Twenty Thousand Streets Under the Sky (28 page)

The future was filled with roses. After infinite obstacles and despairs he had gained what he wanted – the woman he loved. And what more might any man gain? He saw that, after all, his life was to be crowned with success. Now he could look back and applaud his courage and persistency – qualities which others would not have shown, and, in not showing, lost the highest reward of life.

He was, in brief, something better than his fellow men. To that conviction Bob inevitably returned.

He was meeting her at seven in the Haymarket. On his way out he had to pass through the bar, which contained a few customers and Ella. . . .

‘My
word
!’ said Ella as he passed. . . .

She was alluding, in the spirit of satire, to his apparel, his exquisiteness, his demeanour. She had seen the blue suit before, but (perceiving all things), she perceived, in the brief moment of his passing, that there was something over and above the blue suit. She perceived that he was making a night of it, that he glowed with the fires of health and hope. And knowing how foolish it was to glow about anything on this vile and disappointing planet (and not having anything to glow about herself), she could not resist taking him down a peg or two. And so she said, in the spirit of satire – ‘My
word
!’

A
NY LINGERING DOUBTS
as to the perfection and reality of her love for him were serenely dispelled as he came along to the Haymarket, five minutes before the time, and saw her waiting for him.

‘I’m not late, am I?’ he asked, eagerly.

‘No, you’re not late. . . .’ She smiled up at him, and they walked along.

‘Well,’ said Bob. ‘Many happy returns of the day, Jenny.’

She smiled again, but her reply produced the faintest of faint chills.

‘Don’t want so many – myself,’ she said. . . . In the disillusionment it bespoke it was not quite the remark he could have desired from one who, having found love, should properly require nothing save immortality on earth with her lover. . . .

‘Why not?’ he said, a little aggrieved.

‘Had about enough, I should say.’

Again depressing. But he had better leave it alone. He was not going to quarrel about
that
.

‘Well, Jenny – how’ve you been since I saw you?’

‘Quite all right, thanks,’ she said, as they crossed the road. ‘’S’matter of fact I’ve got some news.’

The problem of evading the traffic, in the middle of Coventry Street, temporarily diverted an optimistic consciousness from the problem of what the devil this might mean. It did, however, just flash across Bob’s mind that perhaps all the old torture was going to begin again.

‘Good or bad?’ he asked, brightly, as they reached the other side.

‘Well – half an’ half.’

‘What’s it about?’

There was a pause.

‘Well,’ said Jenny. ‘It’s about that holiday of ours.’

This time, he decided, he was not going to lose his head.

‘Is it off?’ he asked, as though he were not very interested. But the world was swimming about him.

‘No – it ain’t off. I’ll tell you when we’re sittin’ down.’

‘Where are we going?’

‘Well – let’s go and have a drink.’

‘All right. But I wanted to take you somewhere nice tonight.’

‘Well – we’ll go there later. I’ll tell you everything when we’re sittin’ down.’

They walked along to the ‘Globe,’ which was almost deserted, and sat down at a table. Drinks were brought them by a waiter.

‘Well?’ said Bob.

‘There’s nothing to tell, really. I won’t be able to come away. Not all the time, that’s all.’

‘Oh – why’s that?’

‘Just can’t, dear – that’s all.’

‘But why not? . . . Don’t be afraid to tell me, Jenny.’ He was not going to lose his head.

‘I’ve got to go away – that’s all.’

‘Who with?’ He was not going to lose his head.

‘It don’t matter who with. I’ve got to go for the week-end, that’s all.’

He was not going to lose his head.

‘Do tell me who with, Jenny?’

‘I don’t see no need for that. . . .’

‘Do tell me who with, Jenny?’

‘Well. If you must know. . . .’

‘Yes?’

‘It’s a Chap, that’s all.’

He was not going to lose his head.

‘And you’ve promised to go with him for the week-end?’

‘Yes.’

‘Where are you going?’

‘Well – funny enough – I’m going to Brighton. I’ll meet you afterwards, though – after the week-end. I will, really.’

There was a pause.

‘Jenny?’

‘Yes.’

‘If you love me you won’t go.’

‘It’s not love that enters in.’

‘Do you love me?’

‘I said I do – ain’t I?’

‘But
do
you?’

‘Yes. I do.’

But Bob would not take Yes for an answer.

