Twenty Thousand Streets Under the Sky (17 page)

All at once she drew away from him and sat up. ‘Oo, ain’t it gettin’ cold?’ she said. And with her legs beneath her she began to adjust her hair.

Her skirt fell above her knees, and one garter, ornate and trim, was revealed. Another accessory! Another little article, as it were, which he had forgotten to include in the heavenly inventory! Where would it all stop?

She produced a little comb – (another still!) – and ran it through her hair. He asked if he might do it for her.

‘No, it’s all right,’ she said, ‘finished now.’

He childishly felt rebuffed. She would not let him do her hair. What if all this was not his own? What if this ravishing organism preserved its aloofness and independence – was merely something to be admired and adored, by others as well as himself? What if she did not love him? But no. She had said that she would never let him go. You couldn’t expect her to ‘take on’ (as she would put it) all the time. She had made him mad and greedy.

‘It’s about time we went,’ he said. . . .

‘I know,’ she said, and commenced fumbling in her bag.

She closed it with a snap, and began putting on her hat. . . . The episode was over.

He rose, and gave her his hand to help her up. She stood, and he kissed her again. For a brief moment the episode was renewed and he felt securer and more deeply happy than ever. Then they began to walk back.

On the heights of Hampstead the lamps were already lit. A crescent moon was out. Dead leaves rustled beneath their feet. The sensuous fervours of his passion had fled, but the charm remained, and quiet Nature conspired tender scenery for their romance. They hardly spoke.

When they reached the road between Jack Straw’s Castle
and the Spaniards, however, the high atmosphere was different.

‘Oo – ain’t it jes’ cold!’ she said; and it was. Bitterly cold – and windy, and dark. He took her arm. It was too cold and windy and dark even for romance. They hurried along.

They descended the hill towards the station, and were back again with people and unchanged reality. He had burned his emotions out, and was glad to speak of other things.

In the lift at Hampstead Station the strong light glared upon her powdered but faultless skin. He saw that she was tired, and so was he. The noise of the train obliterated – or at least suspended – any feeling of any kind.

Where was she going to-night? To earn her living? Unthinkable thoughts. The situation was really ghastly. He would have to think it all out before he saw her next. At present he was a little too tired to think or even care about anything.

She came out with him at Warren Street Station, and walked along the Euston Road with him.

‘Well, Jenny dear,’ he said, ‘have you had a nice afternoon?’

She smiled, but did not reply.

‘And you’re not to worry about things,’ he said. ‘’Cos I’m going to do a lot of hard thinkin’, and get everything straight. By the way, how much money have you got?’

‘I got three shillings – why?’

He had three of his five pounds left. He now offered her two. After a little argument she accepted them. She looked at him as though she thought him too wonderful for words, and he rather agreed with her. They had stopped at a corner.

‘Well, when am I goin’ to see you again?’ he said brightly.

‘Whenever you like, dear.’

‘Well – why not come in and see me? To-night. ’Bout nine.’

‘Certainly, dear.’

They arranged that she should come in by herself, go along to the table at which she had first met him, and wait for him to come along and attend to her.

‘Only you will be there, dear, won’t you?’ he said. ‘’Cos something always seems to go wrong with our meetings.’

‘Yes, I swear I will.’

‘Swear solemnly?’

‘Yes. Honest I will. Look. I swear on my Liberty – there.’

He wondered what exactly she meant by her Liberty, but she seemed to attach great importance to the oath, and he was satisfied.

‘Well, good-bye, dear,’ he said.

‘Good-bye, dear.’

She put up her face for a brief and final embrace. He gave it to her. The gesture was as spontaneous and respectable as the most conscientious citizen might require. But, coming from her, it had wonderful piquancy.

‘Good-bye.’

‘Good-bye.’

She smiled again, and was gone. He walked to ‘The Midnight Bell.’

‘Liberty’ dawned upon him. He had never thought that the little sinner had ever been locked up. But she had, of course – must have.

She would never let him go.

Oh lord – he was rather letting himself in for something, wasn’t he?

Well – it was done now.

N
EVERTHELESS, HE WAS
in great spirits as he entered the bar for his evening duties, and again slapped Ella metaphorically on the back. He no longer envied, but rather pitied, her goodness.

