Twenty Thousand Streets Under the Sky (43 page)

How long did it take to get from Richmond to Chiswick? Half an hour – it shouldn’t take more. What excuse could she make if she was late? If she could only think of a good excuse, she could turn up half an hour late – an hour even. Suppose she said she had had an accident. Or that her aunt had had an accident, and had been taken to hospital. That was an idea. She must think out the details. She must think out the details . . . . She couldn’t bear this pain in her head.

Oh, God had no mercy. She hadn’t deserved all this. Gazing at the window, Jenny could not believe that for so brief and tempestuous a pleasure there could be exacted so dolorous a penance.

There he was – she heard him flopping about on the oilcloth floor in his loose carpet slippers. He had knocked.

‘Hullo,’ she said.

‘Here’s your dress,’ he said from behind the door. ‘You’re going to stay to breakfast, aren’t you?’

Breakfast? She hadn’t thought of that.

‘I’ve got to get to my job,’ she said.

‘Oh – have you? . . . Surely you can stay for something to eat?’

Something to eat. Yes – she ought to have something to eat – it might make her less faint. She had had nothing to eat last night. And she could do with a cup of tea. Lord – she could do with a cup of tea!

‘All right, then, thank you. But I’ve got to get over to Chiswick.’

‘Chiswick? Oh, that’s all right. That’s where my bank is. I can take you in the car.’

Car? That sounded better. That sounded feasible. She might be able to make it in decent time after all.

‘Oh, thank you,’ she said. ‘That’d be very useful.’

She heard him flopping away again. (What a noise those slippers of his made!) She rose, opened the door a little way, and pulled in her dress. She closed the door and began to put it on. Car – that was better. If she could only get over to Chiswick in time she might yet be saved. What was that sound of running water? What was he up to out there? If she once got to Chiswick, she didn’t see how they could find her out. She would be immured there – she would lie low. She was supposed to be sleeping in there to-night. She could sneak over to Camden Town for her baggage, and vanish from everyone she knew. No one knew her address at Chiswick. But the police found out everything. They were like God – they knew everything and punished all. Oh Lord – this might end in prison yet. Chiswick. That was her only chance.

She heard him flopping towards her door again. He knocked.

‘Hullo?’ she said.

‘I’ve turned on your bath,’ he said blandly. ‘It’ll be ready in about five minutes.’

Good God! –
Bath
! What had he done now?

‘Oh, thank you.’ She could think of nothing else to say.

‘Will you go along, then?’

‘Yes. Thank you.’

He flopped away again.

Bath! She was going to prison, and he expected her to have a bath! She had, as she guessed, about half an hour in which to get to her job, and he had told her her bath would be ready in five minutes! This because he was a ‘gentleman.’ ‘Gentlemen’ took baths every morning of their lives. He had taken it for granted. How could she explain to him that she was not his counterpart – a ‘lady’ – that she loathed the idea
of a bath – that she was a servant girl with her work to go to.

It was beyond her. His broad and unsuspecting gentility admitted of no challenge. She would have to have the beastly thing.

She was hanged if she would, though. She would have a bit of a wash, and splash the water about a bit, and let it out. She needed a wash, but nothing on earth would make her have his blasted bath.

She heard him flopping about a great deal, and listened till she thought he was in his room. Then she came out, and guided by the sound of running water, found the bathroom.

A decrepit geyser was pouring forth a hot bubbling stream into a half-filled bath, and the whole confined space was filled with white vapour. The walls and window dripped with heavy, oozing dew. She shut the door.

Gee – it was warm. But she could not turn the geyser off yet. He would hear it stop running, and know that she wasn’t having a proper bath. Strange – that even in this predicament she should allow a false point of pride to influence her, but there it was. She had better undress – she would only get her clothes damp in all this steam.

She took everything off, and put one foot in the water. Oo! – it was hot! She turned on the cold water. She put her foot in again. It was just bearable. She brought her other foot in. She turned the cold water off. She was afraid she had made it too cold now. It was nice – this warmth. Why not have a bath? It wouldn’t take more than five minutes, and it would warm her up proper. She would. She turned off the geyser.

The water ceased pouring, and a heavy dripping silence fell. She sank into the bath. It was lovely and hot, and she wished she could stay in it. She looked at the window and saw that the sky was growing a little lighter.