‘Oh, for God’s sake say if you don’t!’

‘But I do. I said so. Ain’t I?’

‘Then if you love me, you won’t go.’

‘It’s not love at all. He’s goin’ to give me So Much, if I go with him for the week-end, and I can’t afford to throw it away – that’s all.’

‘How much is he going to give you?’

There was a pause. This was a crucial moment. He saw that she intended to go. He saw that she knew he was going to offer to pay the sum himself. He saw her mind working – calculating an appropriate falsehood. If she made it too little he would pay it himself – if she made it too much he would not believe her. He saw, finally, that she did not love him, and that all the world was lost.

‘Twenty pounds,’ said Jenny.

It was a clever appraisement of the situation. He would have chosen the same amount himself – something beyond his purse but just credible.

But why was she lying to him? Why did she desire to put this man before him?

‘Who is he?’

‘Oh – I’ve known him a long time.’

‘Where did you meet him?’

‘Oh – about here.’

‘Picked him up, you mean?’

‘Yes, if you want to put it that way.’

There was a silence.

‘He’s a Gentleman,’ said Jenny. ‘’S’matter of fact.’

‘What do you mean – “gentleman”?’

‘Well – you know what I mean. A Proper gentleman. He’s very nice.’

‘Is he?’

‘Yes. He’s teachin’ me how to talk Educated.’

This was too much, and his malice leapt out.

‘But not with a great success,’ he said.

He had never known before, in this affair, what jealousy meant. A gentleman. What he was not – what he might never be. This was the unkindest cut of all. What would he himself not give to have a gentleman teach him to talk Educated! How
often had he hoped, from his little eminence, to undertake Jenny’s education himself. And here was a gentleman to come and do it instead of him.

And to steal Jenny into the bargain. He felt that he could never rise now. It was all too unfair. He was mocked. Jenny and her Gentleman – ‘the prettiest little girl in the West End’ and her gentleman lover – passed on to higher spheres – two cold and remote figures, forsaking him – leaving him to his own and perpetual degradation. He had always known she was too much for him.

‘There’s no need to be sarcastic,’ said Jenny. ‘You’re not too great yourself.’

But she could hurt him no further.

‘No,’ he said, submissively. ‘I’m not.’

‘Y
OU SEEM TO
have forgotten it’s my birthday,’ said Jenny.

‘I’m sorry, Jenny.’

‘Why don’t you cheer up?’

‘I can’t. I love you too much.’

‘Well, I love you, too, don’t I?’

Now, in his hopelessness, he felt almost tenderly towards her.

‘No, dear, you don’t. I love you, but you don’t love me. An’ I’ll never get you. That’s all there is to it.’

‘Are you upset about this Man?’

He was grateful, with a faint, ill gratefulness, for ‘Man’ – for the omission of the horrid prefix and the disparaging ‘this.’

‘Yes, Jenny, I am.’

‘Well, there’s no need to, dear. After all, having someone like that’s better for
me
, ain’t it?’

‘What’s better?’

‘Well – it’s better than me walkin’ about the streets, ain’t it?’

He saw the point of this. In this obsession, for long periods he would totally forget her manner of life. A single man – and a gentleman – certainly was better than walking about the streets. If only for a week-end. He made no answer.

‘And I’m only playing ’im up for what he’s worth. He’s ever such a fool, really.’

He discovered, to his surprise, that it was still in her power to make him happy.

‘Is he?’ he said, smiling up with a kind of wearied appeal.

‘Yes. An’ I’ll tell you what. If I play my cards right – ’ Jenny tossed off the rest of her drink.

‘Yes?’ He was feeling almost convalescent.

‘If I play them right I can get a lot out of him. For you as well as me. There’s a lot of money there.’

‘Is there?’

What was she making him now? A
souteneur
? – one who lived on the immoral earnings of women?

‘Yes,’ said Jenny. ‘There’s a lot of money in that quarter.’

He had not the energy to reproach her. She was trying to console him, and he was merely grateful to her for trying.

‘What does he do?’ he asked.

‘He’s a journalist,’ said Jenny. ‘’S’matter of fact.’

He did not know whether this was good news or bad. At least the man earned his own living. Apparently he was not the most fatal kind of gentleman.

‘He’s married,’ said Jenny, ‘too. . . .’

‘Well – can I have the four days after the week-end?’ asked Bob.

