The Doll (8 page)

Oh, dear! she was feeling it all too deeply, she told herself; it couldn’t last – so much beauty and romance. How glad she was that the couple came together at the end, after that bitter quarrel in the second act! And now it was ‘God Save the King’, mournful, throbbing. A sob rose in her throat, and she thought how easily she could die for her country; but in a minute it was over, forgotten. They were crowding out of the theatre into a taxi, pushing through the Piccadilly traffic all ablaze with electric signs and flashes, stopping with a jerk as the purple-uniformed commissionaire of the night club opened the door.

What was Uncle John muttering? Something about it being damn slow after Paris? How obstinate he was! Almost a bore. It was his age, she supposed. For she was tingling all over with impatience as the band struck up the tune that had been singing in her head all evening, and it seemed as though a hundred faces shone up at her from the crowded tables – bare arms, silver dresses, dark eyes, white shirt-fronts; so much bustle and clatter and laughter. Now they were dancing at last, the lights a little dim; she turning her face to right and to left, searching the faces of the passing couples.

And a boy smiled at her over his partner’s shoulder, infectious, gay. She had to smile back. Surely they were both thinking the same thing. ‘Why aren’t we dancing together?’ They could not drag their eyes away from each other; he followed with his partner behind her, lost in a dream. She never even heard Uncle John whisper in her ear: ‘You know, we’ll have to be damn careful, Baby – if she suspects there’s anything between us . . .’

Of course, it had to come to an end. She did not know if it was three or four o’clock – she had lost all count of time, and she could have gone on dancing for ever. She stood in the drawing-room at home, saying good-night to him, too full and happy to speak. He wondered why she was silent; he kept peering down at her anxiously. ‘What’s the matter? Are you angry with me? Disappointed?’ Silly Uncle John! He seemed quite humble, and anxious to please; at times almost sentimental.

‘You’ve given me the most wonderful evening I’ve ever had in my life,’ she told him.

Suddenly a door closed overhead, and steps sounded on the landing. Uncle John started, went white, then turned and seized her by the shoulders. His expression had entirely changed. Gone were the sleek, smooth creases from nose to chin; gone was the bland smile, the light in the round, beady eyes. Into his face something furtive had crept, something creeping and sly; his mouth curved, his eyes half-shut. He looked like a cat, a sly, slinking tom-cat, crouching in its own shadow against a dark, damp wall.

‘She’s heard us,’ he whispered. ‘She’s coming downstairs. Whatever happens, we’ve got to put her off the scent. She mustn’t guess about us, d’you hear? We must lie like hell, invent some story. Keep quiet; leave it to me.’

She looked at him, bewildered.

‘Why on earth should Mummy mind—?’ she began. But he stopped her impatiently; his eyes towards the door.

‘Don’t pretend to be so damned innocent,’ he said. ‘You know perfectly well it’s an appalling situation. Oh, my God! . . .’ He turned away, fumbling with a cigarette, his hands trembling.

The girl heard her mother’s voice outside the room.

‘Is that you, John? What are you doing down here? I’ve had an awful evening. I couldn’t sleep . . .’

She stood in the doorway and saw them both; the man puffing cigarette-smoke, watching her round the tail of his eye; and the girl clasping her childish pink evening bag, twisting it in her fingers.

Mummy had thrown a wrap over her nightgown, holding it across her loosely with one hand. Her face was a mask of powder, carelessly, too hurriedly applied. Lines dragged to her mouth, and her eyes were puffy. There was no trace of beauty at this moment. She was just a woman of middle-age who had slept badly. The girl noticed this at a glance, and felt ashamed for her, hating that anyone should see her so wan and haggard.

‘Oh, Mummy, I am sorry! Have we woken you up?’ she said.

There was silence for a moment, tense and frightening; and then Mummy laughed – a forced, horrible sound, her face as white as Uncle John’s.

‘So I was right all the time,’ she said; ‘it wasn’t just my imagination – all those secret looks and whispering in corners. How long has it been going on for? Ever since you came back from Paris, or did it start last summer? You work quickly for a child of your age, don’t you? You might at least have had the decency to go somewhere else, and not use my house.’

