Twenty Thousand Streets Under the Sky (29 page)

‘Oh God. When am I going to see you next? Can I see you to-morrow?’

‘Well,’ said Jenny. ‘It’s Christmas to-morrow. I don’t think I can. I’m going out with some friends.’

He was too unwell, there was no time, for argument.

‘And you’re going away Boxing Day?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then I shalln’t see you until next Monday at Brighton?’

‘’Fraid you won’t.’

‘But I must, Jenny, I must!’

‘But how can you, dear?’

The taxi was swinging round, and whizzing up Great Portland Street.

‘But will you
meet
me at Brighton? Will you swear on your life you’ll
meet
me there?’

‘Yes. I swear on my life.’

‘Oh, Jenny – this is absurd. You’ll never be there. You’ll never be there!’

‘Yes I will.’

‘You won’t, Jenny, you won’t. . . . You can’t
go
. You can’t
go
!’

‘But I must go.’

‘But I won’t let you go, Jenny, I won’t let you go!’

‘Don’t be silly, dear. I got to go.’

‘I’ll give you the money, rather. I’ll give you the money!’

‘What? Twenty pounds?’

‘Yes. Twenty pounds. I will!’

S
HE WAS OBVIOUSLY
taken aback, and he enjoyed a brief moment of pure triumph.

‘You can’t do that,’ she said.

‘Yes I can. An’ I got the money on me.’

‘What? Twenty pounds?’

‘Yes. Twenty pounds. What he said he’d give you.’

‘You can’t afford all that,’ she said. . . .

‘Yes I can. I’ll give it you now, an’ you can write an’ tell him you ain’t coming. You’re comin’ on this trip, if I die gettin’ you!’

‘I might just as well get it from him instead of you. Why can’t you wait – just for the week-end.’

‘’Cos I’ve waited too long – that’s why! It’s all been waitin’! An’ I’m goin’ to get you, this time!’

There was a silence.

‘Besides,’ said Jenny, ‘He promised to buy me dresses, an’ all. . . .’

‘Did he? Well,
I
’
ll
buy you dresses. . . .’

‘You can’t do that. . . .’

‘Look here, Jenny. I’ve twenty-five pounds here what I drew this afternoon. You can take the lot. That’ll cover the dresses.’

‘Oh don’t be so silly. I don’t know why you talk like this.’

‘I mean it, I tell you. I mean it!’

‘So you’re goin’ to give me twenty-five pounds?’

(So she had slipped it up to twenty-five!)

‘Yes. Right now. If you’ll promise to come away on Boxing Day as we arranged. Right now.’

She did not answer.

‘Come on, Jenny. Is that a bargain?’

She did not answer.

‘Is it a bargain, Jenny?’

There was a pause.

‘All right,’ said Jenny. . . .

‘Right,’ said Bob, and handed her the notes at once from his wallet. She put them in her bag.

‘That’ll be your birthday present,’ said Bob.

‘I still think you’re silly,’ said Jenny. . . .

‘No. Not silly. I just mean to have my way this time. I don’t care what happens after.’

‘All right, then. When am I to meet you?’

‘It’s Victoria. I’ve worked out all the trains. It’s six fifteen it leaves. Shall I call for you at your room, or will you meet me down there.’

‘Better meet me down there. Don’t want Prunella to see us. . . .’

‘Why not?’ At this the taxi drew up at the kerb. The abominable man had found ‘The Midnight Bell’ of his own accord and they were directly outside it. ‘Tell him to drive on!’ said Bob. ‘Tell him to drive on!’ He never dreamed, in his hysterical state, of telling him to do so himself.

‘No,’ said Jenny. ‘Don’t be silly. You go in an’ go to bed. I’ll be there. Six o’clock. Victoria Station, day after tomorrow – Boxing Day. Go on. You go on in.’

In a state of stupor he opened the door, and stepped out on to the kerb.

‘Is that fixed, then?’

‘Yes. All fixed.’

At any moment Ella, the Governor, the Governor’s Wife might come out and find him here.

‘Under the clock – Victoria Station – day after to-morrow – Boxing Day – you promise?’

‘Yes. I promise.’

‘What time?’

‘Six o’clock.’

‘You swear on your life?’

‘Yes. I swear on my life.’

There was nothing more he could do. ‘Where do you want to go now?’

‘Tell him to take me down to Oxford Street again.’

He did so, came back and shut the door and looked through the window.

