No, I dare say you’re right.
It began to rain again. He sat there listening to the steady click of the windscreen wipers, then said suddenly:
By the way, who’s that delicious blonde girl in the photograph?
Which photograph?
I walked into a bedroom while I was looking for the lavatory. The first on the right. There was a photo of a lovely little blonde on the table.
Oh, that’d be Caroline. Her niece. I haven’t met her. Why?
All delicious little blondes interest me.
You are a cow, aren’t you? Always on the look-out for sex.
Sorme laughed. They were passing Hendon aerodrome. To change the subject, he said:
By the way, did you say you fly a plane?
Yes. Got one down at a place near Leatherhead. You must come over for a week-end. I’ll take you for a trip.
Your own?
My father’s actually. He never uses it.
Turn left here, please. It’s by that next lamp-post.
The car stopped with a jerk; this time Sorme had braced himself for it. He said:
Well, I owe you quite a lot for this evening.
No you don’t. I owe you a lot. I’d have been bored stiff on my own. Have you got any booze in your room?
I’m afraid not. At least, only some beer.
Excellent. Let’s drink that. Or are you too tired?
Not at all, Sorme said. Come on up.
As they opened the front gate, Sorme said quietly:
Don’t make a noise until we get into my room.
Are they asleep already?
No, probably watching the TV.
They tiptoed up the stairs, Nunne walking in front. A door below opened; a woman’s voice called:
Is that you, Mr. Sorme?
Yes.
Oh.
The door closed again.
Sorme switched on the light and closed the door.
You don’t know how lucky you are to have no landlady. I detest landladies.
He lit the gasfire and turned it on full. The room was small and had too much furniture in it. Two cheap suitcases, bound with string, stood near the door. The table was completely occupied by the remains of a meal and an empty drawer. A large cardboard soap-carton, half full of books, stood in the washbasin in the corner. Sorme took off his overcoat and hung it in the wardrobe. Nunne was seated on the bed; he lit a cigarette:
I had an awfully nice landlady in Hamburg.
Sorme took the empty drawer and fitted it back into its place in the sideboard.
I’ve had too many landladies. I’ve had so many that now even pleasant landladies make my flesh crawl. That’s the main advantage of this new place—the landlady doesn’t live on the premises. Even the decentest landladies end by persecuting me.
Don’t be neurotic, Gerard.
You’d be neurotic if you’d had as many as I have. Stupid, petty-minded old cats who leave little notes in your room. They don’t like visitors after ten o’clock. They don’t like you to have women in your room. You never know when some triviality’s going to upset them and make them give you notice. If I were a dictator I’d open concentration camps for landladies. Mean, trivial, materialistic old sods. They poison our civilisation.
He moved the carton of books on to the floor, and let the hot tap run, then washed two glasses, and dried them with the hand towel.
Poor Gerard. You ought to find yourself a flat.
Sorme took a quart bottle of ale from the bottom of the wardrobe, and poured into the two glasses. He handed one to Nunne, saying: Cheers.
Nunne took a sip, and set it down on the table. He said:
I’m sorry I’m going away just as we’re getting acquainted.
Sorme sat in a wooden chair near the fire; he said sententiously: There’ll be plenty of time.
Without a doubt. Give me your new address, will you? and I’ll give you mine.
They exchanged address books; both wrote silently for a moment. The warmth made Sorme’s stockinged feet steam. He suppressed a yawn. Nunne moved to the end of the bed, where he could see the fire, and stretched out his hands towards it.
Gerard. What you were saying earlier. About looking for some other way to live. . . .
Yes?
You ought to see a friend of mine. Father Carruthers, at a hostel in Rosebery Avenue.
That must be where Brother Maunsell lives: there are quite a number of priests there. Do you know him?
No, I don’t recall him.
You’re not a Catholic, are you?
No. My mother is. Carruthers is her friend, really, but I’m sure you’d like him.
Sorme sipped his beer slowly. He had no real desire to drink it; it tasted bitter and wholly disagreeable to him.