Uncle John broke in hurriedly, the words tumbling over themselves. ‘My dear, I assure you . . . nothing wrong . . . ask Baby . . . begged me to take her out – sorry for the kid . . . wanted to stay with you . . . it never entered my head . . . absolutely absurd . . .’ Little, short, jerky sentences, entirely unconvincing, sounding a string of lies even to the girl who stood at his side.

But the woman would not listen to him. She could not leave her daughter alone. It was Baby who was false, who had lied, who had worked against her – the man was nothing, merely a shadow.

‘How dare you!’ she was saying. ‘How dare you come back from Paris and behave like a cheap, third-rate girl off the streets? Directly you came home I guessed what you were trying to do: I could see it in your eyes. Oh, you worked quietly enough; you didn’t make a show of it! You were determined to get him, though, weren’t you? Nobody else would do. It had to be him. I’ve been told that’s what girls of your age make for. They’ve got to have a man who belongs to somebody else. I suppose you think I’m going to share him . . . ?’

The girl did not answer. She could only stare back at her mother, physically sick with horror and shame, the realisation of what had happened branding itself in her mind. Mummy and Uncle John. Mummy and Uncle John at Frinton, ten, twelve years ago. Mummy and Uncle John in London, Paris, Cannes. All those years, buying tickets, driving cars, seeing the tradesmen, paying bills, all his meals in the house, day after day, night after night. Mummy and Uncle John.

That little, sleek, tubby man, with his small moustache, carrying their bags at stations, handing bread and butter at tea, answering the telephone, and keeping the engagement-book up to date; rubbing his hands together when he was pleased, smiling, obsequious, humble – Uncle John. She understood everything now. Mummy, her beauty gone, a frightened jealous woman, envious of her own youth; while he, smooth-tongued and deceitful, worked for a new alliance.

So being grown up was this: a sordid tissue of intimate relationships, complicated and vile. No loveliness, no romance. She would have to live like this in her turn, be false, be hard, wear the same mask as her mother. She was alone in the drawing-room now. They had gone upstairs, Mummy loud-voiced, shrill like a fish-wife, common for the first time; and Uncle John pleading, protesting, dragging at her shoulder with ineffectual hands.

‘A happy New Year! A happy New Year!’

Hands dragged at her, voices cried in her ear, and the band played loud and gay. It was a triumph, her party; a gala, an overwhelming success. Wherever she looked, faces smiled at her; whenever she listened, she heard her praises sung.

‘You’re getting more like your mother every day. Isn’t it wonderful for you both – just like a couple of sisters!’

Nearly twelve o’clock, and the old year soon would die. Streamers were flung across the restaurant, blue, orange, and green; old men in paper caps threw hot little yellow balls to complete strangers at the next table; coloured paper littered the floor, twined round the feet of the riotous, jostling couples. There was not a square inch of space upon the floor; bodies pressed against each other, hot, perspiring, jigging up and down, leaning against tables, laughing over shoulders. The noise was deafening, the clamour of Babel. Men shouted and whistled, women shrieked hysterically. They looked like a swarm of rats on a sinking ship.

‘Happy New Year! Happy New Year!’

‘Isn’t it marvellous? Aren’t you loving it?’ someone screamed in her ear.

She tried to respond, she tried to smile back. But she felt every smile was forced and every message insincere. They knew, these people, they knew about Mummy and Uncle John. They had known for years. Their nods, their smiles, their murmured undertones all proved that they understood. And now they waited for the next step in the game: the first jealous looks, the first signs of rivalry. ‘How lovely you’ve grown!’ Laughing behind their hands: ‘Of course, they share him.’

They stood in a circle, joining hands, Mummy, she, and Uncle John. ‘Should Auld Acquaintance Be Forgot?’ – his voice rang loud above the rest; he smiled at Mummy, sleek and smooth, the perfect tabby-cat.

‘Happy New Year, darling,’ he said. ‘Happy New Year.’ And then, when the circle broke, he turned to the daughter; he murmured in her ear: ‘It’s all right. I’ve calmed her down. She believes our story now. You and I will manage it somehow, Baby. But – listen – we’ve got to go slow for a bit; damn slow . . .’

Mazie

M
azie lay on her back, afraid to move. Why was it her heart beat so strange nowadays, never quiet, nor steady, but with a queer thump, thump, and little beats that ran in between, and had no right to be there? She was sure, if she moved, it would leap with a sudden jerk right out of her body, and a great black cloud waved close upon her eyes. That’s what had happened last month to poor Dolly.

