Twenty Thousand Streets Under the Sky (25 page)

He did.

‘What I always say,’ said Prunella, ‘is that it doesn’t matter whether you’ve been
well
brought up, or whether you’ve been
badly
brought up – you can always refrain from usin’ them words. Ain’t that so?’

‘It is,’ said Bob, and there was a silence.

‘An’ I just
happen
to have been well brought up,’ said Prunella, parenthetically. ‘Not that there’s anything in it. . . .’

Bob did not dream of disputing this openly, but in private thought of jails.

‘An’ me too,’ said Jenny. ‘Not that there’s anything in it. . . .’

There being nothing in it, the observation being, in fact, so exquisitely and purely ornamental, Bob did not think it worth while laying claim to these advantages himself. Also he doubted whether he could do so in good faith. The topic was concluded, and there was a silence.

Prunella now struck a romantic note.

‘I love a Fire, don’t you?’ she said, looking into it. ‘I always say there’s nothin’ like a fire. . . .’

‘No,’ said Bob, ‘there ain’t.’

‘I can Just Gaze into one for hours,’ said Prunella. ‘Can’t you?’

‘M’m,’ said Bob, ‘M’m.’

Jenny, having sternly pursued Prunella in the matter of Bringing Up, was not going to let her get away with sensibility, either.

‘So can I,’ she said, and there was a silence. . . .

‘Just seeing Pictures,’ said Prunella. . . .

Just Seeing (Bob’s affirmative nod seemed to endorse) Pictures. . . .

And there was yet another silence.

‘Castles in the Air,’ tried Prunella. . . .

Castles, undoubtedly, in the Air. . . .

But the subject, also undoubtedly, was wearing thin.

‘Expect Sammy’ll be here soon,’ said Prunella.

‘Who’s Sammy?’ asked Bob.

‘Sammy? Oh, she’s our girl friend. She’s with us here. It’s her room really.’

Three! Bob’s thoughts fled sickeningly to the double bed behind.

‘She ain’t half got hold of a funny man, either,’ said Jenny.

‘Why – who is he?’

‘My dear,’ said Prunella. ‘’E’s Dark. Indian or something.’

‘Merhommerdan,’ said Jenny, wishing to be more precise. . . .

But it remained for Prunella to hit upon the
mot juste
. ‘A real native, anyway,’ she said.

There was a pause.

‘Do them Indians believe in God?’ asked Jenny.

It was Prunella’s turn to instruct.

‘’Course they do, my dear. They believe in God. They got a Creed of their own. They believe in their
own
God.’

‘But that ain’t God,’ said Jenny.

‘Yes it is. That’s God all right.’ Prunella appealed to Bob. ‘Ain’t it?’

‘That’s right,’ said Bob.

‘Well, I don’t call it God,’ said Jenny. ‘Anyway.’

And against this there was no appeal.

‘And I don’t believe,’ added Jenny, sternly, ‘that the Races should Intermix.’

‘No,’ said Prunella. ‘You’re right there. I say white’s white an’ black’s black, an’ that holds whatever you say. Don’t you think so?’

‘M’m,’ said Bob.

‘It’s not that I ain’t Broadminded,’ Prunella continued, ‘’cos I am. And I know that some of them dark chaps can be Great Gentlemen. It’s just they shouldn’t Mingle, that’s all.’

‘No,’ said Bob. . . .

‘Sammy says this one’s very well Educated,’ said Jenny. ‘Speaks languages.’

‘Oh, yes,’ said Prunella. ‘They’re great Students too.’

And they all looked into the fire.

‘I once had a boy,’ said Prunella, ‘what could speak four languages: French – German – Spanish – an’ English.’

‘Really,’ said Bob.

But as with Education, and as with Sensibility, so now, with Tongues, Jenny was not to be ousted.

‘I once had a boy who knew a lot,’ she said, ‘too.’

‘Which were they?’ asked Bob, coming in on the side of Prunella.

‘Oh,’ said Jenny. ‘All different kinds’

‘I could speak French a little,’ said Prunella, ‘when I was at school.’

‘Oo – ’ said Jenny. ‘I can’t half speak French!’

‘But I gone and forgotten it all now,’ said Prunella, ignoring the interruption. ‘It’s dreadful how one forgets, isn’t it.’

‘
Cooshay avec ma sirswar!
’ said Jenny. ‘That’s French.’

‘What?’

‘
Cooshay
–
avec
– ’ repeated Jenny slowly, ‘
ma
–
sirswar
.’

‘What does that mean, Jen?’ asked Prunella.

‘That means “Where are you goin’, deary?” – or “Hullo, darling” – or somethin’ like that.’

