Twenty Thousand Streets Under the Sky (24 page)

‘Will you have another drink,’ he said.

‘Ta,’ said Prunella. ‘You’re a sport.’

Another drink was ordered and they talked of other things. But the young man’s seediness of mind, as well as body, had rather damped the occasion.

‘Did you ever do anything about that job, Jenny?’ asked Bob at last.

‘No, dear,’ said Jenny. ‘I didn’t.’

So that was the end of that.

He was not going to worry. It was all right. She was not responsible for what she was saying.

‘What’s been happening? I rang you up this morning, and they said you weren’t there.’

‘No, dear. I ran away.’

‘Why was that?’

‘Because I hadn’t any money, I suppose, dear.’

‘Yes,’ said Prunella. ‘Jenny’s been in trouble. An’ she’s owed five pounds, too.’

‘Who owes her five pounds?’

‘Oh – a girl friend. She got taken up. Dirty plain clothes man got a grudge on her. And Jenny paid her fine.’

‘I’ll kill that man one day,’ said Jenny. ‘And he doesn’t like
me
, either. . . .’

‘That man,’ said Prunella, ‘makes
thirty pounds a week
– takin’ his wages off us girls.’

‘Really?’

‘Any may God strike me dead,’ said Prunella, ‘if I’m not speakin’ the truth.’

God did not strike Prunella dead. (He never does this.) So Bob supposed she was speaking the truth. It also occurred to him that God, by diverse methods, had probably stricken Prunella enough already.

‘Of course, it don’t matter to a millionaire like Bob,’ said Jenny.

‘Why. Has he got some money?’

‘He’s got fifty pounds.’

‘Go on,’ said Prunella.

‘He has,’ said Jenny.

‘Go on,’ said Prunella.

‘Ain’t he,’ said Jenny. . . .

‘Go on,’ said Prunella. ‘Why don’t you lend Jenny a fiver?’ ‘I offered to lend her one, for an evening dress. But now that’s off, apparently.’

‘No. Go on,’ said Prunella. ‘You lend Jenny a fiver. She’ll pay you back. She’s goin’ to get it back all right – an’ I’ll see that she gives it you. She’s livin’ with me now. I’ll guarantee to give it you myself if she doesn’t. But she’s goin’ to get it back all right, an’ she’ll just hand it over.’

‘I’d give her the money,’ said Bob, ‘if she’d go for the job.’

‘Well, you’ll go for the job, won’t you, Jenny?’

‘Yes, I’ll go for the job.’ She had softened again already.

‘Well, we’ll see about it,’ said Bob, ‘next time I see you.’ To begin with, he would be damned if he gave her another penny. But apart from that, and since he would have, of course, to give it to her, he was going to drive the best bargain he could. He couldn’t possibly go on spending like this.

‘When’ll that be?’ asked Prunella.

‘Well, what about to-morrow?’

‘That’s all right,’ said Jenny. ‘An’ you can come up, if you like.’

‘What? To your room?’

‘Yes.’

Ever so slightly the skies seemed to be clearing. Her room.
The thought was strangely enticing. What might not occur in Jenny’s room? If he could only get Jenny alone again, and talk to her, something might yet be done.

They now arranged to meet outside ‘The Green Man’ at ten past three. She would then take him back with her.

‘Well, Jen,’ said Prunella, ‘we’d best be goin’ if we’re goin’ to meet Bill.’

‘Who’s Bill?’ asked Bob.

‘Bill? Oh, he’s my boy,’ said Prunella. ‘He’s going to take us to dance.’

Her boy. How in Heaven’s name did these women get hold of men? Were they not utterly outcast – beyond the pale? They didn’t seem to think themselves so. He recalled the episode with the seedy young man, and wondered what it felt like, being Prunella’s boy. . . . But what, then, was his own relationship to Jenny? . . .

‘Well, don’t let me keep you,’ he said. ‘I’ll stay on. See you to-morrow. Ten past three.’

‘Right you are, dear.’ They arose. ‘Ta-ta!’

Jenny smiled at him, and had clearly forgiven him all.

Only as he saw her vanishing through the door, to revelries he could not share, did he realize that she had made no excuse (nor attempted to make any) for not having met him on Monday.

