Twenty Thousand Streets Under the Sky (40 page)

She saw it all. She had made a ‘find’! Without seeking it, she had stumbled to-night upon a rich man! And she jolly well wasn’t going to let him go. She could play him up all right. He wouldn’t get much change out of her. She could be a ‘gold-digger’ with the rest. Why not? She rather fancied the rôle. Was it not, in fact, the destined part of a hot little baby straight from Paris?

Gee, what had happened to her to-night? She had found a job, and she had found a ‘boy’! – an influential little man round her little finger! Was that not the crown of every girl’s true desire? Gee – what more could she ask? Was she dreaming – or had she had too much to drink? She took another sip.

At this point Andy drained off the remains of his glass.

‘Come on,’ he said. ‘We’ll have another.’

‘Oo,’ she said. ‘I don’t think I ought to have another.’

‘Come on now. Just to celebrate our meeting. Let’s make a night of it.’

Make a night of it? To celebrate? That was a new way of looking at it. Why not? Was not this the one and perfect occasion for celebration. What if she had had a bit too much to drink – what if this was a wild piece of folly, and she had to go back to her dreary routine in the morning – what of it? She was happy, she was immensely and wildly happy, that was all that mattered. You had to enjoy yourself once in a
while – didn’t you? Besides, she had got the job all right. There was not a shadow of doubt about it. A Mannequin. A new era had dawned for her. She was born again. And a rich man round her little finger! If she didn’t celebrate to-night she never would, she might write herself down a little prude for ever. Of course she’d have another drink. She liked drink. She’d have as many more as she wanted. At last she was abandoned. She was going to have some pleasure for once. Pleasure – that was the thing – pleasure for once!

‘All right,’ she said. ‘Ta.’

* * *

‘Oh dear me no,’ Andy was saying. ‘You don’t want to go on working for those two old fossils. . . .’

Nearly half an hour had passed. It had seemed like less than five minutes, and wine had taken Jenny at her word.

She had never believed it was possible to be so happy. She sat there, amid the multitudinous mumble and tumult of a busy bar, a being enthroned in lucid joy. Each tortuous knot of her experience and endeavour had been unravelled at a magic touch; she gazed bright-eyed into the risen and revealed sun of her future.

‘Two old fossils. . . .’ How could they have been described with greater clarity or skill? All was now so perfectly and meticulously clear. Two old fossils – two old withered antiques – two old museum pieces. And only a few hours ago she had been resigned to dissipating her whole youth and beauty on such. Not that she had any grudge against them. They were nice old things in their way.

And to think that they were over at Chiswick now, only a few miles away, confidently awaiting her return to-morrow to the vile and ridiculous servitude they offered.

‘You’re just about right,’ she said. ‘You’re just about right.’

‘I’ll show you how to live,’ said Andy. ‘I’ll show you how to live. I’ll show you life with a capital L. I’m a pastmaster of the art.’

‘I’ll bet you are,’ she said.

Andy had been going on in this strain for some time now,
and it was quite clear to Jenny that he had had too much to drink. She thought this was strange, seeing that he had had no more than her, and that she, though elevated, had never felt more beautifully composed in her life.

From Violet and Rex they were now completely cut off. Once Violet had cried over to them in a mocking way, ‘Well – what are you two love-birds talkin’ about?’ and Jenny had told her to mind her own business. Whereat, veiled behind raillery, a pronounced bitterness and jealousy pervaded the air between the two pairs – they were both getting on a little bit too ‘famously’ for each other’s liking.

She did not know how many drinks she had had since making her decision to stay, but she knew that more than once their empty glasses had been snapped away like lightning, and that replenished ones had replaced them, and there was ever such a mess upon the table.

‘Treat me the right way,’ Andy went on, ‘and you can get anything out of me. All I want is a Pal.’

Jenny returned that that was all she wanted.

That was the way to speak. That was the way to speak. No sooner had he clapped eyes on her than he knew she was the girl for him. No sooner had he clapped eyes on her.

And no sooner, said Jenny, had she clapped eyes on him than she felt the same.

That was the way to speak. All Andy wanted was Sympathy. Sympathy, that was all. There was some girls would take anything from a man – hard-hearted, scheming bitches, that’s what they were – he wouldn’t have nothing to do with ’em – he wouldn’t not so much as waste two minutes of his time on them. Sympathy was what he wanted – that was all – just sympathy. Didn’t Jenny agree?