‘Yes, of course you can. That’s what I was sayin’. If you could have your holiday later, you could have the whole week.’

‘I can’t do that. It’s all arranged, and they’ve got another man. Couldn’t you manage to put him off, Jenny?’

‘No, dear – I can’t do that. But you’ll have me after the week-end. It’s only halving it.’

He dared not threaten her new tenderness with more pleading.

‘What day are you going down?’

‘Boxing Day. Wednesday.’

‘And what day are you coming up?’

‘Monday, I suppose.’

‘What’s the use of coming up? Couldn’t I meet you down there?’

‘Yes. I suppose you could.’

‘But
will
you?’

‘Yes. I will.’

Her accursed pliability again!

‘
Where
could I meet you?’

‘Wherever you like, dear.’

‘Could I meet you at Brighton Station?’

‘Yes. Meet me at Brighton Station.’

‘But what
part
of Brighton Station? Is there a clock?’

‘Yes. Meet me under the clock.’

‘But
is
there a clock?’

‘Well, there must be.’

‘Oh, Jenny, you’ll drive me mad!’

‘What am I doin’ now?’

‘Can’t you be more helpful?’

‘Well, I’m being helpful, ain’t I?’

He began again – laboriously – lucidly.

‘Will you meet me at Brighton Station, under the clock, at six o’clock – on Monday night?’

‘Yes.’

‘Are you sure you can manage it?’

‘Yes.’

‘Can I write you before? Do you know where you’re staying?’

‘Yes. We’re staying in rooms.’

‘What’s the address.’

‘I can’t remember.’

‘Can’t you try and remember, Jenny?’

‘Yes. I remember. It’s Dunville Road, or something like that.’

‘Dunville Road?’

‘Yes. Dunville Road. That’s right.’

‘What number?’

‘I can’t remember what number. But it’s Dunville Road.’

‘And you’ll be in rooms there?’

‘Yes.’

A sensation of sheer physical sickness overtook Bob, and he paused until it was allayed.

‘That’ll be romantic, won’t it?’ he said.

‘What’ll be romantic?’

‘Me gettin’ you straight from him like that.’

‘Oh – don’t be silly. It ain’t my fault.’

The sensation of sickness returned, with redoubled power, and he again waited until it was allayed. But this time it showed no sign of going, and he was silent for almost a minute.

‘What’s the matter?’ she asked.

‘I’m feeling ill – sick.’

‘About all this?’

‘No. Really bad. Half a moment. . . .’

There was a long silence as she watched him. . . .

‘Are you goin’ to
Be
Sick?’ asked Jenny. . . . And there was another silence as she watched him.

‘Half a moment,’ said Bob. . . .

‘’Cos you’d better go outside,’ said Jenny. . . . Her voice came from a distance.

‘Half a jiffly,’ he said. . . .

‘Come on. Come on out. You’ll only look silly. . . .’

He rose. Jenny, a remote being, guided him through the bar, and out into the street. He was a remote being to himself. He leant against the wall. He met the casually curious eyes of hurrying passers-by. . . .

‘I’ll be all right. . . . I’m sorry. . . . It’s your birthday. . . . I’ll be all right.’

‘You’ve been Eatin’ Somethin’,’ said Jenny, ‘that Disagreed with you. . . .’

‘I’d better go home,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry. . . .’

‘All right. I’ll get a taxi for you. Shall I?’

‘Will you come in it?’ His brain could still function to that extent.

‘Yes. I’ll come in it. You stay here, an’ I’ll get you one. Are you all right?’

‘Yes.’

She had vanished. He quite expected her not to come back. He was having a curious Christmas Eve. It was a curious existence altogether. He wondered whether the crowds and crowds of people passing him were enjoying themselves. . . .

Miraculously she had returned – and with a taxi.

‘Come on,’ she said. . . .

He was in the padded darkness of a taxi, whirring along in unknown directions. He had lost all sense of direction. But she was by his side.

‘Sorry,’ he said, and took her hand.

‘You didn’t half Come Over,’ said Jenny. ‘Are you better now?’

‘Yes. I’m a bit better. Where are we going?’

‘We’re going up to your place.’

After a while he felt a little better, and looked out of the window. They were entering Oxford Street from the Charing Cross Road. The journey could not last much longer than five minutes.