‘Yes. But it’s not exactly a pleasant way of gettin’ it,’
(‘It’s certainly not,’ she admitted. . . .)
‘An’ so you might just as well let me give it you. Just this time. Come along now.’
She was silent, as they walked along. They were now in Coventry Street. He looked at her face. She was so damned pretty. She was looking ahead with a kind of contemplative wretchedness. . . .
‘Come on,’ he urged. . . . He felt the same strange thrill he had felt before. It was almost as though he were making love. . . .
‘Well, I’ll tell you what,’ she said. ‘Have you got one an’ threepence?’
‘Yes. Why?’
‘Well you give me that. Then I can get some lunch for certain in the morning. I can get fish an’ chips for that. An’ some for my friend, too. It’s just one an’ threepence. You give me that.’
They had now reached Rupert Street, and were walking up it in sheer inadvertency. He stopped.
‘All right,’ he said. ‘I’ll give you one and threepence.’
He felt in his trouser pocket, and at the same time in the inner pocket of his coat.
‘Here you are,’ he said. ‘Here’s your one and threepence. An’ here’s something to wrap the fish an’ chips in.’
It was a pound note. He put it into her hand, and she did not resist him.
‘Oh, you mustn’t,’ she said, and looked up at him. . . .
‘Go on. That’s all right. And I’m goin’ to ’phone you up on Monday morning. About eleven. That all fixed?’
‘Yes.’ She was still looking up at him. ‘An’ I don’t know why you’re so good to me.’
‘I’m not good.’ He felt a bit of an ass, and took her hand in departure. ‘Only helping where I can. Eleven o’clock, then – Monday. Good-bye.’
‘Good-bye,’ she said, still holding his hand. ‘Eleven o’clock.’
And then, all at once, out of the blue – out of the blueness of her round, concerned eyes looking up into his, she hesitated, as though not knowing in what spirit it would be taken. . . . The next instant she had kissed him, lightly and briefly, and yet with an extraordinary trueness and tenderness, full upon the mouth, and was hurrying away – simply tearing away, and not looking back. . . .
He was stupefied and inexplicably happy. He walked up Rupert Street.
The absolute naïveté of the thing – the childish artlessness and directness – the freshness and chastity of it! Was it supposed to be a reward? And did she suppose he had desired it? He could well believe it. Such a thing would only enhance its glorious ingenuousness. Or was it just impulsive and sexless affection? He could well believe that, too. . . . Or was it, perhaps, love? . . . Whatever the answer, her simplicity remained to baffle and delight him.
The kiss of a wicked woman – the kiss of Sin. . . . The sweet, brief, virginal kiss of Sin! A miraculous and exhilarating contradiction! It remained on his mouth like a touch of violets. There had never been such a kiss in the history of the world.
Expanded again with yet another of those moods of terrible soul-conceit and self-congratulation to which he was so subject, Bob went straight in to have another drink before closing time. . . .
There was a large and rather turbulent crowd in the house he chose, and after a while he cooled down a bit. Nevertheless, over his beer he reviewed the whole evening with glowing satisfaction. He had snatched it from despondency, at the last moment, and made it a triumph.
Why he was so taken up with all this, and what his next move was in this so original and bewitching relationship, he did not know. And, since the telephone had entered into it, he had no need to know at present. He had her at the end of a line, and could think it all over during the week-end.
The way she got money out of him, of course, was simply staggering. To-night he had spent another pound. But he did not grudge a penny of it. It was as cement. With it he had made the already secure ground of her obligation to him doubly secure. He had now no apprehensiveness.
But what apprehensiveness could he have? None surely – since the girl meant nothing to him. It was, then, a pound greedily, almost sybaritically, spent – just to fortify his soul with rampart after rampart against the invasion of those insignificant little distresses he had experienced earlier in the evening.
Now, he honestly believed, he had won her heart for good and all. Not that he had any desire to win her heart. Doing so was merely a little acquired luxury, but one which he was finding difficult to do without. The thing, frankly, was diverting him.
And her virgin’s kiss. . . . Oh yes – it was a pound well spent all right. That kiss would have been worth five pounds. Indeed, it was priceless.
