1951 - But a Short Time to Live (23 page)

“Word of honour?"

She kissed him.

"If you still want me — word of honour."

He left her getting out suitcases and tossing clothes on to the bed. On the way downstairs he wondered a little fearfully what was going to happen to them. She didn't seem to realise what was in store for them. To start all over again would be much harder for her than for him. Already she was thinking in terms of a car. One thing was certain, he would keep a tight hold on her. She was not going to get them into another mess like this!

He passed swiftly through the reception hall, his brow creased in a worried frown. He didn't see Ben Whelan sitting in a deep lounging chair just behind a pillar, but Whelan saw him and grinned.

The dry cleaning shop Mooney managed was off Fulham Palace Road: a small, pokey little place with a steam press in the window, three girls who couldn't have been much more than sixteen, and a back office where Mooney hid himself and chewed at his dead cigar.

The three girls looked up as Harry pushed open the shop door. Mooney had said they were as ugly as sin: an exaggeration, but they weren't attractive. The three of them were pasty-faced and grimy, but there was nothing about them that soap and water and a course of vitamins couldn't put right.

"Is Mr. Mooney in?" Harry asked.

The youngest of the three girls jerked her thumb at the office door. She managed to convey by that gesture that if Harry found Mooney in there with his throat cut she wouldn't grieve.

Harry knocked on the door, turned the handle and entered a dark little room furnished with a desk, a chair, and a steel filing cabinet.

Mooney lolled in the chair with his feet on the desk. It was some weeks since Harry had seen him, and he noticed a change in him. He looked older, a little more seedy and a little more hopeless. There were holes in the soles of his shoes, and his faded tie had grease spots on it. His hat, still resting on the back of his head, was a little more shapeless; his shirt cuffs were frayed and dirty. He stared at Harry, lifted his feet tenderly off the desk and leaned forward, thrusting out his hand.

"Hallo, kid," he said, his face lighting up. "This is a surprise. Funny thing, I was thinking about you."

Harry shook hands.

"Nice to see you again," he said awkwardly. "How goes it? You're looking fine."

"Am I?" Mooney grimaced. "I feel awful. Here, sit on the desk. Old Gimpy doesn't run to two chairs. He doesn't like me to have visitors. I haven't a cigar for you, kid. Things are a bit tight at the moment."

Harry sat on the edge of the desk and lit a cigarette.

"I'm sorry."

"Yeah." Mooney sighed and massaged his forehead with fingers that were not over clean. "Well, it's something I expected. I never get a break for long. Did you see those girls? How would you like to be shut up with that bunch all day? I miss those dolls in the chorus. The thing I hate most is the smell of an unwashed woman."

"Yes," Harry said absently. He wasn't paying much attention to what Mooney was saying. His mind was too preoccupied with his own worries.

Mooney eyed him thoughtfully.

"What's up, kid? Something biting you? Got it written all over your face. Anything I can do?"

"Well, yes," Harry said, lowering his voice. "Can we talk here?"

Mooney nodded.

"They're too dumb even to listen at a keyhole," he said. "What's up?"

"We're in a mess, Alf. I can't go into details. You wouldn't want to hear them anyway. It's so bad we're going to do a flit: as bad as that."

Mooney whistled. A flit was something he had never done, although he had a feeling it wouldn't be long before he had to do it

"Bills, eh?" he said gloomily. "I always thought she'd run up bills. Where do I come in?"

"We're dropping out of sight, and we intend to stay out of sight. It's got to be done properly. We'll need new identity cards and ration books. Do you know where I can get them?"

"Well. . ." Mooney paused, got up and went to the door. He opened it a crack and peered into the shop. Satisfied the three girls were busy gossiping together, he shut the door and sat down again. "It can be done," he went on in a whisper, "but it costs dough. Do you want me to handle it?"

"Can you?"

Mooney nodded.

"I wish you would then. I want them quickly. A matter of hours."

"It'll cost about thirty quid. And that's cheap. The chap who dishes them out is a pal of mine. If you went to him yourself it'd cost you fifty."

Harry took out his wallet and counted out thirty-five pounds on the desk.

"And a fiver for yourself, Alf."

Mooney hesitated, then shook his head.

"No, kid, if you're in that kind of trouble you'll need all your dough. I've had enough out of you in the past. That's all right I'm glad to do it." He pushed five of the pound notes back.

