Twenty Thousand Streets Under the Sky (21 page)

‘Well, I’m very grateful. I wouldn’t take it – only I’m not feelin’ very well myself to-night.’

‘Ain’t you feeling well?’

‘No. That pain’s comin’ on again.’

‘Well, I’ll see you home. May I see you home – to Doughty Street?’

‘All right. And you need only give me a pound. That’ll be quite enough.’

He need only give her a pound! Another ironic instant! But he was thankful, at the price. He was going to take his loved one back to her abode.

‘Oh, I do love you, Jenny,’ he said, ‘can’t we do something about it?’

‘Oh yes. We can do somethin’ I ’spect. Well, let’s go – shall we?’

She didn’t care. She expected something could be done, and wanted to go. ‘Yes,’ he said, and rose in despair.

He was following her out like a dog. It was obvious that she was sexless. She had bewitched him.

They came out into the air and Wardour Street. He took her arm.

‘Oo, look!’ she said, ‘it’s snowing!’

And it was. Quite hard. Tiny flakes, whirling and scampering down, as though in terror or ecstasy, from the hidden night above. A myriad host of minute invaders, coming to fill, with their delicate but excited concerns, the gloomy plains of electric-lit London. A pleasant surprise – a visitation! One little flake fell on her young cheek and stayed there. She put her blue eyes up to the sky. She was delighted.

‘Oo!’ she said. ‘It ain’t half coming down!’

They walked on. There were many of her calling lurking about. She smiled at one of them, in passing, in an amiable way.

H
E HAD NEVER
had before the slightest intimation that he loved her like this.

‘I
love
you, Jenny, dear,’ he said, ‘I love you. I’d die for you!’

‘Well,’ she said, smiling faintly, ‘there wouldn’t be much sense in
that
. . . .’

She was plainly gratified by the new turn of affairs –
gratified in a quiet and rather greedy way – in the way that a cat is gratified when it has at last consumed the canary.

‘
Would
there? . . .’ she added. And, with their arms interlocked, she slipped her hand into his. The cat lay down on the rug before the fire.

‘Oh, Jenny, dear, I’ll work for you. I will. I’ll work till I get you, Jenny!’

She did not answer, but gave his hand a little pressure. They were by now in Shaftesbury Avenue.

‘How old is he?’ asked Bob.

‘What – my husband?’

‘Yes.’

‘Oh. ’Bout thirty-two.’

She could speak of him so coolly now. Her monstrous and prolonged deceitfulness in not telling him before dawned upon him. But he was beyond complaining.

‘Oh, Jenny. I do love you!’

‘All right, Bob. I know you do. You mustn’t take on so.’

‘Jenny, dear?’

‘Yes.’

‘You’re coming away with me, aren’t you? For a holiday. After Christmas.’

‘Yes. All right. I’ll come away with you.’

She was taking advantages already. Before, the idea of going away for a holiday had been ‘lovely.’ Now, graciously, she was conceding it.

‘I’ll give you a lovely holiday, Jenny. We’ll go to Brighton.’

‘All right.’

(All right!)

‘Where do you get all your money from, Bob?’

‘I ain’t got any. That’s the funny part. I got seventy pounds – what I saved. I had eighty. I only got seventy now.’

‘You shouldn’t be so extravagant,’ said Jenny.

‘I guess you’re an extravagant article, Jenny.’

‘No, I’m not. I’m ever so thrifty, if you knew me. I’d make ever such a good wife. I would. Honest. I know how to save, ’cos I’ve learnt the need of it.’

‘Oh Jenny. Why ain’t you
my
wife?’

‘Well, p’raps I will be one day.’

‘Oh Jenny. I’ll get you. I will. . . . An’ maybe I’ll have a lot of money one day.’

‘What – have you got rich relatives, or somethin’?’

‘No. I ain’t got no rich relatives. But I may make some money, all the same.’

‘How’s that?’

‘Oh, I ’spect you’d only laugh if I told you.’

‘No. I wouldn’t. Go on.’

‘No. I won’t tell you.’

‘No. Go on, Bob.’

‘Well – remember our talk about writers?’

He had never spoken of this to another soul in the world. All things flowed irresistibly from him into her loveliness.

‘What?’ said Jenny. ‘Are you goin’ to be an Author?’

‘Yes. Sounds silly. But I got my ideas. . . .’

There was a pause. He was breathlessly anxious for her answer.

‘
I
’
ll
write a book one of these days,’ said Jenny, and smiled to herself.

Her perfect cruelty and egotism appalled him. He had told her his most secret secret, revealed his anguished, dearest hope. And she had turned it off lightly, to afford a pretty conceit for herself.