What was the sense of anything without Sympathy – without Understanding? What Andy wanted was a Mate – that was what he wanted in a girl – he wanted her to be a Mate. A Girl ought to be a Chap’s Chum – she ought to be his little Pal – she ought to be his
Mate
– that was the word.

‘She certainly ought,’ said Jenny.

She ought to Share his Joys, and Share his Troubles. What
was the use of life without a Mate? One was one, and two was two, weren’t they?

Emphatically Jenny returned that they were.

What he wanted was a Mate. Didn’t all Nature have Mates? Didn’t the little Birds have Mates – didn’t the Animals have Mates? That was Nature, wasn’t it? And there wasn’t nothing unnatural in that, was there?

There was
not
.

That was Science all right, wasn’t it? If that wasn’t Biology he’d like to know what was.

Quite right, said Jenny. Evolution, that was what it was.

She was quite right. Then why shouldn’t he have a Mate? He might be a quiet little chap to look at, but he’d thought things out on the q.t. He’d got his own Philosophy. And that wasn’t learnt from the Greek, neither. Nor the Latin. He didn’t pretend to be an Aristotle. He’d tell Jenny what he
ought
to have been, though. He ought to have been a Preacher. Yes, he ought. Here you were. Here was a bit of Preaching.

‘Dearly beloved Brethren,

Is it not a Sin,

When you peel potatoes,

To throw away the Skin!’

Eh? What about that. That was Preaching all right, wasn’t it? . . . Andy threw back his head and revealed the gaps in his teeth in mirthless drunken laughter.

That’d be a good thing to Preach ’em in the Pulpit, wouldn’t it?

No – he wasn’t joking. He wanted Sympathy. That was why he liked Jenny – she was Sympathetic.

Jenny said that she always tried to be.

That was right. He knew she did. He had summed her up all right. He summed people up in a moment. He happened to have a nasty little talent for it. She was different. She wasn’t like some people he could mention.

‘I certainly hope I’m not,’ said Jenny.

No, said Andy, she wasn’t like some people. Some people that weren’t too far away either. It might even be that they weren’t more than three yards away. He wasn’t going to say anything against her girl friend. . . .

‘Don’t see why you shouldn’t,’ said Jenny. ‘She ain’t no one anyway.’

Ah – he was glad to hear it. He was glad to hear it. He knew it all right, he knew it. He’d summed that girl up so soon as he had clapped eyes on her. He didn’t want to speak against her girl friend – but he’d tell her what she was. She wasn’t no more than an Oar, that girl – she wasn’t no more than an Oar.

‘You’re just about right,’ said Jenny. ‘She ain’t no friend of mine.’

He was glad to hear her say it. He’d summed her up all right. She’d end up as an Oar – that girl would. . . . Well, what about another of these, and then they would go on somewhere else. . . .

Like lightning the waiter had appeared: like lightning the glasses had been snapped up; like lightning the new drinks had appeared.

‘Ignorance – that’s all it is,’ said Jenny, glorying, she knew not why, in this sudden vilification and betrayal of Violet. ‘It’s just Ignorance.’

But Andy thought the case worse than this. She was an Oar, that girl was. She had the ways of an Oar. She had the look of an Oar. He could tell an Oar when he saw one.

Oar. . . . Now Andy had got hold of the word he couldn’t leave it alone. It was as though he had got hold of an authentic Oar, such as is used in boats, and was lustily rowing down the yielding tide of obfuscation.

Jenny let him do all the rowing, and reclining blissfully on that full stream, hardly listened to him.

And to think that she was supposed to be up in the morning and working! She presumed she would have to go. She didn’t mind. It would be fun doing the job – now she hadn’t got to, now she had got another. How she’d laugh at those two old fossils in the morning. Silly old things – they had thought they were doing her a favour by engaging her. Favour indeed! –
she’d show ’em. She was as good as them any day. She betted Andy had got as much money as them any day, and what mattered in these days save money? What were class distinctions nowadays? Relics of the past. She’d show ’em. She’d show everybody.

Thus Andy discoursed, and thus Jenny brooded in sullen joy, and without her knowing it her empty glass had vanished again, and again a full one had replaced it. In the fumes and wild noise about her she had lost all count and all caring to count. The din grew more and more terrific every minute, and she couldn’t properly hear what Andy was saying, even if she cared to listen. Without actually being further away in space, he seemed like a being at a great distance – though his voice, like the voice of all the crowd present, was doubly loud and urgent in her ears.

