Twenty Thousand Streets Under the Sky

  Yes – he had a girl. He insisted upon the fancy. He was never so pleased in his life. Ella’s prophecies had been gloriously fulfilled.

  ‘I dare say I will – one day,’ he said, and Ella returned that she was sure of it.

  CHAPTER XX

  MONDAY DAWNED, BUT it was not Monday at all. A dense brown fog obliterated the Universe; and it was a day outside ordinary human computation.

  You were cold to the marrow of your bones. Garish lights were lit everywhere inside; your breathing made perpetual little white fogs. The roll of the traffic was hushed and torpid. Fog signals went off like distant tyres bursting.

  Bob began on the brass as usual, and Ella came down a little later. Her nose was very pink, and her first news was in accordance with the general atmosphere of the day. India was Off. She had had a letter only that morning.

  She took it well, but it had an effect upon Bob as well as herself. A fog obliterated the Universe, and India was Off. The imprisoning and inescapable factors of existence made themselves felt. India was Off. Would anything ever be On again?

  Also, Bob was a little ashamed of himself in conversation with Ella. The truth was that he had his own private little line of escape from a pea-soup Universe in which India was Off – the telephone of eleven o’clock. Ella had no such little treat. Nor did she have any idea that he had. She believed him to be a fellow prisoner in a Universe in which India was Off, but actually he wasn’t. He felt he was taking a rather mean advantage of her.

  Though, as a matter of fact, he wasn’t quite sure that it was a treat. Now that he was only half an hour away from it (and the day being so unfamiliar), he was feeling unaccountably nervous. He supposed that she would be waiting for him just the same, in a fog, but he somehow felt that they had not reckoned with this when they had made the appointment. Then again – the ’phoning itself – that was not so uncomplicated an operation as it had looked. He could not, of course, ’phone from the house itself. The instrument was only just behind the bar, and within easy earshot of Ella and everybody. He would have to go out to a box. That, in itself, was not difficult. At eleven o’clock there was nothing for him to do, and there was no danger of his being missed. Indeed, quite frequently he had gone out for a paper at this time.

  But there was a difference between vanishing innocently like that, and going out with secret intent to ’phone a woman; and the fog, in some way or another, bestowed upon the whole thing a darker, and more deceptive, and even underhand quality.

  However, when the clock pointed to five to eleven, he ran upstairs for his hat and coat, and came down and left the place without a word.

  He was going to use the box at Great Portland Street Station. The walk would take him about three and a half minutes, and he calculated to connect with her on the stroke of eleven.

  As he walked along he noticed that the fog was really very dense indeed – almost a record, he imagined. That meant that in the Evening News there would be ghostly pictures of darkened policemen and flares. He knew all their tricks.

  He wondered vaguely why he was doing this, and what it was all about. She, he supposed, was now sitting somewhere, in a room, waiting for his ring. Queer. But he would not dispense with this little intrigue for worlds. He was ’phoning his ‘girl.’ She was waiting for him. She had great beauty and was already half in love with him. What more perfect redemption from a foggy day could you obtain? The fact that she was only poetically speaking his ‘girl,’ and could never be so (he supposed) in actual fact, did not concern him.

  He entered the box. He saw with annoyance that it was one of those new ones, with Press Button ‘A’ and ‘B,’ and a lot of instructions. He had to read them all over again. He had only used one of these once before, and he didn’t like them. He put in his two pennies and lifted the receiver. There was a pause. There was a click, and a shrill, quick ‘Nummer-pease?’

  ‘Holborn,’ said Bob, ‘X143.’

  ‘Holborn X143?’

  ‘Please.’

  The owner of the voice knew nothing about having girls, nor the subtleties and inexplicable thrills thereof. There was a long pause in which the owner of the voice was presumably, but not apparently, doing her business.

  ‘’Ullo,’ came another female voice.

  He pressed button ‘A’ in a panic. The pennies fell in with a clang. ‘Hullo!’ he said. ‘Hullo!’

  ‘’Ullo?’ said the female voice, that of an elderly woman it seemed.

  ‘Hullo,’ said Bob. ‘Is that Holborn X143?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Is there a Miss Jenny Maple there, please?’

  ‘Yes. Don’t know if she’s in. Will you ’old the line, please.’

  ‘Thank you very much.’

  There was a silence. Who was this? The landlady, he supposed. ‘Didn’t know if she was in.’ Rather off-hand, wasn’t it? But there was no reason why a landlady should know if she was in. She also did not understand the thrills of having a girl. But she was in, and the landlady would be put in her place for her ignorance and aloofness. He had expended a pound sterling on her being in. He disliked the landlady already.

  ‘’Ullo,’ came the same drawling voice. ‘Are you there?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘No – she ain’t in.’

  ‘Oh – ain’t she?’ said Bob. The words leapt from his mouth before he had time even to feel the blow.