"Thanks, Alf," Harry said gratefully. "I do want every penny I can lay hands on. But look, here's a cheque for fifty pounds. It's all I have in the bank. I can't get it myself this afternoon so I shall have to leave it. Go to the bank tomorrow and draw it all out. Give twenty-five to Doris and keep the rest for yourself. Will you do that?"

Again Mooney hesitated. The temptation to accept the money made him perspire.

"No again, Harry," he said, breathing heavily. "I can get this cashed right away. There's a bloke next door who'll do it. You'll be able to use fifty quid better than Doris and me."

"I'm not leaving Doris high and dry," Harry said firmly. "Please do what I ask. We can manage with what we've got. Keep it, Alf. It's all right."

Mooney shrugged. He folded the cheque and tucked it away in his waistcoat pocket.

"Well, okay," he said, "and thanks. If you know how I could use twenty-five! If you're sure it's all right, it'll save my life."

"It's all right. Now, will you get after those identity cards? I'll call back. When do you think you can get them?"

"By six," Mooney said, consulting his watch. "Not before."

Harry stood up.

"All right, I'll be back. Have them made out in the names of Douglas and Helen Kent. Husband and wife. Last address 23 Sinclair Road, West Ham. All right?"

"My word! You're coming on," Mooney said, staring at him. "You've got it all planned out, haven't you?"

Harry nodded.

"Yes," he said, "and Alf, whatever happens, whatever you hear, not a word. The police may make inquiries. I don't say they will, but they may. It's as bad as that. You won't give us away, will you?"

"You don't have to ask that, kid," Mooney said. "It's Clair, isn't it? Not you?"

"Yes, but we're sticking together, Alf."

Mooney scratched the side of his jaw.

"Yeah, you stick to her. She's all right. I like her. A bit wild of course. Perhaps a bit too wild, but there's nothing she wouldn't do for you."

"I know," Harry said. "Well, so long, Alf, I'll be back at six."

"Where are you going now?"

"To Grafton Street. There are one or two things I want to pick up, and I want to say good-bye to Doris."

"To save you coming back here, I'll meet you at the Duke of Wellington at six. I have to go to Soho, anyway."

"That's fine, and thanks, Alf."

"That's what I'm here for, kid." He got up and put on his coat. "We can ride down together as far as Piccadilly. You taking a cab?"

"Yes. Will it be all right for you to leave?"

"It'll have to be," Mooney said. He knotted his tie, straightened his hat and put the dead cigar carefully in a drawer of the desk. "I've had that damned thing three weeks. Can't afford cigars at the price they're asking now."

He went into the shop.

"Girls, I have to go out. One of you stick around until I get back. I shouldn't be later than half past six. If Mr. Gimpy phones tell him I had to go to the dentist."

Three blank pasty faces turned in his direction. Three pairs of dull, indifferent eyes looked from him to Harry.

"Yes, Mr. Mooney."

Out in the street, Mooney said, "That's all they ever say, "Yes, Mr. Mooney." At least those chorus girls said ‘no,’ sometimes."

Harry waved to a taxi.

As they rattled along Hammersmith Road, Mooney said, "How about Ron, Harry? If you're going to drop out of sight. . ."

"I'm no use to Ron," Harry returned. "If you ever have a moment I'd be glad if you'd see him. Tell him how it is." He frowned, thinking of Ron, helpless in his chair. "Tell him I'll write when I settle down."

"I'll find time." Mooney glowered out of the window. "The trouble is to find anything to do with the time I have. Watch your step, Harry. For the love of Mike don't finish up the way I have. It's easy to do too. If you're not settled in a job by the time you're forty, it's curtains. Watch that. You've got to be fixed up by forty, kid. Don't forget. It's important No one wants a man when he's over forty these days."

Harry left the cab at the bottom of Bond Street, and walked quickly to Grafton Street He found Doris busy on an enlargement

"I thought you weren't coming in today, Harry," she said, surprised. "There've been a couple of appointments for tomorrow, and Mrs. Grierson has ordered two dozen half plates of the proof we sent her."

"Dorrie, there's been a spot of trouble . . ."

At the tone of his voice she looked up sharply, her plump, good-natured face alarmed.

