Twenty Thousand Streets Under the Sky (45 page)

So here she was in another pub! Her introduction to these haunts of destruction had been as melancholy and overpowering as her introduction to the motoring world, and she felt used to them already.

The man, who was dressed in rough working costume, looked at them as they came in, and then went away with his scuttle. They took a table in front of the fire.

‘What’ll you have?’ he said, speaking in a low voice, as though in deference to the tenantless gloom of the place. ‘Whisky and soda?’

‘Yes, please,’ she said.

‘What brand?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Black and White, White Label, Johnny, White Horse, what?’

‘I think I’ll have a Johnny,’ she said, snatching at a familiar
name, and visioning a dreadfully robust figure striding prodigiously through summer landscapes. That was not the symbol of her own impression of the effects of alcohol.

He went to the bar, and she drew up a little nearer to the fire. She was grateful enough for the warmth. If she could only get warm she might be able to face her fate.

He returned with two small tumblers filled to the brim, and he sat down. ‘You’ll feel better when you’ve had that,’ he said, and splitting open a freshly bought packet of cigarettes, he offered her one.

She hesitated. It would never do to go in smelling of smoke. But then she would be smelling of alcohol! She had better smoke to take that away. She shouldn’t have come in here. She took the cigarette, and he lit it for her.

She looked at her drink. It looked like ginger ale to her. She had no faith in its efficacy. She took a sip.

‘That’s a strong one, ain’t it?’ she said.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘It’s a double double. It’s the only thing on occasions like this.’

She had never tasted whisky before. It was horrid. It was like wood or cork gone rotten. But the sharp taste of the soda cleansed her mouth. He had drunk half his already.

‘Oo, madam, I’m ever so sorry I’m late. . . .’ She still hadn’t thought of a decent excuse. And if they accepted what she said, she would have to set to and do the housework! It was too dreadful to think about. She took another sip. This drink was cleaning her mouth at any rate. And this fire was lovely. She could stay by it for ever.

‘Have you really got to go to these weird people?’ he asked.

‘Of course, I have. What do you think?’

‘Can’t you telephone them or something?’

‘They ain’t on the telephone.’

‘Well – can’t you send them a wire or something?’

‘Saying what?’ she said.

‘Oh – you can make some excuse – can’t you?’

‘Yes – I can if I want to be out of a job.’

‘Is it as good a job as all that?’

He would never understand. He was just a ‘gentleman’ – an
idler without knowledge of the laws governing workers. She took another sip, and looked wretchedly at the decayed, wanly lit fountain. She ought to have gone by now. But she couldn’t leave this fire just for a moment.

‘You don’t seem to realize what trouble I’m in,’ she said.

‘I don’t see that you’re in any trouble,’ he said.

She believed this whisky was going to her head already. A strange feeling of lightheadedness had come over her, and remained as she looked at the fountain. It was not sickness – but lightheadedness. It couldn’t be drunkenness – she had had nothing. She took another sip.

‘Well, I should like to know what trouble is, then,’ she answered.

‘Oh – surely it’s not as bad as all that.’

This lightheadedness – it was the whisky. And it was something besides lightheadedness – a faint warming and enlivening feeling about the heart. It made her feel a little better. She took another sip.

‘I should say it’s bad enough,’ she said, ‘with that accident and all.’

‘No,’ he said. ‘I don’t see why. We can’t do anything now.’

He seemed to be changing his mind a bit now. He hadn’t taken that attitude before. Was it possible that she had exaggerated the horror of what had occurred? It might be so. This lightheaded feeling. . . . She didn’t seem to be able to think about anything. She was feeling better, though, inside and altogether. He was right about the whisky. It was picking her up.

‘I hope you’re right,’ she said, and took another sip.

There it went again. It seemed to trickle down and heat and awaken every little cell and channel with its brisk medicining. It was like what she had felt last night – a little nicer if anything. Last night it had been like the feeling of good news without the good news. Now it was like the news that her bad news was not such bad news after all.

‘Of course I’m right,’ he said. ‘Do you think we’re going to be behind prison bars or something?’

What was this? He was taking a different line now. Had she read too much into his odd remarks about jails and the papers this morning? She rather thought she had.