What do you think this Father Carruthers could do?
I don’t know. I like him. He’s awfully clever. He knows a lot about psychology—he was a friend of Adler.
That sounds dangerous.
Why?
I can’t imagine the Church approving. Does he talk about neurosis instead of sin?
Yes. Well no, not exactly. You’d have to go and see him. He’s written a book on Chekhov.
Sorme shifted his chair further back; the fire was too hot. He said, for the sake of saying something:
I probably will.
Nunne tilted the beer glass and emptied it. Sorme pushed the quart bottle over to him. Nunne allowed the beer to slop into the glass; the froth immediately brimmed over and ran on to the tablecloth. He leaned forward and sucked up a mouthful of the froth, until it ceased to overflow. He looked up at Sorme suddenly over the brim of the glass, saying, with a casualness behind which Sorme could sense the control:
You seem to have an awful down on queers, Gerard.
Sorme said, shrugging:
No. On the contrary, I always get on very well with them.
But you don’t like them?
It’s not that I don’t like them. I disapprove of the queer mentality.
What on earth is the queer mentality?
I shouldn’t say.
Do say. Don’t mind me. I wouldn’t take it personally, I assure you.
All right. Most queers I’ve known have been too personal. With them, everything is personal. It all depends on people. I can’t imagine a homosexual visionary, or a homosexual Newton or Beethoven. They seem to lack intellectual passion—the capacity to become fanatically obsessed by purely intellectual issues. They’re like women—everything has to be in terms of people and emotions.
You do talk nonsense, dear boy. How do you know Newton and Beethoven weren’t homosexual? Neither of them got married. What about Schubert, Michelangelo?
Sorme said, laughing:
O.k. I’m sorry I spoke.
No, but answer me! I’d like to hear your views.
No. I’m too tired. When you go tonight, I’ve got to finish packing. I’ll have to be up early tomorrow to start moving.
Nunne looked at him; his eyes were serious, almost pained. Abruptly, he shook his head, and drank the rest of his beer. He stood up, saying:
All right, I’ll leave you.
Sorme immediately felt guilty:
You don’t have to go yet. It’s hardly eleven. You could stay for another hour.
No, I’d better go. Why are you smiling?
You’re like a jack-in-the-box, Sorme said. Why don’t you sit still for a while?
This was not the real reason Sorme was smiling. He had thought: He has taken it personally. Everything is personal for them. But he was glad Nunne was leaving.
Bye-bye, Gerard.
Where will you go?
Nunne shrugged:
Home, perhaps. Or a club I know in Paddington. Bye-bye.
Goodbye, Austin. Thanks for the evening.
Don’t come down, Nunne said.
He went out quickly, closing the door behind him. Sorme stood there, until he heard the front door slam. His landlady immediately called: Who
’s there? He said angrily to the door: Oh, drop dead! The car door slammed. He looked out of the window, in time to see the rear lights disappearing into the darkness.
He emptied the rest of his beer into the sink, and washed the two glasses, then systematically washed the rest of the crockery on the table. When he had told Nunne he wanted to finish packing he had been sincere; but now he felt sleepy and drunk. The room was hot and stuffy. He turned the gas-fire off, and opened a window. Before undressing, he swallowed three dyspepsia tablets with a glass of milk. The sheets felt pleasantly cool. He yawned in the dark, and stretched in the bed, experiencing intense sensual satisfaction from the contact of the sheets. He thought of Nunne flying to Switzerland, and felt a faint envy, which he immediately suppressed. Sleep came quickly and easily.
CHAPTER TWO
He liked the new room. When the boxes had been unpacked, and the radio and record-player were arranged on the chest of drawers, it seemed smaller than he had anticipated. A fire-escape ran past the window, which looked out on a piece of waste ground and on a church. He had also the use of a small kitchen that was probably a converted lumber-room. It was reached by a narrow flight of stairs opposite his door: he was to share this with a Frenchman who lived in the next room.
