Twenty Thousand Streets Under the Sky (23 page)

He was, in fact, at her mercy. To meet her, now, was boon in itself. His will had gone. She could lead him to the devil. And where else could he expect one of her kind to lead him?

Where would it all end? It was consoling, and not uninteresting, to reflect that, in the course of nature, some positive conclusion of some kind had to be reached. One day, however distant, he would know exactly where he stood. The fates could not deny him ultimate certainty – he would get her or he wouldn’t, and he would know.

No indication of the fates’ intentions, however, was granted Bob this afternoon. He waited, for an hour and a quarter, at the appointed place; but she made no appearance.

Eventually, in his new blue suit, he walked back to ‘The Midnight Bell.’

B
OB HONESTLY BELIEVED
he would get a letter.

Unless she were a fiend of darkness he would get a letter. He would never get it, of course, but he would wait until Thursday
for it. Perhaps, by Thursday, he would be calmer, and anyway his not taking any notice of her till then might give her a lesson. After that, there was always the ’phone.

Where would he have been without that ’phone? At least he ought to be thankful for small mercies.

Tuesday and Wednesday. . . . The snow was still upon the ground. . . . Everybody was sick to death of it. What had started as a charming and friendly fantasy had ended as a muddy disgrace. It was still bitterly cold.

On Thursday morning the postman (whose heavy feet came clumping upon a waiter’s very nerves) was given his last opportunity of delivering anything other than lifeless and stupid simulations of correspondence at ‘The Midnight Bell,’ and failed. At eleven o’clock Bob left the house.

Above all, Bob was going to keep his head. In ’phoning Jenny, there were two fundamental precepts to be observed – firstly, not to quarrel with, or endeavour to mimic, even in thought, the whining negatives of the landlady – secondly (and if you were so lucky as to speak to the little goddess herself), not to criticize, nor to lament, nor do anything but personally apologize for her latest deceptions and shortcomings. She could not bear criticism, and she might easily ring off. Obey these two rules and you were fairly safe.

The door of the box closed upon Bob. Enclosed from the rush and noise of a vital and still visible world, he faced in silence communion with his own problems. Here he was again. His hand trembled. His two pennies fell.

He was soon through.

‘’Ullo?’

‘Hullo. Is that Holborn X143?’

‘Yes.’

‘May I speak to Miss Jenny Maple, please?’

‘Now. She’s not here.’

‘Could you tell me when she might be in, please?’

‘Now. She’s not here.’

He saw it all. There was no misinterpreting the woman’s blunt tone. Jenny had arranged not to be ‘in’ to him. But he
was not going to lose his nerve. He had done well to fortify himself beforehand.

‘I know,’ he said, equably. ‘But I thought you might know when she’d be back?’

‘But she ain’t here. She’s run away.’

‘Run away?’

‘Yes. She’s run away without payin’ her rent.’

‘Oh,’ said Bob. . . .

Then, blindly and automatically pursuing his precepts: ‘Thank you very much. So sorry to have troubled you.’

‘Thank you.’

He was out in the noisy air.

So he had lost her. He had no idea where on earth she was, and had absolutely lost her. He might have known something like this would have happened. He was strangely calm. Was it relief? Was this his chance of escape – that actual conclusion which he had thought so remote yesterday?

What an abysmal fool he had been to let the thing hang over until Thursday. If he had only ’phoned her before, he would not be in this mess. It was his punishment. She always got him – everywhere.

So the halcyon days of ’phoning were over. He was too weary to think about it. Two facts, unpretentiously, but insistently, presented themselves to him. To-day he had his evening off. And he knew where, in the evenings, she walked.

B
OB WAS TOO
afraid of not meeting her to allow that, having had his tea that afternoon up at Camden Town as usual, he afterwards descended upon the West End in search of Jenny. But he discovered himself in that quarter, as he invariably did on Thursday evenings, and was willing to submit to fate and accident.

There is, of course, no sharp dividing line between a man,
indolently, throwing himself open to accident, and a man, wearily, hunting round and round for the object of his adoration. And one who throws himself open to accident, in a confined and specified region, with continued zest, between the hours of five thirty and seven, and never dreams of going to the pictures, is difficult to classify.

By seven o’clock no accident had befallen Bob, and he went into the Corner House for a meal. He then came out to place himself further at the disposal of the elusive gods.

