The Stars Look Down (16 page)

“Hello, Joe,” she said brightly, forgetting that for a week she had cut him dead.

“Hello!” he said, not looking at her.

“I’ve had such a scream of an afternoon, Joe,” she went on gaily, coquettishly. “You’d have died, honestly you’d have died. I’ve seen every kind of swallow but a real one.”

He darted a quick suspicious glance at her as she stood in the dim passage blocking his way. She saw the look and came a little closer, making herself seductive, asking him with her face, her eyes, her body.

“Couldn’t you and I go out to-night, Joe?” she murmured seductively. “Honest, I’ve had a sickening afternoon. I’ve missed you a lot lately. I want to go out with you. I want to. Here I am ready, all dressed up…”

“Ah, what—”

She pressed against him, began to smooth his coat lapel, to slip her white finger into his buttonhole, with a childish yet suggestive appeal.

“I’m just dying to have a fling. Let’s go to the Percy Grill, Joe, and have a rare old time. You know, Joe… you know what…”

He shook his head rudely.

“No,” he said in a surly voice. “I’m busy, I’m worried, I’ve got things on my mind.” He brushed past her, banged through the door and was gone.

She lay back against the wall of the passage, her mouth a little open, her eyes upon the street door. She had asked him, lowered herself to ask him. She had held herself wide open, wide open, longing for him, and he had chucked a surly refusal in her face. Humiliation rushed over her; never, in all her life, had she been so wounded, so humiliated. Pale with temper, she bit her lips fiercely. She lay there for a moment mad, simply, with fury. Then she gathered herself, flung her head in the air, went into the back room as if nothing had happened.

Tossing her hat and gloves upon the sofa, she began to make herself a cup of tea. Ada, reclining in the rocker, lowered her magazine and watched her with displeasure.

“Where you been?” Ada asked laconically, very coldly.

“Out.”

“H’umph… out with that young Fenwick fella, eh?”

“Certainly,” Jenny agreed with a calm tranquillity. “Out with David Fenwick. And a most lovely afternoon I’ve had. Simply perfect. Such wonderful flowers and birds we’ve seen. He’s a nice fellow, oh, he really is
nice
.”

Ada’s indolent bosom heaved ominously.

“So he’s nice, is he?”

“Yes, indeed.” Jenny paused in her unruffled measuring of the tea to nod graciously. “He’s the nicest and best fellow I’ve ever met. I’m quite carried away by him.” And very airily she began to hum.

Ada could stand it no longer.

“Don’t hum at me,” she quivered with indignation. “I won’t have it. And let me tell you this, madam, I think you’re
behaving shocking. You’re not treating Joe right. For four years now he’s run after you, taken you out and all, as good as your intended. And the minute this other young man comes along you turn Joe down and go cohorting all over the place with
him
…. It’s not fair on Joe.”

Jenny paused and sipped her tea with ladylike restraint.

“I think nothing of Joe Gowlan, ma. I could have Joe just by the raising of my little finger. But I haven’t raised it. Not just yet.”

“So that’s it, my lady! Joe isn’t good enough for you now… not grand enough now this school teacher has come on the carpet. You’re a fine customer, right enough. I should think so. Let me tell you, my lady, that I didn’t go about it that way with your dad. I treated him proper and human. And if you don’t treat Joe the same you’ll lose him as sure as your name’s Jenny Sunley.”

“A lot I care, ma.” Jenny smiled pityingly. “Even if I never did set eyes on Joe Gowlan again.”

Mrs. Sunley exploded.

“You might not then. Joe’s upset. Joe’s terrible upset. He’s just been in here talking to me now. There was tears in his eyes, poor fella, when he was speaking to me about you. He don’t know what to do. And he’s got trouble on him, too, trouble at the foundry. You’re treating him shameful, but mark my words, no man’ll put up with that kind of thing for long. So just look out. You’re a bad heartless girl. I’ve had a good mind to tell your dad.” Ada delivered the final threat and sealed off the conversation by raising her magazine with a jerk. She had said her say, done her duty, and Jenny could like it or lump it!

Jenny’s smile was still superior as she finished her tea. Still condescending and even more superior as she picked up her hat and gloves, swept from the room and mounted the stairs.

In her own bedroom, however, something went wrong with Jenny’s smile. She stood alone, in the middle of the cold worn linoleum like a wretched, forsaken, spoiled child. She let her hat and gloves slip from her. Then with a great gulp she flung herself upon the bed. She lay flat upon the bed as though embracing it. Her skirt, caught above one knee, exposed a tender patch of white skin above her black stocking. Her abandon was unutterable. She sobbed and sobbed as if her heart would break.

