Twenty Thousand Streets Under the Sky (26 page)

And they all three laughed.

In that guffaw his hatred for her was vitriolic and without limit. This was the end. He must get out of this filthy den.

‘I’m afraid your boy,’ said Prunella, ‘don’t quite approve.’

P
RUNELLA GOT UP
and lit the gas.

This was of a nightmare green brightness, and as well as reintroducing to the mind the wild filth and disorder of the room, brought to a nervous consciousness a little clock on the mantelpiece, which, after brief debate, and comparison with harlots’ wrist-watches, was ascertained to be Right, and
which informed Bob that he was due at ‘The Midnight Bell’ in twenty minutes.

He said he must be going. But Jenny would have none of this, saying that he could wait and have tea, after which she would come down with him. He said that he had not the time. She replied that he was not to be so silly.

And, indeed, he was glad to let her take it out of his hands. For the horror of having to leave her in this green and malignant den – of having to part, before her friends, with no conclusion come to, with no protest made, with no reassurance given, nor even rupture brought about, was too much for him. He had to speak to her alone.

Tea was soon ready, and they again settled around the fire – Sammy going off into another long story relating to a Postman, her dealings with him, and the singular passions from which an innocent bag and blue uniform commonly diverts the public’s attention. Sammy concluded by saying that she would Publish a Book, one of these fine days, on the topic.

Whereupon Jenny asked Bob when he was going to Publish his own Book.

‘What do you mean?’ said Bob, going rather white.

‘Why?’ she said. ‘You’re writin’ a book, ain’t you?’

‘No,’ said Bob, but it was too late.

‘What?’ said Prunella. ‘Is your Boy writin’ a book?’

She spared him no wretchedness. To have revealed this secret even to the good and trustworthy Ella would have been shameful enough, and he had never done so. Now he had revealed it to her, and she calmly spread it amongst her friends. A strange port for the brave little ship of his aspirations – a gang of prostitutes in an upper room! But he told himself again what he had told himself a thousand times before – he was beyond bitterness. He would not be surprised to find she had done murder next.

‘He always said he was writin’ a book,’ said Jenny.

‘Well,’ said Bob, ‘I ain’t.’

‘No – you
should
write a book,’ said Prunella, ‘and then you can dedicate it to Jenny.’

‘
Whattycate
?’ asked Jenny.

‘Dedicate,’ said Sammy, gulping her tea. ‘That means when it’s To a person.’

‘I don’t expect he wants to,’ said Jenny, who was now rather hurt at his denials. ‘I expect he wants to whattsizname it to that there Girl of his.’

‘Which girl?’ asked Bob.

‘That girl in that there bar of yours.’

‘Oh,’ said Bob. ‘You mean Ella.’

‘Is that her name – Ella?’

He instantly repented having given as much as the name away. He would be betraying Ella, as well as himself, in a moment.

‘That’s right,’ he said.

‘And who’s that other one?’ she asked. ‘The fat one with the peroxide hair?’

‘Oh – that’s the Mrs. The Governor’s Wife.’

‘
She
don’t look quite all that she should be,’ said Jenny. ‘Neither.’

‘She isn’t,’ said Bob, too quickly to stop himself. She got everything out of him. Now he was betraying the poor, dear, fat Mrs., as well. Needless to say, Jenny chose this moment to be interested.

‘Isn’t she?’ she pursued.

‘Well. There’s nothing wrong with her now,’ he said.

But she wouldn’t leave it alone.

‘What – was she a prostitute at one time?’

‘It’s only the rumour,’ said Bob. ‘I don’t expect it’s true.’

‘You shouldn’t talk of prostitutes,’ said Sammy, still gulping. ‘You’re one yourself, dear.’

‘Yes,’ said Jenny, ‘but I ain’t Glaring – not like that old woman.’

‘She’s a very good sort, anyway,’ said Bob, and remarked again that he must be going. He was again told not to be silly.

But a little later, seeing that he had only seven minutes in which to reach ‘The Midnight Bell,’ he put down his cup and rose.

‘Go on,’ said Sammy. ‘Let the boy go. You go on down with him.’

Jenny rose, grumbling; put on her hat, powdered her nose, brushed her clothes, and put on her coat. He shook hands with Sammy and Prunella, who expressed a courteous, but obviously insincere desire that he would call again. He left the room with Jenny, shutting the door.

