Twenty Thousand Streets Under the Sky (39 page)

Her mind fled to Tom – the pale boy. If she knew anything of his ways, he was probably waiting for her in the street at this very moment. He was always about half an hour before his time when meeting her. The vision itself revealed the truth of what she had said – his supreme unimportance – his wraith-like quality – his ‘soppiness.’

Why on earth had she promised to meet him? A scorn of him, no longer passive, filled her. She half-consciously resolved that she would ‘give it him’ to-night, when she saw him.

She was sick of his moping. She wanted some Life. She believed she was living at the moment. And yet just for him she had to forsake this vital atmosphere – this company of real people. She would turn up late at any rate. She was going to hear some more about this job.

‘Well – stay and have another then,’ said Andy.

‘I’m afraid I promised’ she said, and then, seeing that he was not going to reply to this, she added, in clear, naïve tones. ‘Do you really mean you would get me a job as a Mannequin?’

‘Well, I couldn’t not unless you stay and have another,’ he said archly.

She smiled at him. ‘Very well,’ she said. ‘I will.’

It was out of her before she knew what she was saying, but she at once set about the task of acquitting herself inwardly. In the ordinary way, she told herself, she would never have dreamed of letting him order another. But this was different. This was Policy. If it was true that he had the powers he claimed, this talk might lead to a great deal. Indeed, it might make ‘all the difference’ to her. It was her business to ‘keep on the right side of him,’ to ‘butter him up’ even.

That she was now certain to be very late for Tom she looked upon as an advantage. It was twenty past now. She betted he was waiting already. Well, let him wait.

Three ports. It was a lot, and she believed it had gone to her head a bit already. Well – what was wrong there? You have to be merry once in a while.

‘There’s a good girl,’ said Andy. ‘Waiter!’

* * *

A complete severance from Violet and Rex (who were at this point enrapturedly returning This One for This One in low tones in each other’s ears, and shrieking with mirth at what they heard) had now been established. So much was this so, in fact, that when the waiter appeared Andy did not see fit to interrupt and include them in his order of port, and merely asked for two more.

‘Here goes,’ he said, when they came, and she lifted her glass along with him, and drank. He then offered her another cigarette, which she took.

‘Well,’ she said, rather awkwardly, when he had lit it for her. ‘What about that job?’

He needn’t think he was going to get out of it – and since she could not keep Tom waiting for ever, it was imperative to get down to the matter at once.

‘This is darned good port, ain’t it?’ said Andy, suddenly speaking from his heart, and it looked for a moment as though his enthusiasm for his wine had ridden over his obligation to reply to her question. Fortunately, however, he added: ‘What did you say? Job? Well – what about it?’

Jenny did not quite like his tone. ‘Well,’ she said. ‘That’s for you to say. Didn’t you say your friend could get me one?’

‘’Course he can. Certainly he can. Tell you what. What are you doin’ to-morrow?’

Fortified with a few ports, Andy was a different man. Indeed, they seemed to have affected him even more than her.

‘Nothing particular I know of,’ she said. ‘Bar work.’

‘Well – you meet me at eleven in the morning an’ I’ll take you along.’

At once Jenny took fright. She hadn’t meant anything like this. She had wanted him to come to earth, certainly, but he had come to earth with too great a bump. She had only meant to talk about it. What! – go after another job when she had only been a day in the one she had! The notion was monstrous. It wasn’t as though she wasn’t happy with those two old girls.

But on second thoughts, was she so happy with them? Looking back on the day behind her, from a rosy indolence of
mind and limb in this crowded, giddy place, she was beset by doubt as to that. The thought of her work, with its tyrannical call on her to-morrow morning, was indeed remote in here, but not too remote to stand between her and the perfection of happiness of which she now, for some reason, felt capable. Making beds, washing up, cooking – was that her destiny tomorrow and all her life? She almost wished she hadn’t come in here. It had all upset her.

‘I couldn’t get out in the morning,’ she said. ‘Go on,’ said Andy. ‘You could give ’em the chuck just for one morning, couldn’t you?’

‘No. I couldn’t do that. I could get Saturday afternoon off, though.’

‘Very good. Saturday afternoon. Day after to-morrow. I’ll take you round myself. I’ll ’phone him up and fix it up tomorrow. There.’

‘Here,’ said Jenny. ‘Are you serious?’