Joe, strutting down Bigg Market to see Dick Jobey, with
whom he had private and important business, was telling himself gleefully:

“It’s working, lad! By gum, it’s working.”

Ten days later, early in the forenoon, Joe presented himself at the foundry offices and asked to see Mr. Stanley.

“Well, Joe, what is it?” Stanley Millington asked, looking up from his desk, set in the centre of the old-fashioned high-windowed room, full of papers, books and blue prints, with maroon walls covered by photographs of employee groups, officials of the firm, outings of the Social Club and big castings dangling precariously from cranes.

Joe said respectfully:

“I’ve just worked my week’s notice, Mr. Millington. I didn’t want to go without saying good-bye.”

Our Mr. Stanley sat up in his chair.

“Heavens, man, you don’t mean to say you’re leaving us. Why, that’s too bad. You’re one of the bright lights of the shop. And the Social Club too. What’s the trouble? Anything I can put right?”

Joe shook his head with a kind of manly melancholy.

“No, Mr. Stanley, sir, it’s just private trouble. Nothing to do with the shop. I like it there fine. It’s… it’s just a matter between my lass and me.”

“Good God, Joe!” Mr. Stanley burned. “You don’t mean…” Our Mr. Stanley remembered Jenny; our Mr. Stanley had recently married Laura; our Mr. Stanley was straight, so to speak, from the nuptial bed and his mood was dramatically propitious: “You don’t mean to say she’s chucked you.”

Joe nodded dumbly.

“I’ll have to get out. I can’t stick the place any longer. I’ll have to get right away.”

Millington averted his eyes. Bad luck on the man, oh, rotten bad luck. Taking it like a sportsman, too! To give Joe time he tactfully took out his pipe, slowly filled it from the tobacco jar on the desk bearing the St. Bede’s colours, straightened his St. Bede’s tie and said:

“I’m sorry, Joe.” Chivalry towards woman permitted him to say no more: he could not indict Jenny. But he went on:
“I’m doubly sorry to lose you. Joe. As a matter of fact I’ve had you at the back of my mind for some time. I’ve been watching you. I wanted to make an opening for you, give you a lift.”

Dammit to hell, thought Joe grimly, why didn’t you do it then? Smiling gratefully, he said:

“That was good of you, Mr. Stanley.”

“Yes!” Puffing thoughtfully. “I like your style, Joe. You’re the type of man I like to work with—open and decent. Education counts very little these days. It’s the man himself who matters. I wanted to give you your chance.” Long pause. “However, I won’t attempt to dissuade you now. There’s no good offering a man stones when he wants bread. In your circumstance I should probably do exactly the same thing. Go away and try to forget.” He paused again, pipe in hand, realising with a sudden fullness of heart how happy was his position with Laura, how
different
from poor old Joe’s. “But remember what I’ve said, Joe. I really mean it. If and when you want to come back there’ll be a job waiting on you here. A
decent
job. You understand, Joe?”

“Yes, Mr. Stanley,” Joe managed manfully.

Millington got up, took the pipe from his mouth and held out his hand, encouraging Joe to face his present destiny.

“Good-bye, Joe. I know we’ll meet again.”

They shook hands. Joe turned and went out. He hurried down Platt Street, caught a tram, urged it mentally to speed. He hurried along Scottswood Road, entered No. 117
A
quietly, slipped softly upstairs and packed his bag. He packed everything. When he came to the framed photograph of herself which Jenny had given him he contemplated it for a minute, grinned slightly, detached the photograph and packed the frame. It was a good frame, anyway, a silver frame.

With the bulging bag in his big fist he came downstairs, plumped the bag in the hall and entered the back room. Ada, as usual, was in the rocker, her untidy curves overflowing while she took what she called her forenoon go-easy.

“Good-bye, Mrs. Sunley.”

“What!” Ada almost jumped out of the chair.

“I’m sacked,” Joe announced succinctly. “I’ve lost my job, Jenny’s finished with me, I can’t stand it any longer, I’m off.”

“But, Joe…” Ada gasped. “You’re not serious?”

“I’m dead serious.” Joe was not doleful now: this would
have been dangerous, invoking protests from Ada that he should remain. He was firm, determined, controlled. He was going, a man who had been outraged, whose mind now was inexorably made up. And as such the impressionable Ada accepted him.

“I knew it,” she wailed. “I knew it the way Jenny was going on. I told her. I told her you wouldn’t stand it. She’s treated you shocking.”