And then all at once, and by what means she had not observed, she found that Andy had reopened communications with Rex and the Oar, and that the two, forgiven, were now seated at their own table. And in a few moments she had forgiven them herself, and was talking like mad with them.

‘Come on!’ Rex was shouting. ‘Who’s going to paint this ruddy old town red?’

‘We are!’ cried Violet, banging her fist on the table, and ‘We are!’ echoed Jenny, doing the same.

And then Rex was putting his arm round Andy, and trying to kiss him. ‘Poor little Handy Andy, then,’ he was saying. ‘Won’t ’e kiss ’is Mum? – won’t ’e kiss ’is poor old Mum?’ – and Violet and she were in fits at the sight.

‘Go on – kiss your mum, Andy!’ yelled Violet, and ‘Go on, Andy!’ cried Jenny. And she looked about her and saw that all the people around were smiling at them, and was filled with uncanny pleasure at thus holding the stage before so many eyes. ‘Go on, Andy,’ she cried, desiring to call all the attention to herself. ‘Give ’im a kiss!’ And she saw them all smiling again. . . .

And then, the next thing she knew, they were all going out – Rex going ahead, and, with one hand poised high in the air
and the other on his waist, swaying his hips and mincing along like an affected woman. And while going to the door she tripped up by accident, and would have fallen if Violet hadn’t caught her. And ‘Are you all right, Jen?’ Violet was saying. ‘Are you all right?’ And she was surprised at her earnest tone, and said ‘Me all right? Of course I’m all right. What do you think?’

And then she and Violet were out in the cold night air of King Street, and the two boys had mysteriously vanished. But Violet didn’t seem to be worrying about this, and was talking rather violently at her.

‘You keep in with that boy Andy,’ she was saying. ‘You keep in with ’im. I’ve been ’earing all about him. ’E’s got pots of money, my dear – pots! ’E’s got a garage at Twickenham, and ’e’s made it all this year. You keep in with ’im. You take my advice. I’m givin’ you the tip.’

‘I will,’ said Jenny. ‘I knew ’e had some.’

‘I’m giving you the tip – that’s all,’ said Violet. ‘I’m giving you the tip. I’m your pal.’ And then, as suddenly as they had vanished, the two boys had returned, and they were all walking and singing down King Street.

And then, just as they had reached a side-street, she looked around for Andy, and saw that he had fallen behind and was signalling to her, with avid and conspiratorial wavings, to join him where he stood. And so she went back to him and asked what was the matter.

Whereat he took her by the arm, and still making furious winks and signs, as though he thought the others, who were at least thirty yards away, might yet be in earshot, said: ‘Come on, let’s go on the Common, shall we?’ ‘Common,’ she said, ‘what Common?’ ‘Barnes Common,’ he returned, plainly enough. ‘Barnes Common?’ she said, ‘what do you want to go to Barnes Common for?’ ‘Come on,’ he said, ‘let’s go on Barnes Common. There’s nowhere else to go.’ ‘But what for?’ she pleaded. ‘Go on,’ he said. ‘You know what for.’

At last getting a glimmering of his meaning she replied: ‘Here – what do you take me for?’ To which he replied: ‘Come
on. Let’s go to Barnes Common. You want to get that job – don’t you?’ and he put his arm round her.

At which despicable and indelicate attempt to wield his power over her, she felt a slight revulsion arising, and might very well have let him see it, had not Rex and Violet arrived at this very moment and asked them why they delayed.

And then they were all walking along the street again, and Andy was holding her arm in complete forgetfulness of Barnes Common. And then they were all in another pub – a small one this time – standing up at a small bar drinking port as usual.

And then she was finding herself not listening to the conversation around her, but taking prodigious interest in a man behind the bar. He had a red face and a white drooping moustache, and was evidently the landlord. What particularly interested her about him was that he had two red faces, and two white drooping moustaches, and two morose expressions exactly similar. He was in fact, two landlords. Tradition told her that her seeing him like this was evidence of her own intoxication, and she did her best to pull herself together and only see one of him. But it was quite beyond her powers – she could only see two. And it was quite impossible to tell which was the right one.