CHAPTER XVIII
NEXT MORNING, FULL of well-being and on the Brass, Bob came to a new theory of Money. He was shrewd enough to see that his eighty pounds was not really lying at the Bank. Long ago embraced in oceans of money and credit, it existed merely in his mind and that of the Midland – had no reality. The whole thing being, then, purely arithmetical and immaterial, if he drew from the sum he would not be subtracting anything from a lump of money, but simply changing his mind about what he possessed – revising his mental attitude towards his own wealth. This he was willingly prepared to do. He was prepared, for instance, henceforward to regard himself as a man with seventy-five pounds behind him instead of eighty.
That all this was great sophistry he was aware, but that would be instantly compensated for by his having in his hands, in crisp notes – five pounds to do whatever he liked with. Since his youth at sea, he had never had such a sensation, and he was stimulated beyond measure by the idea. He would go down and draw it this afternoon.
That this caprice was inspired by the prospect of his ’phone call on Monday he was also aware. He wanted enough money when he saw her next. But why did he? What was going to happen when he did ring her? He had, as yet, no idea.
That night, at peace with all the world, and with five pounds in his pocket, he spoke rallyingly to Ella across the crowded bar.
‘I see your Friend’s at the pictures this week?’ he said.
‘My Friend?’ said Ella. ‘Who’s my Friend?’
‘Richard,’ said Bob.
‘Richard,’ said Ella. ‘Who’s Richard?’ But she knew perfectly. He was alluding to Richard Dix. And indeed, Richard Dix was her Friend – if that was a proper epithet to use in connection with her romantic and aesthetic responses towards this actor. At night Ella dreamed submissive dreams of Richard Dix. For although Ella, in her heart of hearts, was a placid and efficient girl, she also worshipped at the shrine of pure beauty and romance. And in Richard Dix both these forces were incarnate.
‘Richard Dix,’ said Bob.
‘Oh,’ said Ella. ‘Him.’ And wiped a tumbler.
‘I thought you might like to go and see him to-morrow.’
‘Can’t afford, such luxuries,’ said Ella.
‘Oh well – I’ll afford it.’
‘You?’
‘Yes. I’ll take you there.’
Ella, putting down the tumbler and meeting his eyes, relapsed into that sincere and gentle unaffectedness which was her true self.
‘What – will you take me to the pictures, Bob?’ She was quite overcome.
How abundantly and enchantingly dependent all these women were, thought a rather glowing Bob, his mind going back to the night before. You could win their hearts with the merest courtesy. He found the world more and more charming every day.
‘If you’ll honour me,’ he replied. ‘You’re free all right tomorrow afternoon, aren’t you?’
‘I should say I am,’ said Ella. . . .
‘Well – that’s fixed, then. An’ you might oblige me now with a Gin and French.’
‘Gin and French?’ She went to get it for him.
But it was still on her mind when she came back.
‘You come into a Gold Mine, Bob?’ she asked, exultantly. . . . It was her barmaid’s way of saying Thank
you.
CHAPTER XIX
THE TWO-DIMENSIONAL GHOST of Mr. Dix was performing at the new Cinema now included in the building of Madame Tussaud. Bob and Ella left ‘The Midnight Bell’ the next afternoon at five past three, and had not much time in which to enjoy themselves. Therefore, at Marylebone Church, Bob insisted that they should take a bus along. Ella cried out against this, as being extravagant, but Bob would not hear her. Ella was enormously chatty and sprightly, and so neatly attired as to seem almost dressed for the occasion. This, in fact, she was.
There was further extravagance at the entrance. He asked for two two-and-fours, and Ella could take it or leave it. She being at the time under the eyes of a tall, vigilant, and rather inquisitive attendant in uniform, took it. Whereat the attendant, satisfied of their honesty, pulled back the door, and the waiter and barmaid went through into an atmosphere of dim, shaded lights and heavy carpets. Here they were met by two voluptuous but doll-like young creatures wearing pert brown dresses and enormous bows in their hair, and the whole thing was decidedly Eastern. With profound and charming veneration one of these seductresses put forth a nail-glinting and powdered hand, gathered Bob’s tickets, and with a pleasant manner at once ushered himself and Ella down the centre gangway. Which savoured more than ever of the East and was testimony to the theory that money may buy anything.