Quite sudden it took her, after the ’flu, and she was dead before you could say ‘knife’.

Mazie could remember going to see her when she was laid out. Beautiful she looked, with her pale face and dark hair against the pillow. Mazie had bought her a small bunch of flowers, and put them beside her. Not much, of course, but somehow, it seemed heartless like to leave Dolly without a word. You never knew when it was going to be your turn. Dolly had used those very words time and time again, and then, before she knew where she was, poor thing, she was gone.

In the night, like the light of a candle. Queer.

Thump – there it was again, knocking about in her chest; almost as if her chest was a door, and there was somebody trying to get in. Yes, that was it, knocking and knocking, trying to get in. Well, it wasn’t a scrap of use getting into a state, and worrying herself. What had to be had to be. You couldn’t stop what was coming to you, and yet, what would happen if she came over really bad, one night when she was alone, when she had nobody? Would she be able to call for help, to make herself heard on the floor below, or would she just go out in the dark – like Dolly? ‘Now, if I start getting afraid,’ thought Mazie, ‘there’s an end to it, and everything will be U.P. So just don’t let’s start thinking.’

She sat up in bed, and began to pull on her stockings. It wasn’t any mortal use being tired like this in the mornings. She saw herself in the cracked mirror on the wall. Cripes! what a face! Like a bit of boiled mutton. If she went about like that, she wouldn’t find a dustman to look at her, let alone anything else. If she weren’t careful, she’d be hanging round, day after day, and returning home with an empty purse. As it was, she got so tired these days that she scarcely knew what she was up to, and that’s a fact.

Who and what she picked up last night, she couldn’t tell if she was asked. All she could remember was that he was quiet spoken, and had a light moustache. There had been a bit of bother over the price, too, now she came to think, but she hadn’t been done in – not she.

What a life! Ah, that was better! She dabbed the rouge on her cheeks and smothered the whole with a great mask of powder. That was more like a face, that was. Carefully she laid the black on her eyes, and smeared her lips a wet sticky crimson.

Oh! hell, she’d have to take in another inch of her costume.

The skirt was hanging round her waist. A safety-pin would have to do for now. But there was no doubt she was getting thinner every day. Someone had cursed her as a bag of bones the other night – dirty swine.

Her fair hair was greasy, straightish. She must put some money aside and have another perm.

When she was dressed, she drew aside the curtains and opened the window.

Why, it was warm, quite warm. The Spring. A child was playing in the street, without her coat. Funny, the way days suddenly changed like that. Yesterday now, cold and snappy, with a miserable spite of a wind that crept down your spine, and little drops of rain from the grey sky, splashing your silk stockings.

But today, warm, jolly, somehow – and the sun was shining into the room opposite, lighting up a big square of carpet.

Mazie leant out of the window, and sniffed the air. Right high up like that made you forget about the dust and smoke, the long day ahead, the longer night – there was only the roofs of houses here, and the blue sky, covered with little flaky clouds.

A sparrow hopped on to the sill, and nearly toppled over with surprise when he saw her. He gave a startled chirp, and fluttered his wings.

She couldn’t help laughing, really.

‘Cheeky beggar, you don’t get nothing from me,’ and she searched the floor for a stray crumb.

Mazie walked along Shaftesbury Avenue, looking at the shops. Strewth! what a dream. Scarlet it was, with golden beads all down the middle, and a long piece of stuff touching the ground on the left side. A regular evening gown. Quite the latest, she’d be bound. There was a big spreading flower on the left shoulder too, ever so handsome. No use going in and asking what it cost; that was the worst of these shops that didn’t hang the price in the window. You went in, all swagger and show, and had to come out again, pretending you’d be back in the afternoon. The trouble was they got to know you after a bit, if you were always passing by. ‘You were in here the other day, weren’t you?’ they would say, as nasty as anything. Shop girls in black satin, trying to look superior – the sluts.

Look at that two-piece there, in stockinet. Brown scarf to match. Three and a half guineas. Now, that is value, if you
do
like . . . Dressed in that, and her hair waved, she could collar someone big, some gent, in evening dress after the theatre. Easy as pot. She might even get hold of somebody regular. Gawd! what a hope. To be able to take it peaceful, not turn out like this, day after day, wet or fine.