‘Serious. ’Course I am. What do you think? I haven’t any reason, have I?’

She did not answer.

‘Eh?’ said Andy.

‘No, you ain’t got no reason,’ said Jenny. ‘It’s very good of you.’

‘I guarantee you’ll get that job as soon as he sets eyes on you. He’s crying for girls like you.’

‘Perhaps he mightn’t like the look of me.’

‘Don’t talk silly. Besides, he’s got other reasons for doing as I ask him.’

‘Has he?’

She was impressed by this. It looked as though she was dealing with fellow magnates.

‘Yes,’ said Andy, rather ominously. ‘He’s got other reasons for doing as I ask him. He’s my partner in another little show.’

Partner? What more could she have asked? Was this really true, or was she dreaming? Was it not morbid to doubt any further? They were partners. She was dealing direct with the gods. She had as good as got the job, if she wanted it. A sudden vibration of joy and release overtook her. What if her
true fate had overtaken her – at this hour, of this day, of this year! What it, after all, she was not constrained to return to the gloomy round awaiting her to-morrow morning. A Mannequin. What would Violet, who had mocked at her, think of that? What would Tom think, what would her friend Ada Molden think, what would everybody think? And to what might it not lead? A Mannequin was the next thing to a chorus girl. Endless vistas were opened. Not that she had fully decided to take the job. She merely revelled in her potency to take or leave it. She thought she would take it, though, for all that. Gee, she wasn’t half feeling all right. She must be careful, though. She believed she was a bit ‘on’ already.

‘What would the work consist of, like?’ she asked.

‘Just wearin’ dresses, that’s all. Get there at ten, leave at six. Of course, you’d probably have to look after the customers a bit – but you wouldn’t mind that, would you?’

‘No,’ said Jenny. ‘I shouldn’t mind that.’

A tremor of joy, quite beyond control, crept into her voice as she answered. Mind looking after the customers! Get there at ten and leave at six! Wearing dresses! She could hardly believe her ears!

‘And good screw, too,’ said Andy. ‘I don’t know exactly what he pays – but it’s something between three and four.’

Between three and four! And at Chiswick she was to be immured for fifteen shillings! She had made up her mind. Yes – she had made up her mind.

‘Well, it’s certainly very kind of you,’ she said. ‘I should like to go along and see him.’

‘That’s right. We’ll go along on Saturday. Here’s to it.’ Andy lifted his glass.

Jenny lifted hers, and they drank.

‘It’s very kind of you, indeed,’ she said, as she put it down. ‘It is truly.’

‘And what are you goin’ to do for me in return,’ said Andy in a quizzing way. ‘Eh?’

She took alarm. Had he, after all, ulterior intentions, in pursuit of which he was going to wield his power over her? Was
this the ‘old story’ of which she had so often heard and read?

‘Oo, I don’t know,’ she said, deciding that it was up to her to ‘manage’ him. ‘What do you want?’

‘It’s not what I want,’ he said. ‘It’s what you got to give.’

She had no idea what he meant by this, and her reply was equally obscure.

‘Ah,’ she said. ‘That depends.’

‘It does,’ said Andy pithily, and it was felt that worlds had been said.

‘Tell you what you
can
do for me, though,’ said Andy.

‘What’s that?’

‘You can have another and stay on and spend the evening.’

‘Well,’ she said. ‘That’s not so difficult.’

‘Ah – there’s a good girl,’ said Andy, and, rising, he began to take off his overcoat.

Was she mad? To what had she committed herself? Was she going to throw over Tom? She glanced at the clock again, and saw that it was half past. By rights she should be with him at this moment. She couldn’t do such a thing – surely she could not. She had never done such a thing in her life. He was waiting there for her. And to ‘have another’ too. Four ports! It was out of the question. She had to make some excuse before it was too late.

But what excuse was there? Andy had asked her to stay, and how could she refuse without ‘offending’ him. And if she ‘offended’ him, where was her new job? It was, then, a choice between the all-powerful and visible Andy, and the pale and distant Tom – nay, more – between her whole future and the keeping of a thoughtless promise. She could decide but in one way. She would have to give Tom a miss.