The West End was very crowded. By ten thirty he had passed, on the pavements, at least fifty thousand people. Shortly after ten thirty he found her.

She passed clean by him outside the Pavilion. She was with another girl, and did not see him. With profound and wearied calm he turned round and followed her.

He tried, before addressing her, to pull himself together, to appraise the situation, so that he might make the most of it. But he was too tired. He caught her up.

‘Hullo, Jenny.’

‘Hullo, dear!’ she at once and calmly replied, turning round and stopping, and looking up at him with a kind of giddy and smiling impudence: ‘you turned up again?’

There was something strange about her.

‘Oo!’ said her friend. ‘Don’t be so rude, Jenny.’

‘This is my friend,’ said Jenny, in the same impervious tone.

‘How do you do,’ said Bob.

‘Pleased to meet you,’ said her friend.

They shook hands and smiled.

‘My friend’s name’s Prunella,’ said Jenny, and laughed. The three walked on.

They were each side of him. A dignified situation, in the West End! So, in this manner, he met his love for the seventh time!

‘You mustn’t mind Jenny to-night,’ said Prunella, looking over and chaffing the other. ‘She’s gone and got blotto.’

‘So I see,’ said Bob.

The culprit smiled faintly, but made no comment.

‘Can’t help it, poor girl,’ added Prunella. . . .

Prunella was a dark, handsome, flashy girl, who looked as though she had seen the inside of jails. And, indeed, had. Bob rather liked her.

‘Well,’ said Bob, ‘where are we going?’

‘Well,
I
’
m
goin’ to have a drink,’ said Jenny. ‘Don’t know about
you
.’

‘Go on, Jenny,’ said Prunella. ‘You’ve had enough.’

‘Well, let’s go and sit somewhere, shall we?’ said Bob.

‘Tell you what,’ said Prunella, ‘you two want to be together. I’ll hop it.’

‘No,’ Jenny commanded. ‘You
ain
’
t
to hop it.’

‘No. That’s all right. You two want to be together. I’ll hop it.’

His admiration for Prunella went up by leaps and bounds.

Jenny stopped in the street.

‘If my friend don’t go with me, I don’t go. That’s all. There.’

‘Don’t be silly, Jenny. Why can’t I hop it?’

‘’Cos you
ain
’
t
to hop it, that’s all!’

They walked on.

‘And what I
say
,’ added Jenny, with irresistible emphasis, ‘I
say
.’

‘You’re a naughty girl, Jenny, to go and get tight like this,’ said Prunella. ‘I don’t know what your friend’ll think of you.’ She exchanged a glance with Bob.

Prunella was enchanting. She was, however, not to be allowed to Hop it. That much was clear.

‘Well, let’s go in here,’ said Bob. They were outside the ‘Globe.’

They went in. The long bar was very crowded, but they were lucky enough to get a table in one of the partitioned recesses. The heat and light and noise confused the mind. Jenny, like a fractious child, sat between her friend and Bob, and drinks were brought by a waiter.

On the arrival of these, Jenny brightened a little.

‘Well – here’s how,’ she said, and drank. . . .

‘I’m livin’ up in
your
part of the world now, Bob,’ she added, more kindly, as she put the glass down.

‘Oh – are you?’

He spoke with deliberate brusquerie. After all she had done to him, she had the effrontery to imagine that it was still in her power to give him sweets. She thought she could wipe out all the torments of the last few days with a friendly word. He almost thought he was through with her now. She was only a little drunken harlot after all. He would show her for once.

‘Yes,’ she said, not comprehending the change, and even more graciously. ‘I’m in Bolsover Street, now. It’s only a few doors away from you.’

‘Oh. That so? Why didn’t you meet me the last time?’

She looked at him in surprise. She was having no nonsense of that sort.

‘Didn’t want to, I suppose, dear,’ she said, and took another sip.

In the infinite perversity of human nature, his dejection was immediate. He loved her. He looked at her and her beauty and knew that he could not bear her disfavour.

‘But why didn’t you?’ he said. But now it was too late.

‘I really don’t know, darling,’ she said, ‘do you?’

She was tight, of course. He had to make allowances for that.

‘I waited ever such a long time for you.’

‘Really, dear! How very annoying.’

This was hopeless – an
impasse
. There was a silence. There was nothing more to be said. His seventh meeting with Jenny was, perhaps, the fatal one.