There he was – flop-flopping about again. Lord! – she hadn’t locked the door! He was coming in – he was coming in! She sprang up in the bath.

‘Here!’ she cried. ‘Don’t come in!’

‘What?’ he said vaguely.

‘Oh, I’m sorry. I thought you was coming in.’

‘Oh.’ He was flopping away again.

No, he wasn’t. He was flopping back.

‘What’ll you have for breakfast?’ he said. ‘Will a boiled egg do you?’

‘Yes – thank you.’

‘One? Or two?’

‘One, please. Thank you.’

‘I’ve got to get the breakfast myself,’ he explained. ‘The blasted skivvy’s down with ’flu.’

‘Oh – I see.’

He flopped away again. So he had a ‘skivvy’ – did he? It didn’t even cross his mind that she herself might be a ‘skivvy.’ His ‘blasted skivvy. . . .’ So that was the way her kind were talked of. He was mistaking her for a ‘lady’ apparently – an equal at any rate. By rights, she supposed, she ought to be calling him ‘Sir’ and getting his breakfast for him. Yet here he was, giving her the use of his bath, and getting her breakfast for her. A wicked pass and paradox indeed – that in falling so low from her own mean grace she should be elevated to so spurious and insecure a level.

There he was again – flopping about. What was he up to now? He seemed to be in a dream. She must get out of this bath. Where was the towel?

The towel! There wasn’t one! Would her tortures never cease? She stood up in the bath distraught. She heard him passing, and cried, ‘Excuse me!’

‘Hullo?’

‘Have you a towel, please?’

‘Oh, I’m sorry. I’ll get one. I’m rather vague this morning.’

Rather vague! She should think he was. But she could understand it, if he was feeling anything like herself. And she supposed he must be, after all that drink.

‘Here you are,’ he said. ‘Shall I heave it in?’

‘Will you leave it outside, please?’

But, ignoring this, he opened the door a few inches, and flung it in.

‘Thank you,’ she said.

‘Are you out of your bath?’ he cried.

‘Yes. Why?’

She knew what was coming!

‘You might turn mine on – would you? Can you work the geyser thing?’

‘Yes. All right.’

‘Ta,’ he said, and flopped away again.

This was the last straw. He was going to have a bath himself. Her own bath water had not run out yet. She dried herself in mad haste, and began to put on her clothes. Had he no realization of her situation? How could they get to Chiswick in time now? What
was
the time? The sky was rapidly growing lighter, and it might be any time.

She was so
thirsty
she didn’t know what to do. Oh – she was being punished all right.

He was flopping past the door again.

‘Do you know the time, please?’ she cried.

‘No. I’ll tell you in a jiffy.’

She was putting on her stockings now. She heard him flopping back again, and waited in agonized suspense for his answer.

‘It’s just five to nine,’ he said.

‘Oh Lord!’

It couldn’t be true! Then she was an hour late already! It couldn’t be true.

‘What’s the matter?’ he asked.

‘I’m late. That’s what’s the matter.’

‘Oh.’

That was all he said. He flopped away again. How cruel he was. Could she instil no sense of urgency into him? He seemed without care. Why didn’t he offer to forgo his bath? Suppose she asked him to? She must ask him. But how? How dared she interpose her ‘skivvy’s’ will between a ‘gentleman’ and his bath? All things concerning their ‘dip’ she knew were the holy of holies to gentlefolk. They were Spartans on the matter. She could not ‘give herself away’ by asking him such a thing.

The last of the dirty water ran out with a gurgle. She seized the matches and lit the geyser.

* * *

Half an hour later he joined her in the dining-room. He had been twenty minutes in his bath, splashing, and washing, and scrubbing, and slooshing as though he had never had a bath in his life before. He had been like a freshly captured seal in there. In the meantime she had found her hat and coat, and dusted her shoes, and combed her hair with his comb, and under his bellowed directions cooked the breakfast and laid the table. She had now realized that she could not be at Chiswick till ten, and all the time she had been beating up her mind for some excuse to make when she arrived there. She had practically decided on an accident. ‘Oo, madam, I’m ever so sorry I’m late’ – these were going to be her first words – ‘did you get my wire? ‘Then she was going to be mystified because they hadn’t got the wire, and then go on to say that her aunt had had an accident – run over by a car . . .