‘No it don’t,’ said Bob.

‘Yes it do,’ said Jenny. ‘That’s what it means. “Where are you goin’, deary?”’

‘No,’ said Bob, ‘not literally.’

‘Well, what do it mean, then?’

‘It means “Sleep with me to-night,”’ said Bob, ‘literally.’

‘Well, that’s the same, ain’t it?’

‘Yes,’ said Bob, ‘I suppose it is.’

‘Only a bit more business-like,’ said Prunella. And the matter was dropped.

All this time the darkness of evening, with its secret, busy, but imperceptible machinations, had mobilized in the room behind them; and the fire, now in the full explosive summer of its redness and brightness, arrayed distorted shadows upon the walls and ceiling, which, positively exultant in their own wickedness and ugliness, danced. . . .

Down the foggy streets could be heard the bell of a muffin man. Long pauses beset the conversation. . . .

Jenny’s face was lit in a blaze of glory. She sat quite still,
with her hands limp upon the arms of the chair, like a blue-eyed princess, enthroned and brooding.

Her golden and friendly loveliness, seen, for just this brief interlude, in repose, afforded him an unusual and relenting calm. The moment was filled, not with wild torments of his obsession, but with the dignity of both their sorrows. The firelight and the solemnity of the hour revealed much. She was four years younger than himself, but had suffered, probably, more.

A
LL AT ONCE
the door burst open and Sammy entered.

‘Ah, here she is – like a breath from the country!’ said Prunella, and though it was uttered humorously, there was a certain vague rightness about the metaphor.

Like a breath, if not from the country, at least from the lower depths of an underground railway, Sammy’s pungent personality filled the room.

Her character and history having been roughly sketched to Bob before her arrival, there was no difficulty now in ascertaining the cause of Sammy’s downfall. Possessing some beauty, but born to extreme poverty, she had left home at an early age owing to the evening recreations of her father. These, having great variety, but including, recurrently, the practice of beating his children to unconsciousness with wire, as well as the application of red-hot pokers to their limbs, had been too much for a character congenitally unstable. Philanthropic societies might photograph and display her physical misadventures, but they could not redeem such inauspicious beginnings. Subject to epileptic fits, she was about thirty-four, with a red mop of hair, and the glazed blue eyes of a carefree kleptomaniac – in a word, completely ‘dotty.’

Not that this impaired her ordinary conversation, which
was ripe with disillusionment and wisdom. She was, moreover, full of vitality and happiness. On introduction she took Bob’s hand with extraordinary violence, said ‘Pleased to meet you,’ cried for tea, filled a kettle, and slammed it on the fire. She then drew up another chair, and joined the party as its leading spirit.

‘Well – what have
you
been up to?’ asked Prunella.

‘
Me
? I ain’t half had a time, dear. I been Seducin’ Youth. I’d tell you, if it wasn’t for your friend.’

‘Oh, Bob doesn’t mind,’ said Jenny. ‘Does he?’

Bob signified that he didn’t.

‘He’s one of us,’ said Prunella, and Bob felt a little sick again.

‘Well,’ said Sammy. ‘I been havin’ my soul saved. You know that corner where Lisle Street joins Wardour Street?’

The company did.

‘Well, there was a boy standin’ there – see?’

The company did.

‘He couldn’t’ve been more than seventeen or eighteen – it’s just about three o’clock, an’ ’e was sort of standin’ about. See?’

The company did.

‘Well, so I goes up to him, like, you see, an’ I says, “Where do you come from,” I says, “Eton or ’Arrow?” See?’

The company did, and tittered.

‘So he don’t say nothin’. ’E just sort of Tugs at ’is collar. . . . So I says “Do you want me?” I says. So ’e says “Oh – Ah – ” he says, “Oh – Ah – I don’t know – ah – weallay,” he says. So I says “Well, for God’s sake make up your mind, boy, ’cos I can’t stand about here all night!” So he goes on like that, till at last I says “Well, you’d better come along, hadn’t you, and see what you feel like later.” So we goes along together. See?’

The company did.

‘Well – we was just goin’ in, when he says “Oh – Ah,” he says, “I don’t think – ah – I want to do this – ah – weallay,” he says. So I says “Well, what in hell
do
you want to do, boy?” So he says “Well – ah – won’t you come along – ah – and have a drink with me.” So I says “Certainly, if you’ll
make it worth my while.” So he says he will – so we goes to a bar near by. See? . . . .

‘So we goes into a bar, an’ then he starts sayin’ how Sorry he is for me (see?) an’ all us girls. . . . So I finishes my drink quickly and says, “Well, there’s nobody so sorry as me, kid, but what about what you said you was goin’ to give me?” So he says “Well, I think I’d better be goin’,” he says. So I says, “Oh no, not at all,” I says – “you don’t want a row, do you?”’ Sammy appealed to her friends. ‘That’s right, ain’t it?’

