Twenty Thousand Streets Under the Sky (15 page)

And it was as though he was jovially slapping her on the back about the day.

‘Any more letters in the paper, Mr. Sounder?’ he asked, with a kind of rich, chaffing humour, and another metaphorical slap.

‘No,’ said Mr. Sounder, ‘nothing lately.’

‘Oh well,’ said Bob consolingly, ‘I expect there will be soon.’

Mr. Sounder, slightly taken aback, looked curiously at Bob.

‘Your constitutional,’ said Ella, ‘seems to have done you
good
.’

She had again hit the mark.

T
HE NEXT DAY
was grey, threatening rain. He was there at seven minutes past three. The clock on the church over the way pointed to it. They had arranged to meet at three fifteen. Therefore, if she had been there when he came, she would have been eight minutes before her time. But, very sensibly, she was not there eight minutes before her time.

Nor was there any reason why she should be there eight minutes before her time. Nor yet five minutes before her time. Nor yet four, three, or two minutes before her time. And she was not. He applauded her discretion.

At a quarter past, however, he had a right to expect her. She had not come. But that didn’t matter, as it was part of a woman’s business to be late. Five minutes late at least. During the next five minutes she scrupulously obeyed the laws of her femininity. But by five and twenty past he was growing disturbed. It seemed that only five minutes stood between him and an almost unthinkable dilemma. For at half past he would have to give up hope. His mind and soul concentrated on the hands of the clock, trying to stay their movement. In walking up and down he was careful to look at the dial only when farthest to the right of it. In that way you gained, by the angle, about half a minute.

But there came a time when no angle could mitigate the facts of the case. It was half-past three. He would now wait as a formality until four.

There was a voice behind him. ‘Hullo, Bob,’ it said.

It was Ella – confound her. She was going to her ‘Auntie,’ and was rather dressed up.

‘Who are
you
waiting for?’ she asked.

‘Oh,’ said Bob, ‘pal of mine.’

She didn’t seem to doubt him. ‘Well, it’s going to
rain
in a minute,’ she said. ‘Ta, ta.’

‘Ta, ta.’

He watched her crossing the road and disappearing down Great Portland Street Station. Going to her ‘Auntie.’ He envied her her plainness and goodness. . . . It was a facile
mode of life, and he wished his own temperament was the same.

At five to four he went into the box and ’phoned up. He tried to pretend he was someone else. Was Miss Maple there by any chance?
Now
, she wasn’t in.

Seeing nothing, Bob walked straight down towards the West End.

He might find her there. Where else could she be? He had found her there twice already.

What would he say to her if he did find her? He had no idea. He was beyond responding to the situation. He must find her, that was all.

He began on Shaftesbury Avenue. When arrived there he realized that he had pinned his hopes upon the corner of Dean Street where he had last discovered her talking to that man. She was, of course, not there. It was beginning to rain, but there were still many of her kind about. It was half-past four.

He walked down Shaftesbury Avenue, down Wardour Street, round by the Corner House, up Rupert Street, round by the Pavilion and back to Wardour Street again. It was raining quite hard and growing dark. They lurked everywhere in shop doorways.

The approach of love is something as stealthy and imperceptible as the catching of a cold. A man of spirit never knows he has it until the last moment. He experiences a little dryness in the throat or a slight thickness in the head, but these symptoms are nothing. They have frequently visited him before without leading to anything more serious. Moreover, they seem to be passing off during the day. Dozens of his friends about him have colds, but he, owing to some special dispensation, is going to escape. The symptoms return. His throat seems sore. He swallows nothing continually to see how sore it is. He sincerely believes that it is very mildly sore. Also he knows that you can easily have a sore throat without having a cold. Nevertheless, as all these colds are about he had better take something. He knows that prevention is better than cure, and he is a great believer in taking these things at
the very first sign – however morbid and fantastic doing so may seem. He takes something. His throat is no better, but decidedly worse, and he is a little thicker in the head. But he has no cold. Those around him who have colds (poor devils) are in one class; he is in another. Then, one night in bed, he realizes that his breathing is causing him pain and that he is in something like a fever. He is no worse than he was before, but suddenly he changes his whole attitude. A minute ago he had no cold: this minute he succumbs. He has an appalling cold, and he is one of the poor devils.

