Twenty Thousand Streets Under the Sky (51 page)

Anything remaining of honest fear (or dishonest wish) that Mr. Eccles was by way of being in love with Ella, was instantly extinguished by the arrival of Mr. Eccles himself, five minutes after his time. It was at once clear that he was not sorry for, but in a decided temper about, his own lateness, and flustered about personal matters which had probably caused that lateness and had no concern with her.

Indeed, he had been hurrying, and his face was ashen with irritability. Not that he intended Ella to notice any of these things. It was only that he was unable to conceal them from her shrewd eye, as he came hurrying up and raising his new hat in greeting.

‘Oh, have you been waiting long?’ he said, scarcely smiling. ‘I’m a bit after time, I’m afraid.’

‘No, that’s quite all right,’ said Ella, and without meaning anything she looked up at the clock.

He looked up at it too.

‘Oh well, that’s not so bad,’ he said. ‘We’ll get over that. Let’s be getting on, shall we?’

And they started walking up towards St. Martin’s Lane in silence.

He was furious, reflected Ella, glancing at him. But why? It was not her fault that he was late. Had he been offended because she had looked up at the clock like that? Had he imagined she had been drawing attention to his default?

‘I was a bit late myself,’ she said, falsifying facts to put him less in the wrong.

‘Oh yes?’ he said. . . . Just that. Not another word. And he went on plodding beside her.

She looked at him again, and all at once she understood everything. He was an old man. His plodding walk, his grey hair and moustache, the harsh drawn lines of his face – all, in the grey light of the chilly sky above, revealed it. So different from the flattering artificial light of ‘The Midnight Bell.’ And as an old man he was barely responsible for his rage. Old men were known and allowed to be irritable and to go into rages about nothing. Nothings assumed enormous proportions in their eyes. Because they were old there was not exacted from
them the same duties of self-control towards their fellow-beings as there was from others. Their chagrin was not mental, but physical – they had no control over them. Poor old man! All flustered, was he? Never mind – it was very nice of him to take her out at all, and she must treat him thoughtfully and kindly – indeed with respect for his grey hairs.

But what a difference! – the Mr. Eccles whom she had thought about in bed as a challenge to her peace of mind – and the little old man (how short he was now, by the way!) fussing beside her now. How eminently respectable and dull was her afternoon to be after all – and how weird. How had it all come about?

Thus she pondered amid the roar of traffic outside the Coliseum, as they crossed the road and walked up the other side. True it was almost too noisy to talk. She tried to make a remark on the weather but he was still monosyllabic. You wouldn’t have thought they were going to the theatre together for the first time. You would have imagined he was taking her round to report her somewhere.

‘It’s that infernal girl of mine that caused the trouble,’ he said. ‘She was about half an hour late with the lunch.’

‘Oh yes?’ said Ella. ‘What a nuisance. . . .’

So he realized that his behaviour was not quite all it should be, and was trying to excuse himself. And his ‘infernal girl’ – who was she? Where did he live, what was his
ménage
, who was he?

‘I can’t stand unpunctuality,’ he said. ‘Can you?’

‘No,’ said Ella. ‘I do think people ought to try and be punctual.’

Poor girl, she thought. Anyone might be a little bit late with the lunch every now and again without all this bother. Just imagine being married to Mr. Eccles!

‘Which
is
the theatre?’ she said, trying to change the conversation. ‘I don’t think I ever remember seeing the “Empress”.’

‘Oh, it’s just up here. We’re just coming to it.’

‘It ought to be a good show,’ she said. ‘I read a bit about it in the paper only yesterday.’

‘Yes. It ought to be all right.’ He seemed to be cooling down now. ‘But of course one can’t always go by what the Press says.’

‘No. That’s true,’ said Ella. But this judicial air was pure fake, as she knew by experience that all shows were gloriously good, and she was, in fact, beginning to perk up again in face of the prospect before her. After all, she had only come out with Mr. Eccles because he had promised to take her to the theatre, so why not set her mind to enjoying it, and stop bothering about him?