Her host entered the dining-room with an assumed brightness, and on seeing that the table was laid and that everything was ready, murmured, ‘Ha. Excellent,’ and rubbed his hands.

She took stock of him properly for the first time. He wore a blue double-breasted suit, and he was about thirty-five, with a virile appearance. A thick black moustache, neatly cropped, braced a full and sensual mouth. His dark hair was thick and somewhat wavy, and if allowance were made for the promise of corpulence and a wholly dissipated look, he might have been described as handsome. There was no doubt that he was a ‘gentleman’ all right, Jenny decided. She divined that he had been an ‘officer’ in the war, ever since which, with money of his own, he had devoted himself in a singleminded way to drunkenness. Subsequent conversation proved her surmise to be roughly correct.

As he cracked open his egg, she saw that his hand trembled and that he was suffering physically almost as much as herself from the effects of the night before. He did not speak, but began to eat with an appetite – every now and again giving a
sort of sidelong glance at her plate to see how she was getting on.

‘How long do you expect it’ll take to get to Chiswick?’ she asked at last.

‘Oh – not long,’ he said, and went on munching.

Had he nothing to say? Had he no explanation to give or apology to make? She hated this worn and callous air of his.

‘We didn’t half go it last night – didn’t we?’ she tried.

‘Yes. We did. I’m feeling foul, aren’t you?’

‘I should say I am. I ain’t ever done anything like
that
before.’

She was glad to have had the opportunity of making this clear to him, but he made no answer. Instead he filled his mouth with egg, and went on munching.

‘Have
you
?’ she said.

‘Yes. I have. As a matter of fact.’

Nothing more. He had as much conversation in him as a stone.

‘I’m afraid to say . . .’ he added, and took a gulp at his tea. The cup trembled at his lips.

‘It was awful about that accident, wasn’t it?’ she said. She wanted to talk it out – to try and get some comfort from him.

‘Yes. It was. Ghastly.’

‘Do you think that man was –
hurt
?’ she said. She could not bring herself to utter the real word.

‘Must have been. I’m afraid. . . .’

‘You don’t think he was killed, do you?’ She did not know how she had brought it out, and she felt quite sick as she waited for him to reply.

‘Hope not,’ he said. ‘You can’t say.’

All this time she had been trying to eat her egg. At this point, she knew that she did not want it, that she could never eat it, and that it was so much sickly embryo immeasurably repellent in her mouth.

‘We ought to have gone back – oughtn’t we?’

‘Yes. We ought. If I hadn’t been so drunk I’d have tried to. It’s done now, though.’

‘Do you think they’ll find out?’

‘Hope not. They may, of course.’

What was he saying! She pushed the plate blindly away from her. She was feeling faint again, and she believed she was going to be sick. She couldn’t trouble to pretend to eat any more.

‘Aren’t you going to eat that egg?’

‘No.’

‘Go on. Can’t you eat it?’

‘No, thank you.’

‘May I have it, then. I’m rather ravenous this morning.’

‘Yes.’

She feebly pushed the plate towards him. He at once seized the egg, and began on it.

‘What’ll happen if they find out?’ she said.

‘That’s the trouble. You can get jailed for that sort of thing nowadays.’

Jailed!
The word rang through her like a wild peal of bells. She was going to faint. Those black smudges were coming again. . . . She was going to faint. . . .

‘Here,’ she heard him saying. ‘Are you all right? . . .’

She looked at the window, and the smudges danced in front of her. He had risen now, and was standing over her.

‘I’ll be all right,’ she managed to murmur.

‘Sure?’

‘Yes.’

‘I’ll get you some water, shall I?’

‘Ta.’

He left the room. She was better now. Jailed! Oh – she wished she was dead – she wished she was dead and out of it.

He returned with the water. She took it and sipped at it.

‘Sorry to trouble you,’ she said.

‘Not a bit. One feels like that after a binge like last night.’ And he returned to his egg.

‘I shouldn’t worry about that accident,’ he said, a few moments later. ‘We weren’t driving after all.’

‘No. We weren’t. They couldn’t do much to us if we weren’t driving, could they?’

‘No. I don’t expect so.’