‘I could tell ’em somethin’,’ said Jenny, ‘couldn’t I?’

‘No, Jenny. I’m serious. I’m
goin
’ to write a book one day. You don’t understand. I know ever such a lot about it.’

‘Do you, Bob?’

‘Yes. I’m goin’ to write a novel.’

‘Are you? An’ I ’spect you’ll make me your heroine, won’t you?’

She was vulgar, ignorant, detestable. And vain into the bargain. He could kill her.

No, no. He was merely maddened. She was artless, innocuous, innocent. ‘
You
’
ll make me your heroine
.’ A charming and tentative observation. She supposed, because he loved her, that he would make her his ‘heroine.’ After all, what right had he to expect any intelligence from her?

‘They don’t have “heroines” in books, nowadays, Jenny.’

‘Yes they do,’ said Jenny. (She was perfectly secure on the point.) ‘An’ they have heroes, too.’

‘No, they don’t, Jenny. “Heroines” are out of date.’

‘Don’t be so silly, Bob. ’Course they have heroines. You got to have a girl, what goes through it all, haven’t you?’

‘Yes, but you don’t make them “heroines” any longer.’

‘Don’t be silly, Bob. ’Course you do.’

‘But you
don
’
t
, Jenny.’

‘All right, then. You don’t. You know more about it than me.’

‘You might have protagonists,’ compromised Bob. . . .

‘Pro
whatt
onists?’

‘Protagonists.’

‘Well,’ said Jenny, ‘
that
’
s
a good thing.’ But she was speaking satirically.

At this point they had reached Oxford Street, and were opposite Mudie’s. Their way to Doughty Street lay to the right. With a vague hope of fooling her into prolonging the walk, he tried to lead her up in the direction of the Museum. But she would have none of it. ‘No, this way, dear,’ she said. The snow was already settling on the ground.

‘You and your old pro Whatsiznames,’ she said. . .
They walked on in silence. She began to hum.

‘An author
gave
me a book of his once,’ she said. . . .

An author! His blood ran cold. This was too much. She had been to Paris. A languishing husband loved her hopelessly. Now authors gave her books. Authors. She had smitten him where he could bear it least.

‘Oh – how’s that?’

‘Oh, he met me one night, an’ took me back to his flat. There wasn’t nothing in it. He gave me a drink, an’ asked me to tell him my story.’

‘Did you?’

‘Oh, yes. I told him something. He said I was so young he wanted to know how I got started. Then he gave me his book, and said I’d find myself in it – or somethin’ like that. It was only
me
, under another name, he said. . . .’

‘What a damned fool,’ said Bob.

‘He wasn’t a damned fool at all,’ she said. ‘He was very nice.’ (He had offended her now, Heaven help him.)

‘I am sorry. Perhaps he wasn’t.’

‘I think you’re jealous, aren’t you?’

‘Yes. I am. Some people get all the best of it.’

‘Well, you needn’t be jealous of him, ’cos he wasn’t interested in
me
.’

‘Oh, Jenny, I love you too much. That’s what’s the matter.’

‘Well, don’t be so silly.’ And she pressed his hand again forgivingly.

And how could he complain? Languishing husbands might love her to distraction; authors might give her books. She might go to Paris. But she was here now, forgiving him with little pressures – his ‘girl.’ She had said she loved him.

‘Oh, Jenny, dear. Won’t you get a job?’

‘Yes. I’ll get a job – if you can find me one. ’S’matter of fact I’m after one now.’

‘Oh – what’s that?’

‘It’s as a dancing instructress. I’m quite good at dancin’. I’ve been in a chorus, you know.’

‘Have you?’

He had now to deal with an actress. Would it ever end?

‘Yes. Well, this job’s as a dancin’ instructress in a place in Soho. I got it through my friend. I got a letter saying Will you please come along next Tuesday in evening dress, an’ we will give you your instructions. That’s what they said. That looks as though I got it, don’t it?’

‘Yes. It looks like it.’

They had now entered Theobald’s Road, and were not far from their destination.

‘Only I haven’t got an evening dress. That’s the trouble.’ ‘How much is an evening dress?’

‘Oh – I could get one down Berwick Street for three guineas, I expect.’

‘Do you think you’ll get the job?’

‘Oh yes. I think I’ll get it all right. My friend says I’ve got it already, for sure.’

‘I’ll give it you.’

‘What – will you give me an evening dress?’

‘Yes. I’ll bring the money next time.’

She assumed a simple-hearted detachment.