T
HE FIRST THING
he did the next morning was to slip down to the bank and draw another ten pounds. These subtractions were becoming, of course, really terrifying, but at this juncture it was necessary. Also he skilfully exempted himself from the charge of extravagance and weakness by yet another new theory of money. He would now have exactly fifty pounds left – a round and sensible sum – a half century. Any savings he had ever had over and above that
sum had been merely poetic extras. He had been indulging in unparalleled wildness of late, and the extras had gone. That was all.

Besides, after this, he would never spend a penny over and above his salary.

And then again, he honestly believed that a new era was opening in this affair. She now had an address near by: he was allowed to visit her: he could talk to her alone and in peace, and some sort of an arrangement or conclusion could be hammered out. Hitherto he had been baffled, not so much by herself as by his sheer inability to meet her – surely a quite unique obstacle – though natural enough if you took into consideration her manner of living. Yes – Bob honestly believed a new era was dawning.

At ten past three he was outside ‘The Green Man.’ She was not there. Nor was she at twenty past. But at five and twenty past he saw Prunella coming towards him.

‘Hullo, dear,’ she said. ‘Waiting for Jenny?’ She smiled.

‘That’s right.’

‘Well, she’s got a bit of toothache, an’ stayed in bed all the morning. She told me to ask you if you’d get her somethin’ to eat, like, and then go along up.’

He was greatly relieved. ‘Right you are. What am I to get?’

‘Oh – there’s a place just along here. I’ll take you round there before we go up.’

Prunella was coming up, too, then? They walked along the Euston Road in silence. What on earth would happen if Ella came out and saw him? Nothing was more likely. Jenny might have passed, but there was no mistaking Prunella. . . . Such were the hazards of this wicked and uncanny adventure.

‘Jenny ain’t half been goin’ on about
you
,’ said Prunella, ‘this morning.’

‘Oh – really?’

‘Ain’t she half? She wouldn’t never leave off about you. She said you were the straightest boy she’d ever met.’

‘Did she?’ Bob laughed nervously.

‘Yes, she said you were the straightest and nicest boy she’d ever met. And I wouldn’t Say that, would I?’

By which Prunella meant that she would not Say what she had said if she did not mean it, or if it were not true.

‘No,’ said Bob.

‘An’ she said she ain’t half treated you bad, but you always stood by her. She said she ain’t half led you a dance, but you was a boy worth stickin’ to. She did. Honest. An’ there ain’t any Object, is there?’

By which Prunella meant that there was no Object in her saying what she had said, if she did not mean it, or if it were not true.

‘Of course not,’ said Bob. . . . (Was this appreciation at last?)

‘She didn’t half go on about you – reely,’ continued Prunella. ‘It’d have made your ears burn if you’d heard all she said.’

Bob again laughed nervously.

‘An’ I haven’t any Cause,’ said Prunella. ‘Have I?’

By which Prunella meant that she had no Cause to say what she was saying except in so far as she meant it, and it was true.

‘No,’ said Bob. ‘Rather not.’

At this point they reached the small and rather grubby little delicatessen shop which Prunella had in mind. After looking briefly in the window, she decided upon one of those terrible, meretricious, castellated round objects which are so crusty and alluring to the eye, so wearying, ugly, and stodgy to the tongue and digestion – a pork pie. Potato salad was Bob’s idea, and accepted. He paid for both; they came out and walked back again.

She was evidently a born matchmaker, and having sung his own, now began to sing Jenny’s praises.

‘Oh – she ain’t half a sweet little girl,’ she said.

‘I know,’ said Bob. (But he lied.)

‘There ain’t no one I’m so fond of as Jen. We just hit it off lovely. I think we must have very sim’lar temper’ments, you know.’

Bob nodded.

‘I mean it – reely. And I haven’t any Reason, have I?’

‘Rather not.’

‘Of course, I don’t think Jen’s quite as well as she ought to be, you know.’

‘Don’t you?’

‘No,’ said Prunella, critically. ‘She’s
thin
, don’t you think so?’

‘Yes. Perhaps she is.’

He perceived that she expected Jenny’s ‘boy’ to be naturally and fixedly interested in such a topic, and though in some measure pleased and flattered, could not help wondering what in heaven’s name he was letting himself in for.

‘What
she
wants,’ said Prunella, ‘is more Nourishing Food.’

‘M’m,’ said Bob.

‘I’m trying to get her to take Phosferine,’ said Prunella, ‘but I can’t make her do it regular. She’s a silly girl. She wants lookin’ after. She’s impulsive, you know.’ She was interpreting her character like a friend of the family with an engaged couple.