In the absolute darkness of the passage outside, he took the hand of his love, the thief, who guided him warily downstairs.

T
HERE WAS NO
light on any of the floors. The old woman was still groaning though the harmonica had ceased.

Another child was being put to death, but in a slightly more merciful way. In the hall a dim light burned. At the door, with her hand on the latch, she put up her mouth, in a liberal and indolent way, to be kissed. . . .

They were out in the raw night air, walking towards Euston Road. She slipped her arm, as though seeking protection from the cold, into his.

‘Oh, Jenny,’ he said. . . .

‘M’m?’ she murmured, with a kind of tender and questioning friendliness, and snuggled up closer.

He perceived that at this very moment – the moment when her bland admissions had appalled him most – when she had confessed herself a pure criminal and he was half terrified by mere proximity to her – at this precise moment he was in good favour with her – in better favour than he had ever been. She was quiet, pliable, responsive. She loved him.

‘Oh, Jenny,’ he said. ‘Don’t tell me you’re a thief!’

‘Don’t be so silly, Bob,’ she said, and drew nearer still to him. Nothing, plainly, could disturb the new softness of her mood.

‘But it ain’t silly! It means everything! How can I go on with you, if you’re a thief?’

‘Don’t be so silly, Bob. I’m not a thief.’

‘But you said you took money!’

‘Well – that ain’t being a thief. Besides, I ain’t done it often.’

‘Haven’t you? How often?’

She paused.

‘I don’t remember any time,’ she said. ‘Besides that.’

He clutched at the straw.

‘Is that true?’

She was clearly out to please him, and his eagerness had been too manifest.

‘Yes. Honest. That’s the only time I’ve ever done it.’

He saw that she was clearly out to please him, and that his eagerness had been too manifest. He saw, therefore, that her reassurance meant nothing.

‘But, Jenny, I can’t believe you. You tell me such lies.’

‘Very well, then,’ she said, beginning to sulk, ‘I tell you lies.’

Her telling him like that (he reflected) that she told him lies did not mitigate or conceal, for an instant, the simple fact that she told him lies.

‘But you do, Jenny!’

‘Very well, then. I do. I’m just a cheat and liar.’

Her telling him that she was a cheat and liar did not mitigate or conceal, for a single instant, the fact that she was a cheat and liar.

‘But you
know
how you fool me, Jenny!’

‘Very well, I do. I ain’t no good to you.’

How could he explain to her that she wasn’t! – that by self-impeachment she was not acquitted! He gave in.

‘Jenny. Will you promise me that you’ll never steal again.’

‘Yes. I promise. I only done it once, an’ I’ll never do it again. There.’

He felt a little better. He had gained something, however insecure, to which he might cling – or (knowing his own genius at it) at least something with which he might later trick himself into his usual fool’s paradise. . . .

‘Besides,’ she added, nestling even closer, ‘when you and I are married I’ll never do anything like that.’

Married to her? In his late ordeal he had lost not only all
hope, but all thought, of that far and improbable consummation, and now she herself reminded him of it. Instantly, the thought of ultimately possessing her, of having this warm, living, elusive organism for his own, worked its old magic and he was begging.

‘Oh, Jenny –
will
you marry me?’

‘’Course I will, dear. I love you.’

‘Do you?’

‘’Course I love you. Shouldn’t be here if I didn’t – would I?’

He was sick to death of this testimony – she never had any other. To this moment he had not the remotest conception whether she loved him or not.

He tried to call her bluff.

‘Well – will you get a job?’

There was a pause.

‘Yes. I’ll get a job.’

If only she would say she wouldn’t! – Anything but this fatuous equability.

By this time they were nearing ‘The Midnight Bell’ and he led her down a side street. He had only three minutes more.

‘What happened about that other job?’

‘Nothing. I didn’t go. I haven’t got a dress.’

‘Well, look here, Jenny, I’ve got ten pounds in my pocket. I promised you five for the dress yesterday evening: if you can land that job I’ll give you the ten. Do you think it’s too late?’

‘No. I don’t expect it’s too late.’

‘Well, will you go down there to-night?’

‘Yes. But if you give me that ten, I’ll pay it all back – when I get it back from my friend.’

She had already presumed she was going to get the ten. ‘It’s not the money that matters – it’s the job. Will you go down there to-night?’