The gangway was dark and insecurely defined. They gropingly selected a row. Seated people, and peopled seats, were maddeningly where they were. ‘Here we are,’ said Bob. But it was the blind leading the blind.
At last they were settled. In a few moments they were a part of the audience. That is to say their faces had abandoned every trace of the sensibility and character they had borne outside, and had taken on instead the blank, calm, inhuman stare of the picturegoer – an expression which would observe the wrecking of ships, the burning of cities, the fall of empires, the projection of pies, and the flooding of countries with an unchanging and grave equanimity.
They were lucky in coming in just at the end of ‘Eve’s Film Review,’ and the next picture was ‘The Gay Defender’ – featuring Richard Dix. Ella and Bob watched all this through practically without a word. Only when there was something to laugh at did Ella turn to Bob, saying ‘Silly!’ and desiring him to endorse and share her sense of its preposterousness; and Bob smiled back. His sense of humour was not the same as Ella’s but he felt, towards her, the courtesies encumbent upon a host.
‘That was very good, wasn’t it?’ said Ella, when it had faded, and Bob agreed that it was. They then watched some topical events, which were followed by the leading feature of the programme – a German film called ‘The Spy.’ But already time was pressing, and they could not hope to see it all through. Certainly not, if they proposed to have tea before going back. Providentially unwitting of their own wistfulness they agreed to see ‘five and twenty minutes of it.’ But knowing that they could not watch the thing artistically, and as a whole, they were unable to take it seriously and were more flippant and talkative. ‘This is your type, ain’t it, Bob?’ said Ella at the appearance of the leading lady.
It was true. It was his type – a large-eyed, slim and shingled blonde. In calm and loveliness she eclipsed even the little beauty to whom he had given a pound two nights ago. What madly adorable things women could be, thought Bob. They took your breath away with a radiant and inexhaustible perfection. Did such women as the one he saw now really exist? Certainly not for him. For the rich, then? But it was obvious that the flabbiness and dissipation of wealth was unfitted to cope with such masterwork of vitality and loveliness. They required a Siegfried, or Launcelot – or, in the last resort, himself. He at any rate could adore comprehendingly. The music played tenderly, and Bob’s soul was filled with adoration.
This was quite a new discovery. He had forgotten that women were miraculous. He had known it in early youth and now it was coming back to him. He was very pleased with himself, and glanced at Ella. You either had it or not. She had not. Did she know she belonged to the neuter gender? Probably not. She probably thought that she belonged to the same sex as the enravishing thing upon the screen. She probably thought that she had lesser charm, but the same potentialities – an infamous but comprehensible assumption.
At the appointed time they forced themselves out of their seats by the employment of will-power. The dolls and uniforms had no further interest in them, as they passed out, and they were in the cold, turbulent thoroughfare, lit by the first lamps of evening. Bob took Ella’s arm, and led her to a little restaurant over the road. Ella submitted that this was again wasteful, and that they should go to a Lyons or A.B.C., but he would not listen to her.
‘You’re gettin’ Extravagant, Bob. That’s what’s the matter with you,’ she said. ‘What you want is a wife to look after you.’
He replied nothing, but wondered whether this was true. Did she mean a thing of joy for ever (such as he had just seen) for his own – a divinity domesticated? In that case he certainly did. He also suspected that Ella was disseminating, vaguely, the air of a candidate.
The little restaurant was very nearly empty, and they took a table in a corner. Tea was brought, and bread and butter, and jam. Despite pressure, Ella would not hear of anything more confectional and luxurious. ‘I’ll be Mother,’ she said, and poured out the tea. He experienced further subtle knowledge of disseminations.
‘By the way, Bob,’ she said, as she gave him his cup, ‘I haven’t told you something yet.’
‘Oh – what’s that?’
‘You may be losin’ me before long.’
‘Losin’ you? What’s happened?’
She was rather flustered. ‘Well – you won’t tell no one – will you?’
