Twenty Thousand Streets Under the Sky (13 page)

‘Richard Dix,’ said Bob.

‘Oh,’ said Ella. ‘
Him
.’ And wiped a tumbler.

‘I thought you might like to go and see him to-morrow.’

‘Can’t afford, such luxuries,’ said Ella.

‘Oh well – I’ll afford it.’

‘You?’

‘Yes. I’ll take you there.’

Ella, putting down the tumbler and meeting his eyes, relapsed into that sincere and gentle unaffectedness which was her true self.

‘What – will you take me to the pictures, Bob?’ She was quite overcome.

How abundantly and enchantingly dependent all these women were, thought a rather glowing Bob, his mind going back to the night before. You could win their hearts with the merest courtesy. He found the world more and more charming every day.

‘If you’ll honour me,’ he replied. ‘You’re free all right tomorrow afternoon, aren’t you?’

‘I should say I
am
,’ said Ella. . . .

‘Well – that’s fixed, then. An’ you might oblige me now with a Gin and French.’

‘Gin and French?’ She went to get it for him.

But it was still on her mind when she came back.

‘You come into a Gold Mine, Bob?’ she asked, exultantly. . . . It was her barmaid’s way of saying Thank you.

T
HE TWO-DIMENSIONAL GHOST
of Mr. Dix was performing at the new Cinema now included in the building of Madame Tussaud. Bob and Ella left ‘The Midnight Bell’ the next afternoon at five past three, and had not much time in which to enjoy themselves. Therefore, at Marylebone Church, Bob insisted that they should take a bus along. Ella cried out against this, as being extravagant, but Bob would not hear her. Ella was enormously chatty and sprightly, and so neatly attired as to seem almost dressed for the occasion. This, in fact, she was.

There was further extravagance at the entrance. He asked for two two-and-fours, and Ella could take it or leave it. She being at the time under the eyes of a tall, vigilant, and rather inquisitive attendant in uniform, took it. Whereat the attendant, satisfied of their honesty, pulled back the door, and the waiter and barmaid went through into an atmosphere of dim, shaded lights and heavy carpets. Here they were met by two voluptuous but doll-like young creatures wearing pert brown dresses and enormous bows in their hair, and the whole thing was decidedly Eastern. With profound and charming veneration one of these seductresses put forth a nail-glinting and powdered hand, gathered Bob’s tickets, and with a pleasant manner at once ushered himself and Ella down the centre gangway. Which savoured more than ever of the East and was testimony to the theory that money may buy anything.

The gangway was dark and insecurely defined. They gropingly selected a row. Seated people, and peopled seats, were maddeningly where they were. ‘Here we are,’ said Bob. But it was the blind leading the blind.

At last they were settled. In a few moments they were a part of the audience. That is to say their faces had abandoned every trace of the sensibility and character they had borne outside, and had taken on instead the blank, calm, inhuman stare of the picturegoer – an expression which would observe the wrecking of ships, the burning of cities, the fall of empires, the projection of pies, and the flooding of countries with an unchanging and grave equanimity.

They were lucky in coming in just at the end of ‘Eve’s Film Review,’ and the next picture was ‘The Gay Defender’ – featuring Richard Dix. Ella and Bob watched all this through practically without a word. Only when there was something to laugh at did Ella turn to Bob, saying ‘Silly!’ and desiring him to endorse and share her sense of its preposterousness; and Bob smiled back. His sense of humour was not the same as Ella’s but he felt, towards her, the courtesies encumbent upon a host.

‘That was very
good
, wasn’t it?’ said Ella, when it had faded, and Bob agreed that it was. They then watched some topical events, which were followed by the leading feature of the programme – a German film called ‘The Spy.’ But already time was pressing, and they could not hope to see it all through. Certainly not, if they proposed to have tea before going back. Providentially unwitting of their own wistfulness they agreed to see ‘five and twenty minutes of it.’ But knowing that they could not watch the thing artistically, and as a whole, they were unable to take it seriously and were more flippant and talkative. ‘This is
your
type, ain’t it, Bob?’ said Ella at the appearance of the leading lady.