Mr. Sounder was the first in as usual, and was soon joined by Mr. Wall and also by Mr. Loame, the actor. With the latter Mr. Sounder had now got beautifully off – even to the extent of having Little Things in – ah – Mr. Loame’s line – dramatic sketches, to be blunt – which he thought Mr. Loame might just like to cast his eye over. But he had only Turned them Out
every now and again and was quite willing to admit that the dramatic craft was very different from the literary one. That was where Mr. Loame came in. He would Know. He would doubtless be able to Put him Right on countless little points. . . . Thus worked the silver tongue of flattery. Production was imminent; and the proceeds would of course be halved. In the meantime if Mr. Loame had anything in the
literary
line (and he had confessed to short stories) very possibly Mr. Sounder could Put
him
Right. In fact they were both going to put each other right. They had both been more or less in the dark all their lives, and it was a decidedly fortunate encounter. Mr. Loame (perhaps a little more doubtful than the other) paid for the drinks.

Also ‘The Midnight Bell’ was to-night visited by the Illegal Operation.

This young man’s actual name was MacDonald. But this was transcended by his reputation. As an Illegal Operation (and as nothing else) he drank his whiskies, leered across his bar, and inhaled his endless cigarettes before the world. For he never told you his name, but when he had had more whisky than was good for him he invariably began to swagger confidentially about his Illegal Operation. By performing one of these (successfully), it appeared, he had abruptly terminated his career as a medical student, and served six months in prison. This was his tragedy, and he was famous for it in ‘The Midnight Bell.’ He was now about thirty-two, and wore old grey flannel trousers, a sports coat, rather dirty shirts, and knitted ties. He had sandy hair, rather closely cropped (as though he had acquired the habit in prison and rather fancied the style) and grey eyes. He had enormous ears, and a long nose with a rather bashed-in appearance – an illegal nose, in fact – and a full mouth and a large chin. Every now and again he tried to commit suicide, but could never manage to bring it off. Despite all these things, he really wouldn’t have hurt a fly and was quite a good fellow if you didn’t rub him up the wrong way. He lived in Fitzroy Square.

To-night he was perfectly inebriated even before entering. But this was not surprising, since he was known to take
bottles of whisky back to his own room. Ella gave him his whisky before he asked for it, and he smiled at her.

He then, without getting out his money, gazed at Ella steadily, rather as though he thought
she
wouldn’t be at all a bad subject for an illegal operation, either. Or at least so it seemed to Ella, who looked foolish, and asked him what he wanted.

‘Li’l Splash,’ he said, with the same transfixing and decidedly operative eye upon her.

She produced the syphon, and took his glass to fill it, but he snatched it away from her.

‘
Oh no
!’ he said, ‘Oh,
dear
me no!’

‘What’s the matter?’ asked Ella.

Making no attempt to enlighten her he held out his hand dramatically for the syphon. She gave it to him. ‘Oh,
dear
no,’ he repeated, but although he was so mysterious, all he wanted to do, apparently, was to fill it himself.

For this, however, an Illegal Operation was too staggeringly drunk to be fully qualified. Instead of causing the soda to flow peacefully into the whisky, there quietly to commingle and effervesce with it, he preferred his own lax measures. That is to say, he jabbed down the lever with rude and sudden pressure, and did exactly what he didn’t want to do – the entire amount of the whisky being shot out gracefully on to the floor, and a sparkling glass of soda water elegantly replacing it. Which, of course, was rather dullish, and very inconvenient. Bob fetched a rag. This was quite a characteristic opening with the Illegal Operation, and Bob was in no way perturbed. Nor was the Illegal Operation, for that matter. He grinned at Ella and asked for another.

‘I should have thought you’d had enough,’ said Ella, as she gave it to him.

‘Nevadnuf,’ said the Illegal Operation, and espied Bob at his feet. ‘Hullo, Bob, how’re you?’

Bob, who could never quite make up his mind whether it was quite in order for an Illegal Operation to address the waiter as Bob, replied rather coolly that he was very well. He then went away, and served some people in the lounge.