‘Hullo, duck, how’s life been treating you?’ Mazie turned and saw at her elbow a pale shabby girl, so thin that her hips seemed to stare from her clothes, and a small sunken face – large, empty hollows for her eyes.

‘Why,’ she stammered. ‘Why, it’s never Norah?’

‘Yeh!’ said the girl, in a lost voice, in a voice that came from another world. ‘It’s me, all right, duck, and no mistake about it. Guess I look a bit of a rag, don’t I?’

‘What happened to you, Norah?’

‘What happens to all of us, sooner or later, my pet. Christ! If I knew who the fellow was, I’d wring his bleeding neck. Here, have a peppermint? Sweetens the breath.’

She held out a crumpled paper bag. Mazie stuffed a couple of bull’s eyes in her cheek.

‘You look pulled down, dear, and that I will say. A dirty shame, I call it. How did you manage then?’

‘Oh, I went to a chap Mollie told me of. You know Mollie? It happened to her last winter. She was as right as rain, she said, after a few days – but it takes people different. I tell you, Mazie, I feel awful bad – my legs seem to tremble under me, and I can’t breathe proper. Supposing I’m done in for good, that’s what I say to myself? Suppose I’m done in for good? What’ll happen?’ She pawed at Mazie’s shoulder.

‘Here, shut up, don’t take on so,’ said Mazie. ‘Who ever heard of such a thing. You take it quiet for a week, if you can, and after that you’ll be the same as ever. It ain’t nothing. It happens every day to girls. You ought to be more careful.’

‘Careful? As if it’s anything to do with being careful. I’ve always been careful enough, God knows. Mazie, I can’t rest for a week. Where am I to get the money, how am I to live?’

‘I don’t know, I’m sure.’ Mazie began to shuffle away.

‘Couldn’t you see your way to helping me at all, duckie? This business took everythink I put by.’

‘Oh! Give over nagging, Norah. Maybe I can lend you something, but I’m in a hurry now. Stop blubbing, do. People’ll start takin’ notice of us. Here – take this – and come and see me tomorrow mornin’. You know my place.’ Mazie fumbled in her bag, and gave something to Norah. Then she turned and ran down the stairs of the subway beneath Piccadilly Circus.

‘I hate people who whine,’ she grumbled, to herself. Try as she could, she found it impossible to push Norah out of her thoughts.

She came out of the subway. She walked along the streets, in any direction. It didn’t matter.

‘What did she want to start frightening me for, anyway,’ thought Mazie. ‘You don’t get caught if you’re careful – no, you don’t.’

Sullenly she glared at the passers-by. Half-unconsciously she pulled her cheap little fur closer to her throat. It seemed colder somehow. Hullo! What was going on here – for the love of Mike. What was all the crowd about? She dug her elbow into the back of a fat woman. ‘D’you want the street to yourself?’

Why – it was a wedding. A wedding at St Martin’s. Did you ever? What a lark!

She pushed her way to the front of the crowd gathered at the bottom of the steps.

The wide doors were open, but there was a chap at the top there, who wouldn’t let you through. She strained her ears to catch the sound of the organ. Yes, there it was, sounding quiet, soft – as if it was afraid to be heard. People were singing. It was getting louder now, and the voices rose with it. Mazie knew this hymn. She had sung it in school as a kid. Strewth! It took you back a bit. Why didn’t that chap open the doors wide, she wanted to go right inside the church, and sit in one of those pews at the back.

She’d snatch hold of a hymn-book and sing louder than any of them. She pictured the church, dark and cool, and the pews filled with the guests – the gents in black, and the women dressed like a dream, smart as paint.

She leant forward slightly, and, through the crack of the door, she saw the long aisle, and there were candles somewhere, and flowers – masses of flowers. Seemed as if they filled the air, like scent – rich scent that cost a pound for a tiny bottle. Amen . . . Soft and low. It was beautiful, you know. Made you feel like crying – made you feel, well – queer.

Now there was silence for a moment. Somebody spoke in a high funny voice. Must be the clergyman, giving a blessing, perhaps. Oh! why wasn’t she allowed to stand there, quite quiet in a corner. Not so as anyone would notice, but just to hear, just to see.

