other."

The Professor's smile faded. 'I think you have made a mistake, you have come to the wrong address. You should visit a psychiatrist, Lady Muriel. You are evidently suffering from delusions."

'Come on, undress me: you will soon find out.' He noted with satisfaction that the Pro- fessor was growing panicky. 'I want you to undress me stitch by stitch. Mona declared you had lights on the tips of your fingers. Out with your stethoscope. I'm ready for a thrill.'

'I'm trying to be patient, Lady Muriel.' `None of your hanky-panky, Professor. I refuse to go until you have examined me pro- perly.' Aubrey prevented him from telephoning. 'You've got the wind up because I told you I wasn't as rich as Derek and Mona. You're

afraid you won't be paid in those famous five- pound notes to avoid income tax. You could be struck off the register for that.'

The Professor folded his arms and glared through his spectacles. 'I order you to leave,' he shouted. `Do so immediately or I shall sum- mon the police.'

Aubrey toyed with a syringe he found on a tray. 'Would you like me to give you an injec- tion?' he enquired, thrusting it towards him.

Aubrey pulled the Professor towards the sofa and a tussle ensued, but it was impossible to escape from Aubrey's muscular arms. He gagged him with a handkerchief and fastened him to the sofa with a belt he had brought in his handbag. Then he proceeded to unbutton the Professor's trousers and turn on the lamp, as the Professor had done to him before his operation. 'You are looking a bit off colour after your bout with the duchess. This lamp should restore your energies. And I'll give you a delicious injection as well. It will sting but the effect is euphoric."

Aubrey had taken the precaution to lock the door. Miss Kunkel knocked: hearing no reply and presuming that Lady Muriel was on the couch, she announced in a loud voice that Admiral Murchison had been kept waiting beyond the time fixed for his appointment. The Professor was wriggling on the sofa while the lamp was growing hotter.

"Keep quiet, Professor. The magic heat will do you a world of good. Turn more to the right. Once you have been exposed to these rays you will never need an operation, isn't that so?'

The gagged purple face and the plunging feet on the coach seemed to tell a different story.

Waving a heavily beringed hand at him, Aubrey cooed : 'Have a good time cooking, Professor!' Miss Kunkel was too preoccupied by her telephone to notice his exit.

In the waiting room downstairs Aubrey intro- duced himself to the solitary old sailor nid- nodding over The Times.

'Perhaps you don't remember me. I'm Muriel Beckley,' he said in his most mellifluous falsetto. 'Professor Nagler asked me to tell you that he regrets he is too busy to see you today as he has to attend an urgent operation.'

`How annoying, when I might have been dictating my memoirs. But do tell me, where did we meet before? I seem to remember your face but I can't exactly remember the circum- stances.'

'It must have been at the Palace garden party. We had such an interesting chat that I have never forgotten it.'

`Of course, of course. How stupid of me.' 'It's the rush hour. Do you mind if I share your taxi? What's your direction?'

`The Athenaeum. I say, now it all comes back to me. You used to know my late wife. Won't you join me for tiffin if you've nothing better to do?'

Aubrey thought it would be a supreme chal- lenge to his art to enter the annexe of the Athenaeum in his present disguise. 'I'd simply love to,' he replied.

`Your company will cheer me up,' said the Admiral. 'One gets tired of lunching alone.'

He hailed a passing taxi and helped Aubrey to step inside with the gallantry of a more leisurely age. Already the Admiral looked for- ward to a mild flirtation. He thought Lady Muriel a fine specimen and tried in vain to recollect their former meeting, for he would never admit that his memory could have played him false after so many of Professor Nagler's special treatments.