It was true. It was his type – a large-eyed, slim and shingled blonde. In calm and loveliness she eclipsed even the little beauty to whom he had given a pound two nights ago. What madly adorable things women could be, thought Bob. They took your breath away with a radiant and inexhaustible perfection. Did such women as the one he saw now really exist? Certainly not for him. For the rich, then? But it was obvious that the flabbiness and dissipation of wealth was unfitted to cope with such masterwork of vitality and
loveliness. They required a Siegfried, or Launcelot – or, in the last resort, himself. He at any rate could adore comprehendingly. The music played tenderly, and Bob’s soul was filled with adoration.

This was quite a new discovery. He had forgotten that women were miraculous. He had known it in early youth and now it was coming back to him. He was very pleased with himself, and glanced at Ella. You either had it or not. She had not. Did she know she belonged to the neuter gender? Probably not. She probably thought that she belonged to the same sex as the enravishing thing upon the screen. She probably thought that she had lesser charm, but the same potentialities – an infamous but comprehensible assumption.

At the appointed time they forced themselves out of their seats by the employment of will-power. The dolls and uniforms had no further interest in them, as they passed out, and they were in the cold, turbulent thoroughfare, lit by the first lamps of evening. Bob took Ella’s arm, and led her to a little restaurant over the road. Ella submitted that this was again wasteful, and that they should go to a Lyons or A.B.C., but he would not listen to her.

‘You’re gettin’ Extravagant, Bob. That’s what’s the matter with you,’ she said. ‘What
you
want is a wife to look after you.’

He replied nothing, but wondered whether this was true. Did she mean a thing of joy for ever (such as he had just seen) for his own – a divinity domesticated? In that case he certainly did. He also suspected that Ella was disseminating, vaguely, the air of a candidate.

The little restaurant was very nearly empty, and they took a table in a corner. Tea was brought, and bread and butter, and jam. Despite pressure, Ella would not hear of anything more confectional and luxurious. ‘I’ll be Mother,’ she said, and poured out the tea. He experienced further subtle knowledge of disseminations.

‘By the way, Bob,’ she said, as she gave him his cup, ‘I haven’t told you something yet.’

‘Oh – what’s that?’

‘You may be losin’ me before long.’

‘Losin’ you? What’s happened?’

She was rather flustered. ‘Well – you won’t tell no one – will you?’

‘No.’

‘Honest?’

‘No – solemn.’

‘Well – I got a job.’

‘Gawd – what kind?’

‘I’m goin’ to look after kids. Nursemaid. I may be goin’ to India.’

‘India!’

‘Yes. It’s my Auntie’s done it for me. It’s a couple that lives in St. John’s Wood – with two kids. They’re ever such a nice couple. . . .’

‘That sounds fine.’

‘’Course, it didn’t look well – comin’ from a pub, like – but they was ever so nice.’

‘That’s great.’

‘Tain’t half bad.’

‘Is it all fixed – kind of?’

‘Well – not quite – no. There was another girl they was wantin’ first – an’ they still don’t know if she can come, like. Of course, if she can, then they’ll
have
to have her, like. But otherwise they want me. They said so.’

Bob at once perceived that Ella would never reach India. So did Ella really, but her bravery and belief in life were transcending her sorrowful intuitions.

‘An’ I love kids, too,’ she brightly added.

‘Fine,’ said Bob. ‘When do you expect to know? . . .’

‘Oh – they’re going to write to me.’ She sought his approval and advice. ‘I think it’s
best
, Bob, don’t you? ’Course it wouldn’t be as
bright
as this business, but I think it’d be
better
, don’t you?’

‘Oh – all the time. An’ goin’ to India, too. Just fancy.’

‘Yes. It ain’t half bad, is it? An’ she’s a real lady, too – the one I saw.’

There was a silence. The subject, really, was at an end.

‘What’s a real lady?’ asked Bob, lighting a cigarette.

‘A real lady? . . . Why? . . . A Real Lady, of course.’

‘Like yourself?’ he suggested.

Ella paused, a little insecure, looking at him. ‘Yes,’ she said.

‘Oh – I see.’

He knew exactly what was coming, and it came.

‘Being a Lady,’ said Ella, ‘isn’t in what you
are
. It’s in how you
act
.’

‘I wonder,’ said Bob, and there was a silence.

‘Don’t be so silly, Bob,’ said Ella. ‘Money doesn’t bring happiness, anyhow.’

He wanted to explain to her that it was not exactly a question of money and happiness, but remained silent.