She was feeling better. It was this whisky. She took another sip. It was wonderful stuff as a reviver – there was no doubt about that. Nothing he could say, no mental comforting could so brace her as this inward corporal reassurance, this physical information, of good things descending on her. She was still lightheaded, but she felt worlds better.

‘Well,’ she said, ‘I hope you’re right.’

He had drained off his glass. ‘Of course I am,’ he said. ‘There’s nothing to get a wind up about. Let’s have another, shall we?’

‘Lord, no! I’ve got to go. I haven’t finished this one.’

‘Well – do you mind if I do?’

‘No.’

He had left her. The door opened, and two men came in, laughing and talking with each other. They went to the bar, and in an instant had enlivened the whole atmosphere.

‘Nothing to get the wind up about. . . .’ She wondered whether he was right. He had been calm like that all the time. It had been she alone that had got the wind up. She took another sip.

What, after all, had she done? She had been with a party in a car, and there had been an accident. What was wrong with that?
She
hadn’t been driving. It wasn’t her fault. She had exaggerated this out of all proportion.

He had returned. ‘Sure you won’t have another?’ he said, as he sat down.

‘No thanks,’ she said. ‘It’s ever so good, though, this whisky, ain’t it?’

What had happened to her? She had been tricked into speaking almost with hilarity.

‘Yes, it is,’ he said, and added, ‘I say – why don’t you cut these people out and spend the day with me?’

‘Oo – I can’t,’ she said.

To spend the day with him? What an idea. . . . Gee – she was hot. It was this fire. And lightheaded, too. She wasn’t in
a fit state to go and work. Spend the day with him. . . . She took a gulp at her whisky.

‘Why not?’ he said. ‘We could go and have lunch at the Clarendon.’

The Clarendon! That swell place at Hammersmith! Gee, she was with a ‘gentleman’ all right this time – and he seemed to have money to spend. This was something a cut above Andy – if you liked. Lunch at the Clarendon. That would be something to tell ’em. What would Violet think of that? And gee! – wasn’t she just hungry!

‘But I couldn’t,’ she said. ‘I’d lose my job.’

‘Well, you can find another, can’t you?’

Find another? She had not seen it in that light. It sounded plausible enough.

‘But I ain’t got no money,’ she said.

‘Well, I can let you have some. How much do you want?’

‘Oh, I couldn’t take money,’ she said. ‘Thank you very much.’

‘Yes you could. You can’t go back in this state. I feel responsible in a way. Would ten pounds be any good?’

Was she dreaming? Ten pounds! She could live for weeks on ten pounds – for an indefinite period!

She must control herself. To accept ten pounds from a gentleman friend? This way led to destruction. She must exercise her will and get away.

‘Come on,’ he said. ‘We’ll lunch at the Clarendon, and then go and rest our weary heads at the pictures. What about it?’

The Clarendon – and then to the pictures with a gentleman friend!

And the alternative to go back, and plead lying excuses, and wash dirty dishes, and make beds, and cook!

‘Come on,’ he said. ‘Why not?’

Why not! Wild fiends of joy knocked at the gates of her will. How could she resist them? This was ruin – she was getting drunk again. This was the turning point of her life. If she lost her will now she had lost all. Yet why not? With one word of assent she could be lifted from undreamed of woe to undreamed of bliss – step out from her deep unhappiness as
from a garment. She could be free of all care. She could have a grand time. She had insanely exaggerated the horrors of last night. Once again she could laugh at those two – see them pityingly as ‘two old fossils.’

‘Well, I might think about it,’ she said.

She had only opened the gate a little way, but the fiends had surged in and captured the citadel in a moment. She would! She was free again! She was going to the Clarendon with her gentleman friend! Those two old fossils could wait for her!

They were nothing but old fossils. She had always known it. They could wait for her. Serve them right! She’d find another job all right. She’d find a better one. Why had she wanted to stick to that silly job? She had been mad – distraught with absurd depression. But the mists had disappeared now – simply vanished like magic! She had awakened. She had become herself once more!

‘That’s better,’ he said. ‘Will you have another now?’

‘All right,’ she said. ‘Ta.’