‘You’re blotto, Jen,’ said Prunella. ‘That’s what’s the matter with you.’

‘No? Not really, dear?’

‘She’s ever so silly,’ said Prunella to Bob. ‘She’s the sweetest little girl when she ain’t been drinkin’ – ain’t she?’

‘I know,’ said Bob.

‘
And
the prettiest,’ said Prunella. ‘She’s the prettiest little girl in the West End.’

Bob’s heart sank. Any testimonies to her beauty, from an extraneous source, crucified him – augmenting, as they did, her preciousness and remoteness. He had always vaguely hoped it was merely his own private madness.

‘I ain’t pretty,’ said Jenny.

‘Yes, she is, an’ all,’ said Prunella. ‘I always say she’s the prettiest little girl in the West End.’

‘Well, I’m goin’ to have another drink,’ said Jenny.

‘No, you’re not, Jen,’ said Prunella. ‘Don’t be so silly.’

Jenny turned to Bob.

‘Go on. Go and buy me another drink.’

‘All right. Wait till the waiter comes.’

‘Waiter!’ cried Jenny.

She was quite mad. Why did he remain?

‘Say, Jen,’ said Prunella. ‘See that chap over there?’

Jenny stared at a peculiarly seedy, indeed an almost originally seedy young man of about thirty-five, sitting at a table not far away, and looking over in their direction. ‘What about him?’

‘I believe he wants me. Shall I go?’

‘Just as you like, dear.’

They sat in silence, as Prunella hesitated. ‘I think I’d better go,’ she said. . . .

‘Do what you like, dear.’

Prunella rose, addressing Bob. ‘You won’t think it rude me leavin’ you, will you, dear?’ said Prunella. ‘But this is business.’

Bob signified amiable comprehension. Prunella went off, and, settling down beside it, submitted her virile charms to seediness.

Between Jenny and Bob there was a long silence.

‘Well, Jenny. How are you?’

‘You’ve asked me that before, dear – ain’t you? Waiter!’

‘Oh, Jenny. Don’t go like this. I love you.’

‘So I gather, my dear.’

Why, seeing that she was temporarily unbalanced, did he still pursue her with soft words? He could not restrain himself. Her murderous beauty held him enthralled.

‘Jenny. What’s happened? You’re not nearly as nice to me as you used to be.’

He had no sooner said this than he saw how untrue it was. All at once it seemed that he divined her whole character. She
had never once been nice to him – throughout. She had never kept her appointments, unless it had suited her: she had fooled him about her husband, and in every other way: and in their meetings she had tolerated him just so long as he flattered her, and no longer. At the slightest criticism of herself she had been ready to dispense with him. Only when he had given her money had she briefly sweetened and softened towards him, and he had been giving her money all along. She had ‘played him up’ throughout – that was all. And it was natural enough too. He was a poor damned waiter, and she was ‘the prettiest little girl in the West End.’ Others had described her so. He would cry soon, he needed her so.

‘Waiter!’ she shouted.

The waiter came and she ordered the drink herself.

‘My garter’s hurting me,’ she said.

‘Is it?’

‘Yes. Look.’ In the vulgarity of her inebriation she revealed it. She began to slip it down the leg. Wild and unforeseen lusts momentarily beset Bob. She took it off and handed it to him. ‘You can have that,’ she said, ‘if it’s any use to you.’ He took it.

‘How’ll you keep your stocking up?’

‘That’s all right. They’re suspended.’

‘Oh.’

‘They are in a state of suspense, dear!’ she added, and laughed her drunken laugh.

Were there any lower circles, he wondered, to which he might descend in hell?

A
LL AT ONCE
Prunella returned. He had hoped, in her absence, to make things right with Jenny. That hope must now be finally abandoned.

‘Well, dear?’ asked Jenny.

Prunella’s ironic glance, as she sat down, betrayed her opinion of mankind.

‘Ten bob, my dear!’ she said. ‘And he wanted me to take him back with me.’

‘God’s Truth,’ said Jenny. ‘What did you tell him?’

‘I told him he wanted to go to Woolworth’s,’ said Prunella, despondently.

‘Should think so, too,’ said Jenny. ‘Penny bazaar, more like. . . .’

‘An’ I told him if he wanted my white body he could pay for it,’ said Prunella, more vindictively, and there was a silence of approbation. Bob felt a trifle embarrassed.