‘I’m just as much a lady as
some
of those, anyway,’ said Ella. ‘With the way they go on.’

‘Who are “those,” then?’

‘Why? . . . Those that
are
, I suppose. . . .’

‘Oh, then there is a
real
kind of real lady?’

‘Oh, don’t talk such
nonsense
, Bob,’ she said, and he succumbed.

‘Well,’ he said. ‘I’m ever so glad about this job of yours, anyway.’

‘Yes. It’ll be grand – if it comes off. But
you
won’t miss me, Bob, will you?’

‘You bet I will.’

‘Oh no, you won’t. You’ve got all your Girls to think about.’

‘There you go again. Where do you get all these ideas?’

‘Oh, well,’ Ella conceded. ‘I may be wrong. . . .’

She had given in, he saw, just at the wrong moment. He
wouldn
’
t
miss her for the very reason that he
did
have his ‘girls’ to think about – if ‘girls’ was a suitable epithet to cover his recent emotions. If Ella had only (instead of being so optimistically and irritatingly neuter) been capable of qualifying as a ‘girl’ herself, then he might have missed her.

‘I expect you’ll have one,’ added Ella. ‘One day. . . .’

‘I wonder,’ said Bob, but it occurred to him that perhaps he had one already. Could he not, by a stretch of the imagination,
regard the little beauty awaiting his ’phone call on Monday as his ‘girl.’

To have a girl. To have, exclusively to yourself, a girl. To own a girl – the humanity and inexhaustible loveliness thereof. It was a tremendous idea.

And could he not be said to have a girl already? If mere loveliness was asked for she certainly filled the bill as a ‘girl.’ He had from the first admitted that she was, in her way, a beauty.

Of course it was all absurd, but – just as a fancy – a conceit – might he not call her his ‘girl’? She had kissed him with her virgin’s kiss, and was already, he believed, half in love with him. How, situated as they were, could she really be anything else? Poor little wretch. Poor blue-eyed, fair-haired, large-mouthed lovely little wretch. . . .

Yes – he had a girl. He insisted upon the fancy. He was never so pleased in his life. Ella’s prophecies had been gloriously fulfilled.

‘I dare say I will – one day,’ he said, and Ella returned that she was sure of it.

M
ONDAY DAWNED, BUT
it was not Monday at all. A dense brown fog obliterated the Universe; and it was a day outside ordinary human computation.

You were cold to the marrow of your bones. Garish lights were lit everywhere inside; your breathing made perpetual little white fogs. The roll of the traffic was hushed and torpid. Fog signals went off like distant tyres bursting.

Bob began on the brass as usual, and Ella came down a little later. Her nose was very pink, and her first news was in accordance with the general atmosphere of the day. India was Off. She had had a letter only that morning.

She took it well, but it had an effect upon Bob as well as
herself. A fog obliterated the Universe, and India was Off. The imprisoning and inescapable factors of existence made themselves felt. India was Off. Would anything ever be On again?

Also, Bob was a little ashamed of himself in conversation with Ella. The truth was that he had his own private little line of escape from a pea-soup Universe in which India was Off – the telephone of eleven o’clock. Ella had no such little treat. Nor did she have any idea that he had. She believed him to be a fellow prisoner in a Universe in which India was Off, but actually he wasn’t. He felt he was taking a rather mean advantage of her.

Though, as a matter of fact, he wasn’t quite sure that it was a treat. Now that he was only half an hour away from it (and the day being so unfamiliar), he was feeling unaccountably nervous. He supposed that she would be waiting for him just the same, in a fog, but he somehow felt that they had not reckoned with this when they had made the appointment. Then again – the ’phoning itself – that was not so uncomplicated an operation as it had looked. He could not, of course, ’phone from the house itself. The instrument was only just behind the bar, and within easy earshot of Ella and everybody. He would have to go out to a box. That, in itself, was not difficult. At eleven o’clock there was nothing for him to do, and there was no danger of his being missed. Indeed, quite frequently he had gone out for a paper at this time.

But there was a difference between vanishing innocently like that, and going out with secret intent to ’phone a woman; and the fog, in some way or another, bestowed upon the whole thing a darker, and more deceptive, and even underhand quality.

However, when the clock pointed to five to eleven, he ran upstairs for his hat and coat, and came down and left the place without a word.