The move exhausted him. He had awakened without a hangover, but feeling tired and dry-mouthed. When he had finished arranging the room, he felt the sweat running down his sides and along his thighs. He set a kettle to boil on the gas-ring; he could hear the thump of his heart, and the roar of the traffic in the Kentish Town Road. The bed stood under the open window; the breeze cooled him. He fell into a doze, and was awakened suddenly by the whistle on the kettle.
He made tea in a two-pint thermos flask, and poured it out through a strainer. He put a record on the gramophone, then sat down at the table, staring at the glowing nipples of the gas-fire, sipping the tea. Someone tapped on the door; he called: Come in.
The man who opened the door said: I hear we are to be neighbours and share the kitchen.
Come in, Sorme said. Would you like a cup of tea?
Thank you, I would.
The French accent was not strong, but quite perceptible. Sorme stood up, holding out his hand.
My name’s Gerard Sorme.
Edmond Callet. How do you do?
Do you mind sterilised milk in your tea?
Not at all.
He took the whisky-cap off the sterilised milk bottle that he had brought from Colindale; the milk was three days old. He turned down the volume of the gramophone. The Frenchman asked: What is it? Prokoviev?
Yes, the fifth symphony. Do you like music?
Very much. I used to play the oboe in the orchestra in my home town. Lille.
But you’re not a professional musician?
Oh no. I’m an engineer.
When he smiled, he showed a mouthful of regular, white teeth. He had a handsome face, with a square, powerful jaw. Sorme found himself liking him instantly. Callet sat opposite him, in the armchair.
I hear you’re a writer?
Yes. Who told you that?
Carlotte. The girl who cleans up. We have some strange tenants in this house. You have the worst one above you.
The worst? Why?
He’s mad. And he plays gramophone records all night.
Christ! Does he thump around, though?
No, I don’t think so. He just plays records. You won’t see him during the day. He sleeps.
That’s all right. I sometimes work most of the night too. Do you object to the noise of a typewriter?
No. I use one myself. The only person who might complain is the girl in the room underneath.
I see. And who else qualifies as ‘strange’?
The Frenchman made a puzzled grimace. Sorme explained:
You said there were several strange tenants?
Ah yes. Well the old man above you is the worst. There are two homosexuals who live on the ground floor. They won’t bother you. They sometimes quarrel all night. They are all right except when they are drunk. Then they get noisy.
Doesn’t the landlady object?
No. She doesn’t live here. The German girl is supposed to keep an eye on the place. Carlotte. She lives in the basement.
The record came to an end. Sorme turned the player off. Immediately, they heard the sound of someone knocking on the door of the next room. The Frenchman opened the door, saying: Hello?
Phone for Monsieur Callet, a girl’s voice said.
I’ll probably see you later. Thanks for the tea.
You’re welcome, Sorme said.
He poured himself a second cup of tea, and switched on the record-player again. The heat was making him drowsy. To wake himself up, he began to rearrange his books in the bookcase behind the door. He flattened the three cardboard cartons that the books had been packed in, and heaved them on top of the wardrobe. They met some obstruction and slid down again. He climbed on to a chair, and looked on the wardrobe. There was a pile of books there, pushed to the back against the wall. There were four tattered copies of P. G. Wodehouse, and three volumes in the Notable British Trials Series. One of these had a label inside: Erith Public Libraries. The date stamped inside seemed to be several years earlier.
He lifted them down, blowing the dust off them, then sat down at the table to examine them. A quarter of an hour later he was still reading the first volume he had opened, The Trial of Burke and Hare. It made him feel slightly sick.
Someone knocked on the door. He called: Hello.
The Frenchman looked round the door.
Hello. Lotte asked me to give you a message. Someone phoned for you this morning.
Oh? Did he leave a message?
Yes. She didn’t get his name, but he left a telephone number. Here it is.
Sorme took the torn envelope-flap. He said:
Thanks. I’ll ring him now. Where’s the phone?