‘Here – who are you pushing – mind out, can’t you?’ She turned furiously to a man who was prodding her in the back. ‘Some people have no manners.’

Now, listen – wait. The organ was striking up the Wedding March. Oh! what a swing there was to it, and the great bells began to peal, breaking out on the air – and the big doors opened wide. ‘Here they come – here they come,’ shouted the crowd.

‘Thank Gawd, the sun’s shining for them,’ said Mazie, in feverish excitement, to her neighbour. The bride and bridegroom came out upon the steps. They hesitated a second, shy, smiling, dazzled by the light, and then passed quickly down into the cars that waited below.

Just a sudden vision of white, and a veil pushed back from a laughing face – a boy with a white carnation in his button-hole. Bridesmaids in silver, carrying yellow flowers. People shouted, people pressed together – a great cloud of confetti fell upon the bride. Mazie dashed to the edge of the pavement, her eyes shining, her face scarlet. ‘Hooray! Hooray!’ she shouted, waving her hand.

There were patches of colour on the water, splintered crimson and gold, that danced and twisted beneath Westminster Bridge. The sun was setting, and the orange sky flung golden patterns on to the windows of the Houses of Parliament.

There seemed to be a mist over things. A mist that was part of the pale smoke, curling from the tall chimneys of the factories, and part of the river itself, a white breath rising from the mud banks beneath the swift-flowing tide. Mazie leant against the wall of the Embankment, gazing into the water. She dragged off her hat, and the wind blew her hair behind her ears.

Her feet ached in her tight black shoes, she was tired, dead beat. On the go all day, and doing nothing at that! Just moving about from place to place, you know how it is, when you meant in the morning to spend a quiet day. But what with one thing and another, the wedding, a bite of lunch, a bit of shopping and then, before you knew where you were – evening again.

Oh! but it was nice here by the water, peaceful somehow. Look at that cloud of birds by the bridge there, fat little grey fellows, they didn’t go hungry at any rate.

What were they, pigeons? She was blowed if she knew one bird from another.

My! And that boat there, that long barge affair in the middle of the river.

It was a picture, really. She’d like to be on it, sitting by the funny steering thing, and just floating off anywhere – past all the warehouses and the wharves, past the dirty smelly docks, to the sea – the sea. She gave a gasp at the thought. Yes, it was true. At the end, right at the end of this long brown twisting river, the sea waited. No mud there, no filth – no musty old smoke. Just a whole lot of blue water going on for ever – and white waves splashing in your face. It wouldn’t matter a scrap where you went – you’d lean your head on the side of the barge, and dangle your hand in the water. No more trudging along pavements, no more blasted waiting about – hanging about. Just rest, your heart beating softly, evenly, and sleep – sleep a long long time.

‘I say, you’re not going to fall in, are you?’ Mazie almost jumped out of her skin.

‘Strewth, you didn’t give me half a start, did you?’ she said angrily, glaring at the young man who had spoken to her. And then, because he smiled in such a kind friendly way, she couldn’t help smiling back.

‘I was looking at that silly old barge, you know, and there I was thinking to myself how I’d like to be there, swinging along, as happy as you please – no more worries, no more nothink. Guess I’m soft in the head, eh.’

The young man lit a cigarette and leant against the wall beside her.

‘I’ve felt like that, too,’ he told her. ‘It’s strange, isn’t it, how it comes over you suddenly, that longing to break right away, to clear out. I’ve been down by the Docks after midnight, sometimes, when the night is black, and you can’t see anything but the dark boiling water, and the lights of the ships at anchor. Then there’ll come the long queer wail of a siren out of the darkness, and you’ll see a red light move, and you’ll hear the churning throb of a propeller – and the faint outline of a big ship passes you – right in the centre of the river – outward bound.’

Something tightened in Mazie’s throat.

‘Go on,’ she whispered.

‘That’s right,’ he said. ‘She’ll pass you by in the middle of the river, and you’ll fancy you hear the clanking of chains on a deck, and the hoarse cries of men. Right down the Channel she goes, past Greenwich and Barking, past the flat green swamp, past Gravesend – into the sea. And you stand on the edge of the dock, just a little black smudge – left behind.’