Sammy could not have done better.

‘Well – so he says “How much do you want,” he says. So I says “You’ve wasted a fine lot of my time – how much have you got?” So he says “Would ten shillings do?” so I says “No it would
not
do – and you don’t want me to Create in here, do you?”’

By which Sammy had meant that the young man would not have wanted her to Create a brawl, or trouble, in the public eye.

‘So he’s as meek as a lamb, my dears. So he says “No, I don’t want that,” he says. “How much do you want?” . . . So I says “Well, you give me three pounds, an’ I’ll let you go.” So he says he hasn’t got that much. So I says “Well, you give me two pounds ten,” I says, “an’ be quick about it.” So he says “If I do that,” he says, “I won’t be able to pay my fare home.” So I asks where he lives, an’ he says Bedford. So I says “Well, if you give me two pounds ten,” I says, “I’ll give you back your fare.” So he wasn’t half scared, so he says “Will you promise to?” he says, so I says “’Course I will! I’m Honest, ain’t I?” So he says “The fare’s three and eight,” an’ he gives me the two pounds ten. So I takes it an’ I says “What class do you travel?” I says. So he says “Well – I’ll have to go third.” So I says “Well – here’s five bob,” I says, “and you can go first.” An’ I gave it him out of my bag. No – ’ Sammy broke off to appeal again to her audience. ‘That’s Honest, ain’t it?’

Murmurs applauded the perfection of Sammy’s code.

‘What happened then?’ asked Jenny.

‘Well – so I gives it to him, and he says “Thank you very much,” he says. An’ I says “Not at all. Pleased to have met
you, dear.” So he says “Well, I’ll be going,” so I shakes his hand and says “By all means, dear.” “And,” I says, “in future, dear,” I says, “don’t hang about tryin’ to save prostitutes’ souls.” So he says “No, I won’t.” So I says “They ain’t got none, dear. They’re a rough lot. You run along.” An’ he doesn’t half do a bunk out of that place.’

(Saving prostitutes’ souls. ‘
They ain
’
t got none
.’ Here was a tip from the horse’s mouth! Had he not better admit, finally, that he himself was trying precisely to do this? Was he not, and with less excuse, infinitely more gullible and ingenuous than the young man? Was it not for him, more than any other, to take Sammy’s lesson to heart?)

The story was at an end. ‘No,’ said Sammy. ‘That was Honest, wasn’t it? I gave him his first-class ticket. That was Honest, wasn’t it?’

The company obviously thought it was, but this was not enough for Sammy.

‘What I
say
I’ll do,’ said Sammy, bullyingly. ‘I do. Don’t I?’

The company clearly knew she did, but this wasn’t enough, either.

‘And you know that, don’t you?’ she said, in the same aggressive tone.

‘Yes,’ said Prunella. ‘And that’s like me. When I give my word I keep it.’

‘
And
me,’ said Jenny. . . .

‘No,’ said Sammy, bitterly. ‘I’m not like the other sort. . . .’

‘What Don’t,’ said Prunella. . . .

And, in the silence that followed, the air was filled with that adamant and terrible honesty characteristic of their kind. Bob thought of Jenny’s Mother’s Grave. . . .

‘They ain’t half funny,’ said Jenny, ‘when they want to save your soul.’

Bob sat up. ‘Why, have you ever had your soul saved, Jenny?’

‘Me? I should say I have. I got four pounds off a man who saved it, once.’

‘What did he give you four pounds for?’

‘Oh,’ said Jenny, ‘he didn’t know it had gone.’

There was silence.

He could not even recoil from the shock. Now, at last, he was done for. He might have known it. On his eighth meeting with his beloved, he found that she was a thief. A mean, common thief. He must get out of here.

‘Not till afterwards,’ she added, with a smile, twisting round the knife. . . .

‘You
stole
it, then?’ he said.

She sensed his altered tone.

‘Yes. What’s wrong?’

‘I didn’t know you took money,’ he said. ‘That’s all.’

Prunella and Sammy both looked a trifle embarrassed, but he did not care.

‘I wouldn’t take money off a friend,’ said Jenny. ‘Not off nobody I knew. I wouldn’t take money off
you
.’

‘I don’t see that that enters in,’ said Bob. . . .

Prunella came to the rescue with a clever euphemism.

‘A lot of things happen,’ she said, ‘when you get a man in a generous mood.’

‘And I happened to make this one,’ said Jenny, again smiling, ‘a bit more generous than he meant to be.’