The Stars Look Down (50 page)

Business satisfactorily concluded, Mawson lay back in his chair holding his stomach tenderly. A silence.

“Here’s them two—comin’ over,” he declared at length.

Stokes and Bostock had risen and now came over and stood by their table. Both were flushed by food and drink, happy yet important. Stokes offered his cigar case to Joe and Mawson. As Joe put away his half-smoked Havana and bent selectively over the gold-bound crocodile case, Stokes said with quite an unnecessary wink:

“You don’t have to smell them, they cost me half-a-dollar apiece.”

“It’s no bloody joke, these prices,” Bostock said with great solemnity. He had only had four brandies. He swayed slightly but he was superbly grave. “Do you know that one bloody egg costs fivepence?”

“You can afford it,” Joe said.

“I don’t eat eggs myself,” Bostock said. “Bilious things
eggs, and besides I’m too busy. I’m buying myself a bloody big house in Kenton, and the wife wants it and the daughter. Ah, wimen, wimen. But what I mean is, how in hell is the war going on if an egg costs fivepence?”

Cutting his cigar, Mawson said:

“You can insure that risk. I’ve done it myself. Fifteen per cent. against the war ending this year. It’s worth it.”

Bostock argued very soberly:

“I’m talking about eggs, Jim.”

Stokes winked at Joe. He said:

“Why does a hen cross the road?”

Bostock looked at Stokes. He said very solemnly:

“B—s.”

“B—s yourself,” Stokes answered, steadying himself lovingly against Bostock’s shoulder.

Instinctively Joe and Mawson exchanged a quick glance of contempt: Stokes and Bostock could not carry their money, they were braggers, they would not last the pace, one of these days they would go up in a puff of smoke. Joe’s self-esteem was immensely flattered by this silent interchange of understanding between Mawson and himself. He began almost to despise Stokes and Bostock, he was above them now, above them both. He caressed his cigar opulently between his lips and let out a cool derisive puff.

“Wha’ y’ doin’ this afternoon, Jim?” Stokes benignantly inquired of Mawson.

Mawson looked inquiringly at Joe.

“The County, I suppose.”

“Tha’ suits us,” said Bostock. “Le’s all go roun’ th’ Club.”

Joe and Mawson rose and they strolled in a bunch to the door of the Grill. A woman commissionaire revolved the door obsequiously to these four triumphant males, magnificently fed and clothed, masters of the universe. They made an impressive group on the steps of the Central Grill, Joe a little behind, adjusting his blue silk scarf.

Mawson turned, intimately:

“Come on, Joe, we may as well. We’ll have a four at pool.”

Joe inspected his neat platinum wrist watch with an air of regret.

“Sorry, Jim, I’ve got business.”

Bostock neighed with laughter, wagging a fat forefinger:

“It’s a skirt, it’s a lady called Brown.”

Joe shook his head.

“Business,” he said suavely.

“’S war work,” Stokes suggested with a ribald leer. “’S war work wish a wack.”

They inspected him with envy.

“Cheerio, then,” Bostock said. “Na poo, toodeloo, good-bye-ee.”

Mawson, Bostock and Stokes went off to the Club. Joe watched them go, then he stepped on to the pavement and crossed briskly to where his car stood parked. He started the engine and set out for Wirtley: he had promised to pick up Laura at the canteen. Driving thoughtfully through the quiet Sunday streets, his head filled with Mawson’s scheme, by money, business, shells, steel, and his belly with rich food and drink, he found himself comfortably aware of the afternoon before him. He smiled: a glossy self-satisfied smile. She was all right, Laura, he owed a bit to her. She’d shown him so many things, from how to tie his new dress tie to where to find the little self-contained flat which he had now occupied for six months. She’d improved him. Well, it pleased her, didn’t it, to do things for him, like getting him put up for the County and, by an equally discreet approach, invited to the Howards’, the Penningtons’, even to Mrs. John Rutley’s house. She was completely gone on him. His smile deepened. He understood Laura perfectly now. He had always flattered himself that he
knew
women: the frightened ones, the cold ones—these were the commonest—the “pretenders”; but never before had he met a type like Laura. No wonder she hadn’t been able to hold out against him, or rather against herself.

As he slid into the square below Wirtley Munition Works—for obvious reasons they always met here—Laura turned the corner, walking smartly. Her punctuality pleased him. He lifted his hat and, not getting out of the car, held the door open for her. She got in and, without a word, he drove off towards his flat.