She was relieved by having made the decision, and breathed a clearer air. It was a bit ‘mean’ – with him waiting there – but there you were. And wouldn’t he ‘take on’ when he saw her next! She was sick of his misery. It might be a jolly good chance to throw him over. That was an idea. Who was he, anyway? Violet was quite right. He was a pretty poor specimen to be seen about with. If she became a Mannequin,
it would be pretty odd, wouldn’t it? – being seen about with a boy like Tom. Tom would have to go. She had been meaning to get rid of him for a long while. Now she had decided.

In the meantime she had the whole evening to spend as she wished. She felt grand at the moment, but she had got to be careful. If she didn’t look out, she’d be drunk. Could she risk another after this, as Andy desired? She would have to wait and see when the time came.

The crowd in here was awful. You could hardly see through the smoke, and hardly hear yourself speak. But she revelled in it. It was all new to her, and she revelled in it. And to think she might have been in a Lyons now!

‘What was we saying?’ said Andy, sitting down again. He had removed his hat and scarf along with his overcoat, and in his spick and span brown suit was a transformed being. She noticed that his hair was so thin on top that he practically might be called bald, but so far from seeing this as a drawback, she thought it lent him distinction. He really was quite a passable little thing.

‘You was saying I was a good girl,’ she said, reopening the gates to flirtation.

‘Well, so you are – ain’t you?’

‘Don’t know about that. Seems more like I’m a bad one – sitting in here drinkin’.’

‘Don’t know about bad,’ said Andy. ‘Naughty though, I guess. Just a hot little baby straight from Paris. Eh?’

‘Oo!’ she said. ‘What an idea!’

All the same she was rather struck by the image. A hot little baby straight from Paris. She had never thought of herself in that light before, but her vanity had no difficulty in summoning up such a vision of herself, and gazing, Narcissus-like, upon it.

‘Made for Love,’ said Andy, seeing he had made an impression, and elaborating the image. ‘All tied up in pink ribbon.’

She was astonished by his delightful gift of expression.

‘Oo,’ she said. ‘Don’t be so silly.’ But she could not help letting him see that she was pleased. She could listen to him indefinitely in this strain.

‘I should like to have
you
with me in Paris, anyway,’ he said.

‘I bet,’ she said. Was he ‘making suggestions’? Nobody had ever ‘made suggestions’ to Jenny in her life before. It was the sort of thing, she knew, which inevitably befell ‘fast’ girls who went into pubs. But was she not in a pub herself, and had she not within the last hour awakened to new things, stepped forth from the limited apparel of prudery? Andy’s manly virtues glowed all the stronger for having made her her first ‘suggestion.’

‘Who’s the lucky customer – eh?’ he asked.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Go on. You know what I mean. Who is he?’

‘There ain’t none,’ said Jenny. ‘Not at present.’

‘Oh – ain’t there? Well – what about yours truly?’

‘You?’

‘Yes. Me. Ain’t I eligible?’

‘I’ll think about it,’ said Jenny.

‘You might do worse. And suppose you begin by calling me Andy? What about that?’

‘All right. I’ll think about it.’

So the magnate wanted her to call him Andy! She was surprised at herself – encouraging him like this. It was all very well to ‘butter him up’ for her own purposes, but she mustn’t go too far.

‘That’s better,’ he said. ‘You and I are going to know each other a whole lot better, believe me.’

‘Just as you say, Andy.’

She was again amazed at herself. Why was she leading him on? Was it just because she was in such tremendous spirits? The idea of Andy as being ‘eligible’ – of Andy as her ‘boy’ – was fantastic.

But on second thoughts, was it? Why, when you came to think about it, should
she
trouble about a boy’s age and appearance? Love, of which some spoke, was a closed book to her, and she honestly believed it would remain a closed book all her life. It was a closed book which she had no desire to open. She had never, if she looked facts in the face,
regarded ‘boys’ as anything more or other than mere base appendages, curiously willing providers, attendants, flatterers for an indolent mood, footers of bills and payers of ’bus-fares. And wherein was Andy ineligible on these heads?

In fact, was he not superbly eligible? He was no common ‘pick-up.’ He was the owner of a car; he consorted with the retired military; and all his talk went to prove that he was ‘in a good way.’ If she played her cards right, there was no end of what she might get out of him. She had him round her little finger already.

She took another sip at her port, and felt it running down, filling her again with that prodigious sense of well-being. Why not? She was hanged if she wouldn’t take him on!