‘No.’
‘Honest?’
‘No – solemn.’
‘Well – I got a job.’
‘Gawd – what kind?’
‘I’m goin’ to look after kids. Nursemaid. I may be goin’ to India.’
‘India!’
‘Yes. It’s my Auntie’s done it for me. It’s a couple that lives in St. John’s Wood – with two kids. They’re ever such a nice couple. . . .’
‘That sounds fine.’
‘’Course, it didn’t look well – comin’ from a pub, like – but they was ever so nice.’
‘That’s great.’
‘Tain’t half bad.’
‘Is it all fixed – kind of?’
‘Well – not quite – no. There was another girl they was wantin’ first – an’ they still don’t know if she can come, like. Of course, if she can, then they’ll have to have her, like. But otherwise they want me. They said so.’
Bob at once perceived that Ella would never reach India. So did Ella really, but her bravery and belief in life were transcending her sorrowful intuitions.
‘An’ I love kids, too,’ she brightly added.
‘Fine,’ said Bob. ‘When do you expect to know? . . .’
‘Oh – they’re going to write to me.’ She sought his approval and advice. ‘I think it’s best, Bob, don’t you? ’Course it wouldn’t be as bright as this business, but I think it’d be better, don’t you?’
‘Oh – all the time. An’ goin’ to India, too. Just fancy.’
‘Yes. It ain’t half bad, is it? An’ she’s a real lady, too – the one I saw.’
There was a silence. The subject, really, was at an end.
‘What’s a real lady?’ asked Bob, lighting a cigarette.
‘A real lady? . . . Why? . . . A Real Lady, of course.’
‘Like yourself?’ he suggested.
Ella paused, a little insecure, looking at him. ‘Yes,’ she said.
‘Oh – I see.’
He knew exactly what was coming, and it came.
‘Being a Lady,’ said Ella, ‘isn’t in what you are. It’s in how you act.’
‘I wonder,’ said Bob, and there was a silence.
‘Don’t be so silly, Bob,’ said Ella. ‘Money doesn’t brin
g happiness, anyhow.’
He wanted to explain to her that it was not exactly a question of money and happiness, but remained silent.
‘I’m just as much a lady as some of those, anyway,’ said Ella. ‘With the way they go on.’
‘Who are “those,” then?’
‘Why? . . . Those that are, I suppose. . . .’
‘Oh, then there is a real kind of real lady?’
‘Oh, don’t talk such nonsense, Bob,’ she said, and he succumbed.
‘Well,’ he said. ‘I’m ever so glad about this job of yours, anyway.’
‘Yes. It’ll be grand – if it comes off. But you won’t miss me, Bob, will you?’
‘You bet I will.’
‘Oh no, you won’t. You’ve got all your Girls to think about.’
‘There you go again. Where do you get all these ideas?’
‘Oh, well,’ Ella conceded. ‘I may be wrong. . . .’
She had given in, he saw, just at the wrong moment. He wouldn’t miss her for the very reason that he did have his ‘girls’ to think about – if ‘girls’ was a suitable epithet to cover his recent emotions. If Ella had only (instead of being so optimistically and irritatingly neuter) been capable of qualifying as a ‘girl’ herself, then he might have missed her.
‘I expect you’ll have one,’ added Ella. ‘One day. . . .’
‘I wonder,’ said Bob, but it occurred to him that perhaps he had one already. Could he not, by a stretch of the imagination, regard the little beauty awaiting his ’phone call on Monday as his ‘girl.’
To have a girl. To have, exclusively to yourself, a girl. To own a girl – the humanity and inexhaustible loveliness thereof. It was a tremendous idea.
And could he not be said to have a girl already? If mere loveliness was asked for she certainly filled the bill as a ‘girl.’ He had from the first admitted that she was, in her way, a beauty.
Of course it was all absurd, but – just as a fancy – a conceit – might he not call her his ‘girl’? She had kissed him with her virgin’s kiss, and was already, he believed, half in love with him. How, situated as they were, could she really be anything else? Poor little wretch. Poor blue-eyed, fair-haired, large-mouthed lovely little wretch. . . .