‘Yes. But I’m goin’ to pay that money back.’

He wanted to tell her that she hadn’t got it yet. At any rate he was damned if he would give it her before she had promised. He stopped in the street.

‘Will you go for that job
to-night
?’

‘Yes. All right. I’ll do somethin’.’

What did she think she meant by that?

‘Will you go round there
now
?’

‘Well. I can’t go round without a dress.’

‘Oh, Jenny. Don’t stand there like that. I got to go. I’m late already. Will you
’phone
them?’

‘Yes. I’ll ’phone them.’

She would drive him fighting mad.

‘Do you know their
number
?’

‘No. But my friend does.’

‘Well, can you
find
your friend?’

‘Yes. I can find her easy.’

‘Jenny. I’ve got to go. When will I see you next?’

‘Any time you like, dear.’

‘I got to go. Here’s the money.’ It was too late to argue and he handed it to her. ‘Let me see you to-morrow. Three thirty. Down in the Haymarket. Same place. See your friend, ’phone about the job, meet me to-morrow, three thirty same place, and tell me what happened. Can you do all that – for ten pounds?’

He was instantly sorry for this last irony, for she at once began to sulk, and there was positively no time for sulking.

‘I’m not doin’ it for the ten pounds,’ she said. ‘And you can have your old money, if you want it.’

‘I’m sorry, Jenny. Forgive me. I didn’t mean it. I got to go. Will you do all that?’

‘Not if you speak like that.’

‘Oh, I’m
sorry
, Jenny! I got to go! Will you do all that?’

‘Yes. I’ll do all that. I’ll see you to-morrow three thirty.’

‘Promise?’

‘Yes. Solemn.’

With which should he reinforce the oath – her Mother’s Grave or her Liberty? After her recent disclosures he rather favoured her Liberty.

‘On your Liberty?’

‘Yes. On my Liberty.’

‘Good-bye, dearest. I do love you so.’

‘Good-bye, darling.’

They embraced.

I
T IS ASTONISHING
with what abruptness the entire quality and atmosphere of life can be rendered unfamiliar, and never was the transition so sudden as at ‘The Midnight Bell’ the next morning. It went to bed in all innocence on Friday, and awoke on Saturday to a new world and the fact that Christmas was upon it. Not Christmas Day, of course (that was not until next Tuesday) but Christmas in general.

At midnight on Friday, unknown to all, the Governor and his wife had decorated the bar, and the result in the morning was spectacular! Everybody had known for weeks, of course, that the thing was coming, but it was none the less a surprise when it came. Even Bob’s spirits responded to the little diversion, wondering what he could give Jenny for a present; and Ella, of course, was perter, and neater, and happier than ever.

Mr. Sounder, however, was a little heavy about His Majesty’s illness. For by now ‘the poor old king’ (as Ella, with a compassion sincere but slightly disrespectful, invariably called him) had been in danger for over three weeks, and Mr. Sounder said that our Festive Season could be Hardly Joyous with that Looming over us.

The other opinions and reactions were varied. Ella asked for news from every customer, and maintained firmly that he would pull through: Bob (selfish as ever) said nothing but secretly wondered whether he (Bob) would be more successful as an Edwardian than as a Georgian, and hoped so. The Governor had got it into his head that the Prince of Wales would Never Come to the Throne, but that the Duke of York would be Elected instead (a fantastic and unconstitutional theory from which he would not budge an inch, but which was listened to with forced respect because the Governor was the Governor): the Governor’s Wife said that if Anybody had done their Job
he
had. The Illegal Operation said that it was all a damn lot of humbug (but what precisely he meant by that nobody knew, and he was drunk when he said it anyway): and Mr. Wall had just one thing to say on the matter, and
one only, and one continuously: – it was only Science what was Keeping Him Alive.

This Saturday morning Mr. Sounder was even heavier than usual. He spoke across the bar to the Governor.

‘According to
Inside
Information,’ he said, ‘he’s never going to get well. . . .’

‘Yes,’ said the Governor, and looked reflective as he puffed at his pipe. . . .

This, of course, was the incorrect reply. The correct reply was ‘Ah-ha! So you have
inside
information? You are in the know. Come along. Tell us all about it.’ Instead of which, the tactless Governor puffed at his pipe and merely replied ‘Yes. . . .’