‘The Midnight Bell’ was doing heavy business to-night, and by seven o’clock the place was well filled. By eight o’clock it was crowded, and by half-past eight packed. Bob was kept working at lightning pace, had made four and twopence, and had the greatest difficulty in forcing his way through the crowd at the bar to give Ella his orders. But he was agile and authoritative, and felt the captain of his own soul. He had two little squabbles with Ella, one about change, and the other about what constituted a liqueur glass and what did not (she trying to bemuse his customers with outrageous and unfamiliar shapes); but forgave her both times because she was only good and plain and had never been, and could never go, up to Hampstead Heath and know what love was.

He had not bargained with this crowd, and as he looked at the clock and saw that it was a quarter to nine, he rather regretted his invitation. He had got everything exactly where he wanted it, and he ought to have given it a rest. Having her round tonight was perhaps overdoing it. But you couldn’t overdo it really, and he would give her a drink and make her very welcome secretly. A delicious secret. He hoped that she would behave tactfully.

Mr. Sounder, meanwhile, had firmly established himself at a table in the bar with Mr. Loame, and Bob was having to serve them constantly. Mr. Sounder had already rough diagrams of scenery placed upon the table for debate, and wanted to know if various things could be Managed. Mr. Loame would Know. . . . Mr. Loame certainly thought so – yes. . . . Mr. Sounder was glad. Mr. Loame Knew –
he
didn’t. . . . Then again, said Mr. Loame, you might play the whole thing just in Tabs. Mr. Sounder replied with an intent, glassy look which was a mixture between a respectful ‘Might you?’ and a slight ache to be told what Tabs, precisely, were. Mr. Loame explained himself. . . . Ah-ha, now that wasn’t at all a bad idea. There you were again, you see. Mr. Loame Knew.

The Illegal Operation also still remained, having allied himself, in all the garrulous crowd, with Mr. Wall, who was expounding a heated argument. Mr. Wall was, alas, quite as drunk as the Illegal Operation. Indeed, in a strange (and
rather illegal) manner the latter often sobered up later in the evening. They were discussing Women, and the Illegal Operation, when listening to the other (which took place very seldom) was being studiedly impudent.

‘Now what
I
want to know,’ Mr. Wall was saying, beating his fist on the bar, ‘is is Woman
Woman
or ain’t she? That’s all. Is Woman Woman, or ain’t she?’

The Illegal Operation couldn’t say.

‘Now look at my eldest brother’s wife,’ commanded Mr. Wall.

‘Shooden like do that,’ murmured the Illegal Operation, but Mr. Wall was too carried away to observe the offensiveness of the remark.

‘Now look at her! She’d try to Wear the Trousers, if she could!’

‘Jussfassy,’ said the Illegal Operation, ‘Juss
Fassy
!’

‘She would! That’s a fact! She’d try to Wear the Trousers! But it ain’t right,
I
say!
I
say is Woman Woman or ain’t she?’

Bob coming up at this moment, to give an order to Ella, Mr. Wall appealed to him.

‘’Ere y’are Bob! ’Ere’s what I’m asking! Is Woman Woman or ain’t she?’

Bob hazarded that, so far as he knew, she probably was – and shouted to Ella for two Black and White.

‘But it’s more than that,’ cried Mr. Wall, going deeper. ‘Is Love
Love
, or ain’t it?’

That was certainly more subtle, but Bob had always believed it to be – and went back with his whiskies on a tray. Reassured, Mr. Wall turned again to a slightly bewildered Illegal Operation, and they both looked fiercely at his eldest brother’s wife – the brother-in-law with righteous anger, the Operation with a staggering endeavour properly to concentrate.

It was now five past nine, and she had not come in. The possibility of her not coming flashed across Bob’s mind. The strange thing was that he really felt that he wouldn’t care. He could almost find it in himself to hope that she wouldn’t come. The mere thought was, of course, a betrayal of her, and
her trust in him – but there you were. It was human nature, he supposed. He had got her in his pocket, and he was no longer mad about her. He could even conceive of her as an inconvenience. . . .

Then what about all that stuff about having a girl of your own? Oh yes – it would never do not to have her there. But having a girl was, somehow, rather a bore to-night.

He was enjoying his work to-night – enjoying humanity. What poor, ranting fools they all were – Sounder, and Loame, and Mr. Wall and the Illegal Operation, and all the crew of bowler-hatted gossips along the bar, and all the valiant couples and trios in the lounge, hatching schemes, discussing events, and summoning the waiter with deep-chested and haughty nonchalance.