They had now reached the portals of the ‘Empress’ Theatre. Taxis and cars were being drawn up in rapid succession to the pavement outside, ladies were being helped out by smart, blue-uniformed, medalled commissionaires, and in the rich-carpeted foyer, which they entered, there was a tense little queue outside the box-office, a lot of queer people talking and lurking about, and a great air of something terrifically grave and vivid (say a mass execution of traitors, or a declaration of world war) about to take place behind the doors and passages leading to the auditorium.

Ella, who was used to the delay and scramble of the gallery or upper circle, could not help being impressed by this wonderful show of wealth, servility, and pomp. Also she felt sadly out of place, almost as though she had found herself at a party to which she had not been asked, and she felt sure that her clothes must be giving her away. What would they all think if they knew she was a barmaid!

Mr. Eccles, she saw, came rather better out of it – in fact much better. Indeed with his black coat, his dark blue silk scarf, his silver-knobbed stick, and his new hat, he quite looked the part. But then he was not a barmaid – or rather the social equivalent of one. He was, she supposed one would say, a gentleman – what with his ‘infernal girl’ and one thing and another. She should really feel very honoured at being taken out like this. At any rate she was grateful to be under his wing.

After gazing around him in a rather uncertain way, at the various doors, he now turned to her.

‘Just wait here a moment, will you?’ he said. ‘I shan’t be a moment.’

‘Yes,’ said Ella. ‘Certainly.’

He left her side. What was he doing now? Not going to the box-office surely – for he had the seats. He had them nearly a week ago. But he was. There he was queuing up. What did this mean? Had she dreamed, or had he not expressly stated that night that he then had the seats in his pocket? Yes – there he was, talking to the man in the office, and slipping over a pound note. The coolness of it! So, he was really taking her to the theatre in the proper sense of the term! Why? With what conceivable object? Was he after all her admirer, with a secret end towards which he was preparing? She wished to Heaven she could make up her mind one way or the other about this gentleman. Here he was, coming back.

‘Here we are,’ he said, looking vaguely at doors again. ‘We’re in the dress circle.’

An attendant came forward to assist them. They entered rose-lit, heavily-carpeted passages (whose sumptuousness again appalled Ella) and up some stairs into the auditorium. Here they were met by a programme girl, in whom Ella recognized but a gilded and pampered sister in toil, and who guided them to their seats in the second row. For the programme alone sixpence went bang – but Mr. Eccles’ financial ears were deaf to the report. With the utmost calm he handed her the programme as they sat down. She had noticed that he had received practically no change from that pound note, and she marvelled at his wealth. He must be rolling in money. That, or desperately in love. Whatever the answer Mr. Eccles was a man to be reckoned with. Life was full of excitements after all. She noticed, too, that he was looking quite young again in this light.

Now that they were seated peaceably amid the talkative, feminine throng of the audience, the theatre had lost much of its terror and awe-inspiring character, and it was easy to realize that they had not come to see a mass execution of traitors, or a declaration of world war, but an afternoon play whose scenery was wrapped in a very human and prosaic sort
of concealment behind a thin drop curtain, and whose coming was announced by the miserable tuning-up and page-turning of an orchestra which had lately had its lunch. But soon this pulled itself together and burst into a swinging march: and Ella’s being throbbed with the joy of expectation.

A
BOUT THREE HOURS
later, with her entire world transfigured and charged with new meaning, and practically in tears, Ella, scarcely trusting herself to speak, stepped with Mr. Eccles and the rest of the audience out into the street. They turned automatically up towards Cranbourn Street.

‘Well – that was pretty good, wasn’t it,’ said Mr. Eccles, not unmoved himself.

‘It was
wonderful
,’ said Ella, in so vibrant a tone, that her own transport surprised herself, and she realized that she must not make a fool of herself. But it had been wonderful – there was no other word for it. She had had no idea that such depths of passion and beauty existed, or that she could respond to them in such a way. She felt as though her whole being had suddenly awakened from its apathy, and she could have cried with thankfulness and happiness at the experience.

‘Yes,’ said Mr. Eccles, after another reflective pause. ‘That was well worth the trouble.’