At this point they reached Bolsover Street. This starts off with tall and newly erected buildings, but soon dwindles down into the drab and decayed slum which actually it is. She took him to a door not far down. The house was of four stories, and seemed to be untenanted. At least, you could only hope that that was what accounted for the evil and deliberate stagnation with which it confronted the world. She let herself in with a large key, and they found themselves in a dark passage which chilled Bob’s soul, but which had no such effect upon Prunella, whose dainty high heels went clock-clocking up the bare wooden stairs. He followed. On each landing three different doors led into three different rooms containing three different families. All the doors were closed, but the awful belligerence of the poor was to be heard and sensed. On the first floor a man was reviling a woman, and a child, in another room, screaming. It did this not as though it was being beaten (which it possibly was) but as though it was being put to death. On the second floor someone was playing a harmonica, but in the front room an old woman groaned. You could not imagine what at, unless it was the harmonica. On the third floor two other children were being put to death.
You could hardly believe that three children were being put to death, simultaneously, in the same house, at the precise time of your arrival, but there you were. Bob hoped that he would not have to go any higher than the third floor, but was disappointed. The heels clocked untiringly ahead of him. The bower of love was reserved, romantically, for the top. Here there were no noises. Prunella opened the door.

Jenny stood before the fire, combing her hair in the mirror above the mantelpiece.

‘Here’s your boy,’ said Prunella. ‘I’ve brought him back.’

A
BEDROOM FOR TWO
. In the confined, crowded, low-ceilinged space you could hardly move. The window was small, and, inexplicably, barred. Outside was the fog of the late afternoon, and the shapes of things glowed strangely in its murky dusk. Only in certain lights could you see each other’s faces.

There were two arm-chairs – threadbare, down at castors, and bursting. There was a plain deal table in the centre, with a coloured check cloth at least a decade old. There was a large double bed, whose sheets were grey. There was a deal cupboard, with shelves above for plates. There was a washing stand with a jug and basin – a source of cleanliness, no doubt, but easily the dirtiest thing in the room. A towel, attached to it by a line of string, was several grades greyer than the sheets. Propped up everywhere were framed portraits of men. The favoured gentlemen were mostly taken in their hats and grinned their signed compliments in a sidelong way. An affable army of Boys. . . .

At first Bob thought that these, perhaps, were all Jenny’s current admirers, and the thought made him sick. But later he saw that they belonged to a past, that this room had been occupied by generations of harlots, who had left old relics of
the profession of love. This was, doubtless, down in Wardour Street, an exchanged and popular address. Its atmosphere and character were unmistakable, and could only have been acquired through years. Disease and delinquency were in the air: no one had ever cleaned it out, for no toiler had ever inhabited it. Only those who had fled from toil – only unemployed servant girls, and the spoiled beauties of the slums, had filled it with the lotus odour of their indolence and unhappiness. The mantelpiece was crowded out with old medicine bottles – a pathetic testimony to past sufferings, and an unenquiring faith in the efficacy of Science. More ‘Mixtures,’ more Bovril, more Cod-liver Oil, more Ovaltine, more Veno’s Lightning Cough Cure, more Iron Jelloids, more Beecham’s Pills, more Proven Remedies are consumed by these bemused and felonious souls than in any other section of the community.

‘Come right in, dear,’ said Jenny, warmly, and from the first moment they made it clear that the atmosphere was purely social, and that he was to be treated with the courtesies due to a guest. He was at once offered the best arm-chair, and before ten minutes had passed Jenny had finished what she could eat of her pie (which was very little), and they were all seated round the fire, and talking in an affable way.

So many things had happened to Bob within the last few weeks, and so filled was he with a sense of everything being nothing but a kind of nightmare interlude, that he could make absolutely no response to his present situation. All he could do was to enter, with as much spirit as possible, into the conversation.

This at once took a highly moral and genteel course, opening with a fine discourse from Prunella on the topic of Swearing. For Jenny having discovered a ladder in her stocking, Let Go a Bad Word, and Prunella, as her mentor, brought her to book. It was not that Prunella was Religious: it was not that Prunella was Stuck Up: but she simply thought it let a girl down, if she didn’t keep her talk clean. A man, said Prunella, always thought much more of a girl if she knew how to behave. Didn’t Bob think so?