‘Well, I’ll tell you what. That ain’t such a bad idea as it sounds. I wouldn’t take it – not in the ordinary way —’

(She would never, he perceived, under any circumstances take anything; and she never, under any circumstances, failed to take everything.)

‘. . . Not in the ordinary way I wouldn’t. But this would be an Investment. Wouldn’t it? It’s like an Investment – ain’t it?’

‘I’ll bring it along next time,’ he said.

‘No. It would be an investment,
wouldn
’
t
it?’ But her voice was insecure with inward glee.

‘I hope so, Jenny. I only want you to get a job, that’s all.’

She snuggled up to him.

‘You ain’t half good, Bob, ain’t you? An’ I’ll wear it when we go away together, shall I?’

She intertwined her fingers in his. ‘I’ll wear it for my Bob. How’s that?’

‘That’s right.’

‘I’ll be kissin’ you in the street one of these days, Bob, you know – jes’ by accident.’

A more perfect demonstration of cupboard love he could not have imagined possible. She was flagrant, intemperate.

‘Accidents will happen,’ he said, wearily.

‘They
will
,’ she said. . . .

‘Hullo, here we are,’ he said. ‘Here’s your Doughty Street.’

‘Yes. Here we are. My word. Ain’t it just snowin’!’

It was snowing in Doughty Street, and the remaining moments with the woman he loved might be counted. The pavement was already covered with a white carpet, glistening and sound-deadening.

‘Did you know you lived in the same Street as Dickens, Jenny?’

‘What – do I?’

‘Yes. That’s his house over the way.’

‘Was that where he lived, then?’

‘Yes.’

‘I guess he was a silly old man – wasn’t he, Bob?’

‘Was he?’

‘Yes,’ said Jenny. She was secure on this point too. ‘He was a silly old man with a beard.’

They walked on in silence.

‘Well, when am I goin’ to see you again, Jenny?’

‘Whenever you like, darling.’

‘Oh – I must give you that pound.’ He gave it her. ‘And I’ll bring those three guineas along next time.’

‘Thanks ever so much, dear.’ She pressed his hand, still intertwined with her own. ‘And then we’ll go away, after Christmas, shall we?’

‘Yes, dear. . . . Well, when shall I see you? I can’t have any more evenings off till next Thursday. I had to make up stories to get this one.’

‘What – did you make up stories?’

‘Yes. I think it’d be better if we gave it a rest for a bit. How about next Monday?’

‘Do you want a rest from me, then, Bob?’

‘Yes. You’re better in small doses, Jenny.’

And it was true. She had worn him out. He was, in a manner, dead weary of her.

‘Well – this is me, dear,’ she said, and smiled and stopped. He retained her hand.

‘What a fine house, Jenny. Which is your room?’

‘Oh. Your poor little Jenny’s right up at the top.’

‘Well – what about Monday, Jenny – 3.30 – same place?’

‘Monday, 3.30? Right you are, dear. I’ll be there.’

‘You’re
sure
you’ll be there, Jenny?’

‘Yes. I promise I will.’

‘Promise solemnly?’

‘Yes. I promise solemnly. Look. I promise on my Mother’s Life. There.’

What was this? Her Mother’s Life? Was this a greater concession than her Liberty? Her Mother’s Life. Perhaps he had stumbled upon a formula. It was worth looking into.

‘But your Mother’s dead,’ he said, ‘isn’t she?’

‘Well. I promise on my Mother’s Grave, then. I wouldn’t do
that
, would I?’

Her Mother’s Grave. It sounded almost as if it would do the trick. ‘Well, go on. Promise.’

‘I promise on my Mother’s Grave,’ said Jenny, ‘that I’ll meet you.’

(At any rate she is promising me, thought Bob, on her Evening Dress, that she will meet me.)

‘And name the time,’ he demanded.

‘I promise on my Mother’s Grave,’ said Jenny, ‘that I’ll meet you at 2.30.’

‘Three-thirty! Three-thirty!’

Her inconsequence was awful. Her Mother’s Grave would have been wasted on thin air.

‘Sorry,’ said Jenny, ‘I promise on my — ’

‘All right, dear, all right. 3.30 – same place.’

‘Right you are, dear.’

‘Good-bye, Jenny.’

‘Good-bye, Bob.’

She put up her face so that he might kiss her. He kissed her. He put his arms around her, and surrounded his desires. The snow fell. His own Jenny. From her mouth he accepted intimations of her tender relenting being along his own. In love, he was her invalid: she was sustenance, assuagement, calm. Briefly he was clinging to violets and paradise. It was over.