IV

M
ARION AND
B
ELLA

A
ND SO MARION
and Bella never saw their treasure again.

That was a black morning over at Chiswick. Like a plague, Jenny’s guilt infected others as well as herself, contorted them equally with pain, and brought them, for the time being at any rate, as low.

At five past eight, that is to say when Jenny was five minutes late, Marion knocked at Bella’s bedroom door and went in. She found Bella up and awake, combing her hair in front of the mirror of the dressing-table. She went to a cupboard they both used, and rearranged some clothes.

Having adroitly prefaced the query with general remarks
on the weather and their health, ‘Has the girl come yet?’ asked Bella.

‘Not yet,’ said Marion, calmly. ‘It’s only just on eight.’ And she left the room.

She knew what Bella was feeling, but she rather despised her for giving way to herself so early and readily. She was not going to let Bella’s nervousness and morbidity stimulate her own. So often had Marion doubted and feared concerning such matters, and so often had her doubts and fears been proved foolish, that she felt she at least had enough control of herself now, not to start worrying when the girl was less than ten minutes late. All the same, the sheer effort of control (like all other efforts) was a little painful, and she could not help wishing that the girl would come, so that she might be released merely from that effort.

When it was twenty minutes past eight, that is to say when the girl was twenty minutes late, Bella came and knocked at Marion’s door.

‘Come in,’ said Marion, and Bella entered.

Marion was now combing her own hair.

‘Here’s that paper you were wanting,’ said Bella, and she laid a copy of
The Daily Express
(which Marion had asked for yesterday) on the dressing-table beside Marion. She then went to the window, without a word, and looked out.

Seeing that the girl was twenty minutes late, Marion now thought that it was rather absurd, and in itself symptomatic of acute nervousness, to say nothing and pretend that nothing had happened. So she said, quite firmly and coolly:

‘She’s twenty minutes late. I wonder what’s happened.’

This made Bella think that this was an opportunity to show self-control.

‘Oh,’ she said, ‘She’s just a little late. I shouldn’t worry, if I were you.’

This annoyed Marion, because she knew that it was only Bella that was worrying. So she said, rather tartly:

‘
I
’
m
not worrying.’

This annoyed Bella, because it implied that she (Bella) was
the one that was worrying, whereas exactly the opposite was the case. So, being annoyed, she said:

‘Well, you seem to be, Marion.’

This annoyed Marion extremely, because it was directly provocative, and she did think that Bella might have refrained from bringing personal feeling into a crisis like this. And so she said:

‘Really, Bella, I’m not going to quarrel with you, you know. You’d better leave me alone, hadn’t you?’

This quite enraged Bella, because it looked as though she were being ordered out of the room. And so she said:

‘Really, Marion, how dare you speak to me like that?’

And so in this way the wretched little servant girl, who had gone and got drunk and was at this very moment having a bath in a strange gentleman’s flat at Richmond, had unwittingly brought about a prodigious event at Chiswick – a full blown quarrel between the two old women. So widespread and capsizing is the wash of the barge of sin.

There was no doubt about its being a quarrel.

‘Oh, shut up, shut up – can’t you!’ cried Marion. ‘You’ll drive me mad!’

‘Mad! I like that!’ cried Bella. ‘Mad, indeed! It’s you that’s mad!’

‘Well, get on out – can’t you! Get on out! Leave me alone!’

‘Leave you alone! I’ll leave you alone all right! I’ll — ’

‘Where
is
the girl!’ cried Marion. ‘Where
is
the girl! That’s what I want to know!’

‘Ah, that’s what I want to know,’ said Bella, quietly, and because they had now stumbled upon the true origin and fount of their trouble, they both lost in a moment all their rage against each other and were quite calm.

‘We’re getting worried about this girl,’ said Marion, after a pause, ‘that’s all.’

No further apology was needed.

‘Yes,’ said Bella. ‘You’re quite right. We must keep calm.’

‘That’s right,’ said Marion. ‘We must keep calm.’

Keep calm. From that moment ‘ Keep calm’ was their
standard and watchword. But how could they keep calm when the situation contained not the ingredients of calm? – when they had rapidly to decide what was to be done? – when a thousand alternatives of action clamoured for their due?