Unfortunately, he left a message asking you to ring him before three. He said he was leaving London at three.
Sorme looked at his watch. It said half-past four.
Oh . . . thanks anyway.
The Frenchman asked conversationally: What are you reading?
Oh, a book on murders.
Did you read about that murder last night?
No.
In Whitechapel. Another girl found beaten to death. It was in the midday paper. Do you want to see it?
Sorme said, chuckling: Don’t bother. I intend to eat a meal today. This stuff makes me feel sick.
When the door closed again he tossed The Trial of Burke and Hare on to the bed, and opened one of the Wodehouse volumes.
In the night, he woke up and remembered Nunne’s aunt. Until then he had completely forgotten about her. He reached for his trousers, and felt in the dark for the back pocket. The sheet of notepaper was still there. He struck a match, and read: Gertrude Quincey, The Laurels, Vale of Health, followed by her phone number. He propped it on the chair beside the bed to remind him to phone her in the morning, and lay down again, in the night that now smelt of burnt sulphur, and thought about her. Her figure was slim and attractive; there was something demure about her manner that he found exciting. She was probably fifteen years his senior; perhaps less; perhaps only ten. He speculated idly on the advantages of persuading her to become his mistress, even of marrying her. It would be pleasant to be looked after. But in ten years’ time, in fifteen? There was also this business of her being a Jehovah’s Witness. Somehow, that did not fit in. He thought of Jehovah’s Witnesses as rather slovenly-dressed working-class women.
It would be interesting to find out how serious she was about the Bible classes. Or if her convictions made chastity obligatory.
He knew, with sudden certainty, that there could never be any question of wanting to marry her. It would be a sell-out. There was an intuition of certainty in him that told him that a sell-out for security could never be necessary. He thought instead of making love to her. The idea carried him into sl
eep.
The following evening he tried phoning her; there was no reply. He depressed the receiver-rest and rang Austin’s number; a girl on the switchboard told him that Mr. Nunne had gone away for a few days. He returned to his room, feeling curiously disappointed.
Half an hour later he was reading when he heard footsteps ascending the stairs to the old man’s room. Someone knocked on the door. A girl’s voice called: Mr. Hamilton! There was no reply. The footsteps came down the stairs again. Someone rapped on his door. He called: Come in.
The girl who stood in the doorway said:
I’m sorry to disturb you . . .
He said: You’re Carlotte?
Yes. There is a policeman at the front door. . . .
To see me?
O no! He says someone has thrown a bottle into the street. I think it must be Mr. Hamilton. But he won’t answer the door. What shall I do?
What makes you think it’s him?
It must be. Monsieur Callet is out. Who else could it be?
What do you want me to do?
Could you—go up by the fire-escape? He may answer you.
Where’s the policeman?
Downstairs.
He climbed out of the window on to the fire-escape. A shaft of light came from the open door above.
In the room, the old man squatted on the floor, his back to the door, naked. The choir sang:
Stella matutina
Salus infirmorum
Refugium peccatorum . . .
He stood there, uncertain, wondering whether to return quietly to his own room. When the record stopped, he coughed and knocked on the door. He expected the old man to turn, or start guiltily. Nothing happened. The old man took off the record and selected another from the pile in front of him. Sorme said:
Excuse me. . . .
The old man said over his shoulder:
Come in. Don’t stand there.
Sorme advanced into the room.
I’m sorry to trouble you, but there’s a policeman down below enquiring about a bottle that somebody threw into the street.
As he spoke, he saw the window was open: it overlooked the street.
The old man said: You are German, are you not?
No, English. So would you mind . . . ?
Yes, all right, all right. Do you like the Roman litany?
He felt irritated and helpless. The old man had a bottle between his knees, with a glass inverted over the neck. The gramophone was a big wooden box; the circle of green baize was loose on the turntable; the wires ran across the room to a radio on the bookshelf. He felt chilled in the draught that blew across the room, and noticed with surprise that the old man was sweating.