“Worse than shocking,” Joe amended grimly.

“And to think you’ve lost your job on top of it, oh, Joe, I’m sorry. It’s wicked. What on earth are you going to do?”

“I’ll find a job,” Joe said resolutely. “But it’ll be far enough from Tynecastle.”

“But, Joe… won’t you…”

“No!” bawled Joe suddenly. “I won’t. I won’t do anything. I’ve suffered enough. I’ve been done down by my best friend. I’ll stand no more of it.”

David, of course, was Joe’s trump card. But for David, Joe would never have slipped out of the affair like this. Impossible. In every way impossible. He would have been questioned, pursued, spied on at every turn. Even as he spoke this thought flashed across Joe’s mind; and a great surge of elation at his own cleverness came over him. Yes, he was clever; he was an artist; it was marvellous to be standing here pulling the wool over her eyes, laughing up his sleeve at every one of them.

“Mind you, I bear no ill feeling, Mrs. Sunley,” he declared finally. “Tell Jenny I forgive her. And say good-bye to the others for me. I can’t face them. I’m too upset.”

Ada didn’t want to let him go. She, indeed, was the one who seemed upset. But what could she do with this injured man? Joe left the house as he had entered it: in the best tradition and without a stain on his character.

That evening Jenny returned late. It was Slattery’s Summer Sale and this being Friday, the last full day of that hateful period, the establishment did not close until nearly eight o’clock. Jenny came in at quarter past.

Ada was alone in the house: with remarkable energy she had arranged it so, sending Clarry and Phyllis “out,” Alf and Sally to the first house of the Empire.

“I want to speak to you, Jenny.”

Something unusual vibrated in her mother’s voice, but Jenny was too tired to bother. She was dead tired, indisposed too, which made it worse, she’d had a killing day.

“That Slattery’s,” she declared wearily, flinging herself on a chair. “I’m sick of it. Ten blessed hours I’ve been on my feet. They’re all hot and swollen. I’ll have varicose veins if I go on much longer. I used to think it was a toney job. What a hope! It’s worse than ever, the class of women we’re getting now is fierce.”

“Joe,” remarked Mrs. Sunley acidly, “has left.”

“Left?” Jenny echoed, bewildered.

“Left this morning! Left for good.”

Jenny understood. Her pale face went absolutely blanched. She stopped caressing her swollen stockinged feet and sat up. Her grey eyes stared, not at her mother, but at nothing. She looked frightened. Then she recovered herself.

“Give me my tea, mother,” she said in an odd tone. “Don’t say another word. Just give me my tea and shut up.”

Ada drew a deep breath and all the pent-up scolding died upon her tongue. She knew something of her Jenny—not everything, but enough to know that Jenny must at this moment be obeyed. She “shut up” and gave Jenny her tea.

Very slowly Jenny ate her tea, it was really dinner, some cottage pie kept hot in the oven. She still sat very erect, still stared straight in front of her. She was thinking.

When she had finished she turned to her mother.

“Now, listen, ma,” she said, “and listen hard. I know you’re all ready to begin on me. I know every word that’s ready to come off your tongue. I’ve treated Joe rotten and all the rest of it. I know, I tell you. I know it all. So don’t say it. Then you’ll have nothing to regret. See! And now I’m going to bed.”

She left her dumbfounded mother and walked wearily upstairs. She felt incredibly tired. If only she had a port, a couple of ports to buck her up. Suddenly she felt she would give anything for one cheering glass of port. Upstairs she threw off her things, some on to a chair, some on to the floor, anywhere, anyhow. She got into bed. Thank God Clarry, who shared the room, was not there to bother her.

In the cool darkness of her room she lay flat upon her back, still thinking… thinking. There was no hysteria this time, no floods of tears, no wild beating at the pillow. She was perfectly calm; but for all her calmness she was frightened.

She faced the fact that Joe had thrown her over, a frightful blow, a blow almost mortally damaging to her pride, a blow which had struck her psychologically at the worst possible
time. She was sick of Slattery’s, sick of the long hours of standing, stretching, snipping, sick of being politely patronising to the common women customers. Only to-day her six years at Slattery’s had risen up to confront her; she had told herself firmly she must get out of it. She was sick of her home, too; sick of the crowded, littered, blowsy place. She wanted a house of her own, her own things; she wanted to meet people, give little tea parties, have proper “society.” But suppose she never had her wish? Suppose it was a case of Slattery’s and Scottswood Road all her life—there lay the vital cause of Jenny’s sudden alarm. In Joe she had lost one opportunity. Would she lose the other?