He, being a man, had naturally to restrain himself, but the way in which he said this left no doubt of the fact that he was well-nigh as impressed as herself. He also, then, understood the meaning of beauty and passion – saw things as she did. Her esteem for him rose at once. Indeed, she felt her flood of universal gratitude being diverted towards him, in that he had invented, coaxed her towards, and given her this pleasure from his own pocket. She had been grossly underestimating his value purely as a friend. She was happy to know him.

‘I should think it
was
worth the trouble,’ she said, ‘I’m sure I’m ever so grateful to you for taking me.’

‘Oh – never mind about that,’ said Mr. Eccles, looking straight ahead. ‘The question
is
,’ he added with the little thrust of the practical masculine’s chin, ‘where are we going to have
tea
?’

She had been so engrossed she had not thought about such a thing. But there could have been no more delightful idea. In her state of exaltation she could do with a cup of tea, and it would be all part of the treat. Besides she would be able to get to know him better.

‘Well – that would be nice,’ she said.

‘There’s an Express just round the corner here,’ he said. ‘Do you mind those places?’

‘No. That’ll be fine,’ she said.

‘They’re all right if you just want a cup of tea,’ he said, ‘we’ll settle somewhere nice to go to dinner later.’

Dinner!
So he was going to take her to dinner afterwards! And yet she could not say that she was quite unprepared for this – that she had not previously speculated upon what Mr. Eccles had intended to do with her after the show. She had even left her evening free by telling her mother that she might not be along. Nor could she say that she was now in any way dismayed by this turn of events. On the contrary, she was electrified by it, and prepared for anything. The theatre had put her into high spirits which she must work off at all costs. And here was Dinner to hand.
Dinner
mind you – not supper – not poached egg on toast and a cup of cocoa at Lyons – but authentic Dinner with a plutocrat. Express Dairies were mere makeshifts to such people. She wouldn’t be a bit surprised if they had
Wine!
So far as she could remember she had never been taken out to dinner in her life. What would Bob think if he knew she was going out to Dinner?

‘What?’ she said, having nothing else to say. ‘Are we going to Dinner?’

‘Yes. What’s the matter? You’re free, aren’t you?’

‘Yes. I suppose I am, really. I never thought of it. But haven’t you got to get back?’

‘Me? Where should I have to get back?’

‘Oh – I don’t know. . . .’

‘I’m a bachelor gay, you know,’ said Mr. Eccles. ‘And there
are
advantages.’

‘Yes,’ said Ella, ‘I suppose there are.’

‘Not that it’s all advantages,’ said Mr. Eccles. . . .

‘Isn’t it?’ said Ella.

‘
Oh
no,’ said Mr. Eccles, and there was a pause. . . .

‘Dear me no,’ added Mr. Eccles, as an emphatic afterthought. . . .

‘Well, I daresay it’s not,’ she said. . . .

Why was he talking about advantages and bachelors? There was something behind it all. There seemed to be something behind everything he said and did. He had the most ulterior manner of any man she knew. Did he want to put an end to bachelordom? Did he want to marry
her
? She was prepared to believe anything of him.

Further musings of this nature were put an end to by their arrival outside the Express Dairy Restaurant in Great Newport Street. ‘Here we are,’ he said, and held back the door for her.

I
T WAS CROWDED
on the ground floor, and so they went downstairs to the basement. This was quiet and almost deserted by customers, and they sat opposite each other at a marble-topped table for four. Before seating himself Mr. Eccles, with some ceremony, indeed minute ostentation, removed his new hat, his scarf, and his overcoat, and placed them in meticulous order one upon the other on the peg on the wall, joining his gloves together and fitting them snugly into the pocket of his overcoat. In this manner Ella was for the first time introduced to Mr. Eccles in the nakedness of his Suit, which was impressive. Impressive because, although it
obviously had not actually been bought yesterday, it looked as though it had lately been infected and moved to emulation by the novelty rage begun by the new hat, and had had a kind of thyroid youth injection in the way of Sponging, Cleaning and Pressing. Or so Ella imagined.

A waitress appeared, and after a brief period of argument, pain, and doubt, it was agreed that all they wanted was a pot of tea for two. The waitress went away.

‘Sure you won’t have anything else?’ asked Mr. Eccles.

‘No thanks –’ said Ella. ‘I can never eat anything with tea – can you?’