‘Promise again, Jenny. I’ll give you such a good time, if you’ll come. I’ve got a lot more money.’

‘I promise on my life.’

‘Do you love me, Jenny?’

‘Yes. You know I love you. Don’t be such a silly old Bob.’

‘Good-bye, then.’

‘Good-bye, dear.’

The taxi moved off, passed round a corner, and was gone. How had all this come upon him? Why was he not spending the evening with her? He was feeling quite well. His attack of illness had gone ten minutes ago. That was what she did to him – stampeded him into frantic and inexplicable behaviours.

It was only nine o’clock. He did not go into ‘The Midnight Bell.’ He walked into the Euston Road, and along to ‘The Green Man.’

Here he stayed, drinking by himself, until closing time. He then went for a long walk.

When, shortly before twelve, and Christmas Day, he returned to his little room, he discerned something on his pillow. It was an elegant silk handkerchief.

It was wrapped around a box of twenty cigarettes, and was a Christmas present from Ella.

T
HEY HAD A
splendid Christmas Day at ‘The Midnight Bell.’ They all decided that it could not have been better.

Work had to go on just the same, of course, but there was not a great crowd of people in the morning (they had it bottled at home); and when the place closed in the afternoon Bob and Ella were invited upstairs to a stupendous Christmas dinner given by the Governor.

The cellar had been plundered for unimaginable wines: there was a turkey: there were crackers, almonds and raisins, silver nut-crackers, and everything appropriate.

The Governor presided, and was seen in a new light – as quite a wit in fact. Indeed, the wine flowed and everything was seen in a new light. Even the Governor’s Wife’s Sister was seen in a new light. She was perfectly affable. You could not help feeling, in fact, that she had been a little misjudged. Bob and Ella would not have admitted this to each other for an instant – it would have been a betrayal of their favourite unanimity and grouse – but it was what they thought in secret.

Caps were put on (the best, they said, was the Governor’s Wife’s): tea was had in the gloaming, and then they all went down to their evening duties, but in an unserious spirit. At the Governor’s express permission (nay, command) the caps were kept on, and the joke was much appreciated by the customers. Ella’s cap was green, and, in a strange way, it made her look quite beautiful. You might, even, have misjudged Ella’s possibilities. . . .

Bob was not of course happy, but at the same time he was not unhappy: he was excited, rather. He was in an hysterical state and for long periods managed to forget his own preoccupation.

The only snag was that he had to get the Governor to cash, or get cashed, a cheque for him. In view of the sum, this was a great undertaking, and he was doubtful of its results. He could not go down to the bank to-morrow, because it would be Boxing Day. He would have to have enough for a whole
week’s holiday for two, and he had decided to take all the rest of his money out – twenty-five pounds. He would never spend all this, but he was going to have a week’s happiness at least, and he wanted to leave a broad margin and feel secure. It was awful to think that it was the last of his money, but he just wouldn’t think about it. He was in an hysterical state, and admitted it.

The Governor was obviously a little surprised when Bob took him aside and asked him for the sum in exchange for his cheque; but Bob explained that he had to have enough money for his holiday, that he had forgotten to cash it before, and that it was now too late to get it at the bank. Also he luckily had his pass-book, which he showed to the Governor. Also the Governor knew about Bob’s money, and they both employed the same branch of the Midland Bank. Nevertheless, the Governor was a little hesitant, and called the Mrs. in. . . . The Mrs. (who also knew about Bob’s savings) was very good, and said at once that that would be quite all right. Certainly Bob should have the money. She was, perhaps, also a bit surprised at the amount: but the matter was very soon all cleared up – they heard that he was going to Brighton – they thought that the weather was going to hold – and they wished him the best of luck. . . .

This took place just before the house opened in the evening, and he was so relieved that he really quite enjoyed himself that night.

The Governor and the Mrs. had been so good and trusting – so eager to show their trust in him – and everybody, on this Christmas Day, was being so good to everybody else. He really wished that they were not all so good and open – while he was so weak, and underhand, and bad. He felt almost that he was betraying them.

Particularly did he feel that he was betraying Ella. She so deserved his respect, but all the homage went to another. Poor Ella. He watched her as she moved about merrily (in the cap which became her so), and gave back chaff for chaff in the crowded Christmassy bar. She had only one sin: she was without beauty. But she had all the heart-breaking desires,
and you could see them there, on her charming face, as she laughingly and maternally answered – a creature eternally maternal, eternally fruitless – the insincere compliments of the men. . . .