Round and round again, down Wardour Street, round by the Corner House, up Rupert Street, round by the Pavilion, and back to Wardour Street again. And the traffic hooting, and the mud splashing, and the rain coming finely down from a despondent sky, on a darkening winter’s afternoon.

At last he boarded a bus and was driven northwards, in the gloaming, to his evening duties.

A
T ABOUT TEN
o’clock next morning, and while Bob was busy polishing the handle of the door, the Governor came through into the bar and spoke across to him.

‘Something for you ’ere, Bob,’ he said.

Bob was not feeling very well at the time, for he had had too much to drink the night before. It was a beautiful morning, with the sun pouring down and flooding everything.

‘Something for me?’ he said, and went to the bar with a dirty rag and a bottle-shaped tin of ‘Blue-bell’ in his hand.

‘Yes,’ said the Governor, in a rather curious tone, and handed it over.

Ella, about a yard away, was watching the transaction.

Bob at once perceived why the Governor had not called it a letter (which it was), but Something. The envelope was of
cheap mauve material, and in a giddy and sickening moment his eyes ran over the address:

‘Bob’

the Midnight bell public House

‘Off’ Euston road

London.

He did not think he blushed. ‘Oh,’ he said, ‘I know what that is.’ And put it straight in his pocket and went back to the door.

He had saved his face. By saying in that unruffled way that he knew what it was, he had cleverly intimated to the Governor and Ella that the apparent humiliation of his receiving such a missive was deliberate and with some inner meaning.

He rubbed away at the door handle. So wrought up was he, by the little crisis, that for quite a few moments he totally overlooked the fact that the envelope contained something for him to read.

An apology, he supposed. Well, it was needed: but he could not deny that he was pleased, flattered, and excited. When would he read it? Not until the house opened, he thought. Then he would run up to his bedroom and open it.

For an hour he kept the thing, a delicious torment, in his pocket. Then, at eleven o’clock, he ran up to his room and shut the door.

It was on cheap, ruled paper, from a Woolworth’s writing block, and it was written in pencil. The handwriting was rounded, stupid, but conscientious. The ‘i’s’ were dotted with a jab and twirl:

‘Dear Bob

‘No doubt by now you are through with me as I did not turn up today but Bob it was not my fault dear. You must excuse pensil as I have no pen Well dear you must understand it was not my fault as I was out all that night before and did not get in till half past 4 in the morning and overslept myself untill it was too late to meet you And I have not had anything to eat all day dear as I have no money.

‘Well Bob it was not my fault and if you are not through with me perhaps you will meet me on Friday Bob will you I will be at the Green man at 3 and hope you come along there I will be there erlier if you like I hope you will let me hear.

‘Please excuse pensil and not turning up

‘yours truly

‘Jenny Maple.’

Bob read this through three or four times, fully unravelled her constructions, and finally decided she had made handsome amends – more handsome than he would have credited. All his troubles, in fact, were at an end. He came downstairs, obtained a bitter from Ella and, while engaged on various duties, gave himself up to thought.

It was, of course, simply overwhelmingly pathetic. She was, after all, merely the poor little misery he had always thought her. And yet she was an alluring and prettily mannered little misery, and he fancied he could detect her coquetry transcending even her unhappiness and frailty. ‘No doubt by now you are through with me. . . . And if you are not through with me perhaps you will meet me on Friday.’ Her naïve humility in reiterating the condition, combined with her delightful inner assurance of his complete forgiveness, made him smile and feel indulgent towards her. Loving towards her, even. And then again: ‘and I have not had anything to eat all day dear as I have no money.’ That, perhaps, was a bit too ‘broad,’ too deliberately and self-consciously pathetic. But was it not pathetic that she should even try to be pathetic? And might it not be true that she had had nothing to eat? They led a grim and precarious life, these women – he knew that. Perhaps he had been unwarrantably harsh in thinking her so heavily to blame. Perhaps, so far from behaving loosely and inconse-quently with him, she had been making every attempt to meet him that her unfortunate circumstances would allow. He must learn to make allowances for other people besides himself.