"I'm getting out," he went on with a rush. "Don't ask me anything, Dorrie. It's just one of those things. I'm disappearing."

"Is — is Clair going with you?"

He nodded.

"You mean — she's in trouble?"

"Never mind who's in trouble," he said curtly. "I've got to get out. Will you cancel all appointments, Dorrie? Will you close the place up? I shan't be coming back."

"But you can't do that," Doris said, going to him. "Harry, this is daft You're just beginning to make a go of it. Besides, there's the lease. You can't just walk out.,” "I'm walking out," he said tersely. "Be a good girl, and don't make things difficult for me. I've seen Mooney. He'll have twenty-five pounds for you. It's all I can afford. I hope it carries you on for a bit. I'm sorry, Dorrie. Don't look like that, please. I'm terribly sorry, but I can't help it."

"You shouldn't have married her, Harry. All along I've been expecting trouble, and now — this. She's no good. I don't care if I do make you angry. I've got to tell you. She's no good, and she never will be any good. Leave her. Forget her. Let her go her own way and you go yours."

"I love her, Dorrie. I know she isn't any good. She knows it too, but that doesn't make any difference. When you love someone as I love her you're caught. There's nothing I can do about it. We're seeing this thing through together."

"But what about the equipment?" Doris wailed. "And the goodwill? You just can't walk out . . ."

"Do what you like with it, Dorrie. If you can make a bit on it, go ahead." He went to a cupboard, took out his Leica and a handful of films. "That's all I'm taking. Now I'm going, Dorrie. You won't see me again. I can't say how sorry I am, and I'll miss you. But I won't forget you, Dorrie. No, don't cry. It's just one of those things." He put his arm round her and gave her a hug, then made quickly for the door.

"So long, Dorrie. Alf will be seeing you." He opened the door, looked back and saw she was struggling with her tears, felt a lump rise in his throat and ran quickly down the passage, down the stairs to the street.

It was only five o'clock. He had an hour to kill, and he walked briskly along Piccadilly, entered a phone booth near Simpson's and called the Park Lane flat

Clair came on the line.

"It's all right," he said. "He's getting everything for us. All right your end?"

"Fine and dandy." She sounded astonishingly cheerful. "I've packed, and now I'm going to bleach my hair . . ."

"Not on the phone, darling," he said sharply. "I'll be back not later than seven. Have you written to Maurice?"

"Yes, and I've had a word with Val. He's furious. He said they'd sue me for breach of contract. I told him to go ahead and sue. Was that all right?"

"It'll have to be," Harry said, a tight feeling round his chest. "Well, I'll get along. See you at seven."

After wandering the back streets of Piccadilly for what seemed to him to be hours, he eventually made his way to the Duke of Wellington.

The manager was in the bar, and glanced at Harry, frowned in a puzzled way, then came over.

"Good evening," he said smiling. "I haven't seen you for a long time — not since that little unpleasantness last — when was it? Last July, wasn't it?"

"October," Harry said, pleased to be recognised. "Time flies, doesn't it? No, I haven't been in. I've been out of town as a matter of fact."

"Well, have one on the house," the manager said. "What'll it be?"

It couldn't be anything else but beer in the Duke of Wellington, Harry decided. Habit died too hard for that

"What happened to that girl you were with?" the manager asked as he served Harry with a pint of bitter. "What a beauty! Was she a friend of yours?"

"No," he said shortly. "I haven't seen her since."

"Pity," the manager said. "Mind you, I don't suppose she was all she should be, but my goodness! How bedworthy she was!"

Harry grunted, took out a crumpled copy of the Evening Standard, and pointedly began to glance at the headlines.

The manager took the hint, and after saying he hoped to see Harry again he went off to his office.

Already the bar was filling up, and putting down the paper, Harry looked round. The same old faces met his gaze. There were the three men in black homburg hats drinking whiskies and whispering together.

There was a grey-faced man and his perky, shabby wife, sitting at a table close by, still drinking port, and looking a little more shabby. There was no sign of the girl with the flat chest who used to hold her companion's hand so possessively. No man would stand a woman who was so possessive for long, Harry thought. His eyes strayed to the table where he had seen Clair for the first time, and his heart contracted.

So much had happened since then. It was quite unbelievable. And now this: dropping out of sight, changing his name, starting again.