That night he slept quite peacefully.

The next morning he was very impatient, hardly knowing what he was doing. It was the first day of his holidays, he had no work to do, he could eat hardly any lunch, and walked aimlessly about the streets. . . .

But five o’clock came at last, and he packed his bag, and managed to leave ‘The Midnight Bell’ without being seen.

He rode, on the top of a bus, in the dusk, down to Victoria Station.

London! It was half-past five and he knew the dusky hour well. It was the hour when London glistened – when the lights came forth – when people were going home – when pleasure was just beginning – when, in the ordinary way, Jenny, and her honest but intemperate companions, arrayed themselves in dusky dishevelled rooms, and came glowing down upon the lit West End. . . .

He was glad he had not started too early. He would be there only a quarter of an hour before the time, and thus would spare himself torture. She might not turn up. But he thought she would. He also thought (touch wood) that she would be there early. He had spent a dreadful lot of money, and she would not let him down this time.

He arrived at Victoria Station. He went straight to the clock, carrying his suit case. She was not there. There was no reason why she should be.

Six o’clock came. She had a right to be late – a woman’s right to be late. And she had been late before – many times.

Five past six.

A quarter past six.

Bob was quite calm. He sat on his suit case under the clock and was calm.

He was the calmest and most submissive individual in an atmosphere of singular perturbation and aggression. Engines
hissed, trucks rolled, echoes rang. Luggage was labelled, indicators were altered, whistles screamed, people were told to mind their backs. But Bob was calm. He had a whole week’s holiday in which to act, and he was not going to hurry it, or do anything foolish. He sat there quietly contemplating his own drama.

Jenny did not come. At last he rose, dragged his bag to the cloakroom, received a slip in exchange for it, and went into the Buffet. He ordered a double whisky. That step was obvious. He drank it rather theatrically and rather theatrically ordered another. For the moment he could regard himself theatrically. He was, perhaps, almost enjoying himself.

T
HERE ARE FEW
motives so dangerous as theatricality and no wildness is so futile as deliberate wildness. Bob conceived it his duty to get wildly drunk and do mad things. He had no authentic craving to do so: he merely objectivized himself as an abused and terrible character, and surrendered to the explicit demands of drama. The motivation of popular fiction in behaviour – the susceptibility of mankind to poetic precedents – are subjects which will one day be treated with the gravity they deserve. In deciding to get wildly drunk and do mad things, Bob believed he was achieving something of vague magnificence and import, redeeming and magnifying himself – cutting a figure before himself and the world. The fact that, in deliberately attempting to get wildly drunk and do mad things, he might actually get wildly drunk, and actually do mad things, completely eluded him.

The age of necromancy has surely not expired, for in whisky there are possessing devils such as the Middle Ages might not have conceived, and you may yet buy the potion of raging madness with a few shillings. No irredeemable lunatic, beating at the walls of his padded cell, has a more passionate
and lucid conviction of the truth of his words, and the necessity of his objects, than a man, with a dozen or so whiskies inside him, being ejected from a saloon. The spirit is upon them both: they are both equally entranced, inspired, possessed – seers of things denied of others. They are frantically incredulous of the world’s unbelief. This is not mania, cries the maniac: I am not drunk, cries the drunkard. And for all we know they may be right. But they are both, in this workaday world, locked up.

Bob, afterwards, remembered very little of that night, and that disjointedly. He remembered leaving Victoria, with four double whiskies to his credit, and riding in a bus to Piccadilly. He remembered arriving at Knightsbridge (for it was in that direction that the bus, contrary to his airy suppositions, was going) and entering a pub and having two more.

This, he remembered, was at eight o’clock, and he remembered nothing more until nine, when he found himself in the Irish House in Piccadilly, talking to a seedy little Jew, who was rolling drunk but believed firmly in God. . . . You could prove the existence of God, said the seedy little Jew, by the Principle of Mathematics. Bob said you couldn’t. The seedy little Jew said,
Oh
yes you could. Bob asked him to do it. The seedy little Jew drew himself up and looked sternly at Bob. What, he asked, did two and two make? Four, said Bob, or did when he was a kid. Well, said the seedy little Jew, there you were. Bob asked where he was.
There
, said the seedy little Jew. Where? asked Bob. The seedy little Jew, with infinite patience, began again. Did two and two make four, or did they
not
. They did. Well, what was Bob arguing about? Bob did not know and they had another drink. . . .