Indeed, this was a new line of thought. He realized that, living as she did, she was as inaccessible, almost, as a princess.
Her appointments meant food. It was marvellous, really, that she had conceded him so much. For what was he to her? It was not as though he was providing for her, or had any intention of doing so. She was doing it purely for the sake of a friendship quite profitless to her. And here he had a humble, sweet, illiterate letter from her begging his forgiveness. He had been an atrocious egoist. He finished his drink, attended to some people in the lounge, made five pence, and glowed with his own unfairness and egotism. Bob generally managed to glow about something, sooner or later.

But what was he going to do about it? After that walk in the rain yesterday evening, he had to admit that the girl had some sort of morbid fascination over him. Now that he had got her letter, and all was well again, he was prepared to admit it. But what was he going to do?

He knew the advice of the man of the world. Have her and done with it. But was he, really, a man of the world, and did he desire her in that way? Besides, men of the world were never rewarded with virgin kisses of that kind, and it was not in him to turn its memory sour. That kiss beautified but made hopelessly intricate the situation. . . .

Was he in love with her, then? That, surely, was impossible. You couldn’t be in love with a woman like that. The convention was that directly you began to think you would go mad. But would you? It was all very strange. He had better send her a line saying he would be there at a quarter past three on Friday. But why not make it two o’clock and get the whole afternoon off from the Governor. He could easily make an excuse; and the Governor was very amenable about that sort of thing. Then he would have at least three hours with her, and find out what he really felt. If this weather held, he could take her up to Hampstead for a walk. Probably she did not know what fresh air was. It would be his pleasure to introduce her to it.

He would not send a letter – but a wire. He didn’t want the fag of telling her she was forgiven by letter. Besides, a wire would put more of the fear of God into her, give greater gravity to the meeting and so make it doubly sure that she
would be there. He still had more than three pounds left out of that five.

And the wire? . . .

‘Many thanks letter. Meet Green Man two o’clock Friday.’

No. He had been an atrocious egotist.

‘Many thanks letter. Will be Green Man two o’clock Friday. Try best meet. Bob.’

He despatched it that afternoon.

H
E WAS THERE
ten minutes before the time, but she was not. Restraining himself, he went for a walk and came back one minute before the time.

He looked down the Euston Road, and saw her coming in the distance. She waved to him and he went towards her.

His relaxed tension was a thing in which he bathed. He had no cares. The sun was shining brilliantly, and all the afternoon was ahead. They smiled.

‘Hullo,’ she said. ‘How are you?’

‘I’m all right. How are you?’

He was leading her along towards Tottenham Court Road. They talked brightly.

‘It’s such a lovely afternoon,’ he said. ‘I thought we might go up to Hampstead, and have a walk.’

‘A walk?’ she said, suddenly looking rather doubtfully in front of her. For an instant he thought he detected, coming into her eyes, something of that strange, pettish adamance which he had encountered when he had tried to be domineering with her the other night. He decided to beg for mercy while he could.

‘Not if you don’t like,’ he said quickly. ‘But it’d be awfully nice if you could manage it. Do come.’

He informed himself that he was not so insanely anxious to get her on this walk because he was in any way in love with
her. It was simply because he had to find out whether he was or not – to see where he was. All the same the fact remained that, whatever the cause, he was insanely anxious to get this delicious object by his side to come for a walk with him. Did it not all amount to the same thing?

‘All right,’ she said, after a pause, and with good grace. ‘I’ll come.’

‘Oh – that’s great,’ he said. ‘Tell you what. We’ll go by Warren Street Tube an’ then get out at Hampstead. That all right?’

She could not help dimly smiling, and letting him see her smile, at his unaffected pleasure. Pleased with her power, she embellished the gift.