For some minutes they did not speak, the silence of complete familiarity. He liked having her beside him; she was a damned well-turned-out woman; these navy costumes always suited her. His feeling for her now was that of a husband still quite fond of his wife. Naturally there was not so much excitement now, the very consciousness of her attachment to him took the edge off his appetite.

“Where did you lunch?” she asked at length.

“The Central.” He answered casually. “What about you?”

“I had a bacon sandwich at the canteen.”

He laughed graciously: he knew her interest did not lie in food.

“Aren’t you fed up with that place yet?” he said. “Standing serving swill to the canaries?”

“No.” She deliberated. “I like to think I still have some decent instincts in me.”

He laughed again, dropped the subject, and they began to talk of ordinary things until they reached the far end of Northern Road where, in a quiet crescent behind the main thoroughfare, Joe’s flat was situated. It was actually the lower half of a subdivided house, with high-ceilinged rooms, fireplaces and mouldings in the Adams style and a discreet sense of space accentuated by open gardens fore and aft. Laura had furnished it for him in decided taste—Laura had a flair for that sort of thing. It was easily run. A woman came in the forenoons to do for him, and as it lay a full five miles from Yarrow it was, from the point of their intimacy, absolutely safe. To those who saw Laura come and go she passed, in the nicest possible way, as Joe’s sister.

Joe opened the door with his latch-key and went in with Laura. He switched on the electric heater in the living-room and, sitting down, began to take off his shoes. Laura poured herself a glass of milk and stood drinking it with her eyes upon his back.

“Have a whisky and soda,” she suggested.

“No, I don’t feel like it.” He picked up the Sunday paper which lay on the table and opened it at the financial column.

She studied him for a moment in silence, finishing her milk. For a few minutes she pottered about the room, straightening things up, as if waiting for him to speak, then she went unobtrusively into the bedroom next door. He heard her moving about, taking off her things and, lowering his paper, he grinned faintly. They went to bed every Sunday afternoon, quietly and decently, as people go to church, but lately since his own desire was less acute it had amused him to “kid Laura on a bit.” Now he waited a full half-hour, pretending to read, before, with an obvious yawn, he went into the bedroom.

She lay upon her back in his bed in a plain white nightdress of beautiful material and cut, her hair charmingly arranged, her clothes neatly folded upon a chair, a faint perfume of her, like an evocation, in the room. He had to admit that she had class. A week ago he had taken a little flutter with a munitionette from the Wirtley Works—gone home
with her to her room in fact—oh, a nice enough girl, no doubt, her ginger colouring had appealed to him after Laura’s bushy darkness, but somehow her flashy nightdress, the poor sheets upon the bed had disgusted him. Yes, there was no question but that Laura had educated him: clearly the best way to learn manners was to sleep with a well-bred woman.

He undressed slowly, aware that Laura was watching him, taking a long time to arrange his keys, gold cigarette case and loose silver upon the chest of drawers. He even stood in his underwear, deliberately counting his money before he came over and sat upon the edge of the bed.

“Were you working out how much you’d give me?” she inquired in her controlled voice.

He broke into a roar of laughter, glad in a way to get rid of his simmering amusement in one explosive burst.

“As a matter of fact, Joe,” she went on in that same ironic manner, “I’ve just been thinking that I’m the one who’s done most of the giving. Cigarette case, watch, cuff links, all these little presents, the use of the car too. You even wangled this furniture out of me. Oh, I know you’re always
going
to give me the cheque and I don’t give a hang whether you do. I hope to God I’m not petty. It’s just that I wonder often whether you realise what I’ve done for you one way and another.”

He felt his biceps in high good humour.

“Well,” he said, “you did it because you wanted to.”

“So that’s the way you look at it?” She paused. “When I think how it began. That morning you came up about the counterfoils. A silly weak moment. And now this.”

“Ah,” he grinned sheepishly, “it’d have been the same in any case. You know you’re mad about me.”

“What a pretty way to put it. You know, Joe, I honestly believe you don’t care for me at all. You’ve simply used me, used me for all you were worth, used me to get on…”

“And haven’t I been some use to you?”

A silence.

“You’re an adept,” she said slowly, “at making me hate myself.”

“Ah, don’t say that now, Laura,” he protested. And, throwing off his singlet, he slipped into bed beside her. She gave a sigh that was almost a moan, as at her own weakness, her own desire, then turned upon her side, yielding herself to him.

They slept for about an hour afterwards, Joe rather restlessly. It always irked him that she clung to him after his own desire was satisfied. In their early days together it had gratified his vanity to demonstrate his own virility to her, to contrast his own fine body with Stanley’s obvious flabbiness. But now he was tired of that: he had no intention of depleting his physical resources for her. When she opened her eyes and looked at him he sustained her gaze across the pillow with a slightly mocking stare.

“Don’t you love me any more, Joe?” she asked.

“You know I do.”

She sighed: her eyes fell.

“Oh dear,” she said.

“What’s the matter?”

“Nothing. You can be hateful when you choose. Sometimes you make me feel horrible.” A pause. “I am horrible, I daresay, but I can’t help it.”

He continued to look at her, conscious of that inward chuckle which had affected him all day. He had reached the subtlety of deriving a curious satisfaction from the play of emotion upon her face; he watched especially in their moments of climax, obtaining a sense of his importance as the mitigator of this inner turmoil. Yes, he was “the boss,” as he put it, right enough. He was still fond of her, of course, but it was good for her to feel her dependence on him once in a while. Now, since he saw she was in the mood for tenderness, he affected a playful briskness.

“I think we ought to have our tea,” he said. “I’m parched.”

He had begun to grin, when suddenly the telephone rang. Still grinning, he leaned across her and picked up the receiver.

“Hello,” he said. “Yes, this is Mr. Gowlan. Yes, Morgan…. Yes…. I don’t know, no I haven’t the least idea…. What!” Joe’s voice altered slightly. There was a longish pause. “Is that so…. Good God, you don’t say so… came to the office did it…. Yes, Morgan…. Yes, of course… I’ll be over shortly Yes, I’ll be over myself.”

Joe hung up the receiver, came back slowly to his own side of the bed. A silence followed.

“What was it?” Laura asked.

“Well—” Joe cleared his throat. “You see…”

“Well, what?”

He hesitated, picking at the edging of the sheet.

“A wire’s just come to the office.”

Laura raised herself in the bed. All at once she said:

“Is it Stanley?”

“It’s nothing,” Joe said hurriedly. “He’s absolutely all right. It’s only shell-shock.”

“Shell-shock,” Laura said. Her lips went quite pale.

“That’s all,” he answered. “Not a thing more.”

Laura pressed her hand against her brow.

“O God,” she said in an extinguished voice. “I knew something like this would happen, I knew it. I knew it.”

“But it’s nothing,” he repeated. “Don’t upset yourself. He isn’t scratched. He only got buried by a shell and they’ve sent him home to get over it. He’s not even wounded. I tell you, it’s nothing.” He tried to take her hand but she snatched it away.

“Leave me.” She burst into tears. “Leave me alone…”

“But he isn’t even wounded…”

She turned from him violently, jumped out of bed, and, sobbing, pulled off her nightdress. Naked, her white body bent, she fumbled at the chair, began to huddle on her clothes.

“But, Laura,” he said, protestingly. He had never seen her cry before.

“Be quiet,” she cried, “anything you say can only make it worse. You’ve done something to me. You’ve made me hate myself. And now Stanley… O God…”

Flinging on her jacket, she snatched up her hat and ran, bareheaded and sobbing, from the room.

He remained upon his elbow for a minute, then with a shrug of his bare shoulders he reached out towards the bedside table, yawned, and lit himself a cigarette.

It was the spring of 1916, nearly fourteen months since Hilda and Grace had come to nurse in London, and Hilda was happier than she had ever been. The disturbing changes in her father, all the painful echoes of the Neptune disaster, the whole grim business of Arthur’s imprisonment, as related in Aunt Carrie’s woeful letters, affected her very little.
When Grace came to her, weeping: “Oh, Hilda, we must do something about Arthur. We can’t stay here and let this happen,” Hilda snapped: “What can we do? Nothing. Except keep out of it.” Whenever Grace attempted to broach the subject Hilda cut her short in this brusque fashion.

Lord Kell’s house was in Belgrave Square, a large mansion which had been stripped—except for the beautiful cut-glass chandeliers, a few pictures and some tapestry panels—and converted into an adequate hospital, for which purpose it was admirably suited. Six of the rooms were enormous, each as big as an average ballroom, with high ceilings and polished oak floors, and these became the wards. The big conservatory at the back was transformed to an operating theatre; and it was here that Hilda had her happiest moments.