  ‘No. She’s Out.’

  ‘Can you tell me at all when she’ll be back?’

  ‘Can’t, I’m afraid,’ the loathsome woman returned. Her little victory over him had been complete, and he was filled with hatred of her.

  ‘Haven’t you any idea?’ he asked, showing a little irritation.

  ‘No. Afraid I haven’t.’

  She couldn’t even say ‘No’ properly. She was saying ‘Now.’ ‘Now – afraid I haven’t!’ He wanted to pull a face and mimic her.

  ‘You don’t know at all, then?’

  ‘Now. Afraid I don’t. . . .’

  ‘Very well,’ he said curtly. ‘I’ll ring again.’ And he thrust down the receiver.

  He came out into the fog. So he was not after all to have his little treat. He was really angry. What on earth had happened to her? Where was she now? Was she trying to play the fool with him? This was the second time she had let him down. Did she think she could try and play the fool with him? He’d show her if she did. . . . Possibly she had an excuse this time too, but it would have to be very subtle or powerful to gain his forgiveness. And why had she left no message? . . .

  But he had been a fool to have been so rude to that woman. He would have to ’phone again, and now he had made an enemy. And suppose she were not the landlady? Suppose she were Jenny’s ‘friend’? On second thoughts she sounded like a ‘friend’ – one of those hideous women that pretty women of her class were in the habit of dragging around with them. Good lord, suppose he had gone and put up her ‘friend’s’ back? . . .

  But what did it matter to him, anyway? He wasn’t going to get messed up with the little bitches. . . . He re-entered ‘The Midnight Bell.’

  Ella was drawing beer for the first few customers. India was Off, but she had accepted it resignedly. His own treat was off, and he had to do the same. He was now on Ella’s plane and he resented coming down to it.

  ‘They’ve been lookin’ for you, Bob,’ said Ella. ‘There’s some trouble in the cellar.’

  ‘Is there?’ said Bob, ‘Well, it can wait.’

  ‘My word!’ said Ella.

  He went upstairs to remove his hat and coat, and went down to the cellar to see what it was all about. The Governor’s Wife’s Sister was down there. As he had foreseen, there wasn’t the minutest trouble – merely the Governor’s Wife’s Sister was at it again. He would murder her one day.

  ‘I’ve been lookin’ for you all this time,’ she said. ‘Where’d you get to?’

  ‘Oh – I just dropped out for a moment.’

  When he returned to the bar, both Mr. Sound
er and Mr. Wall had entered. Mr. Sounder was makings cholastic references to the ‘Tenebrous Condition of the Firmament,’ and Mr. Wall interpolating that if you gave him a tenner, he wouldn’t mind. A fiver would do, in fact. Mr. Wall also declared that it was a good thing that he (Mr. Wall) had a Red Nose, so as he could see his way about in all this blinkin’ fog. This little piece of self-congratulation being tactfully but totally neglected by the others, he waited a moment, and then repeated that So Long as one had a Red Nose it didn’t matter.

  Ella politely tittered. But Bob was in no mood for the man. He ordered a bitter for himself and drank it gravely.

  At three that afternoon Bob went out alone. He was in a wild mood and meant to go to the pictures again. The money he would have spent on her he proposed spending on himself.

  He went to Tussaud’s Cinema, took a one and threepenny seat, and had no pleasure. There was a fog even in the cinema. He was wrought up and could concentrate on nothing save his own disappointment. He came out, had tea at Lyons, and wished to heaven that he had never got this ‘girl’ business into his head.

  But it was in now, and he was going to ’phone her again before returning to work – at five to five that was. He calculated that that was a likely time. From what he knew of her habits she did not usually descend upon the West End until about half-past six, and she’d probably be back there for tea before going out.

  Nerve-racking things, ’phones, Bob thought, as he stepped into the same box as before and put his pennies in. He gave the number and, when the moment came, pressed button ‘A.’

  ‘’Ullo?’ came the same drawling voice.

  ‘Hullo. Is that Holborn X143?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He was carefully propitiatory.

  ‘Could you tell me if Miss Jenny Maple’s there yet, please?’

  ‘Now. She’s not in yet, I’m afraid.’

  He saw that the woman, whoever she was, was enervated rather than uncivil.

  ‘She is staying there, isn’t she?’

  ‘Ow, yes. She’s staying here.’

  ‘I suppose you couldn’t tell me when she might be in? I’m very sorry to trouble you like this, but I’m rather anxious to catch her.’

  ‘Now – that’s quite all right. Only I don’t know, you see.’

  He was making peace in this quarter, at any rate.

  ‘Oh. Well I’ll have to ring up again to-morrow. Thank you very much.’

  ‘Not at all.’

  ‘Sorry to trouble you,’ he repeated, as a kind of final bouquet, but she had put the receiver down.

  The fog was thinning as he walked back to ‘The Midnight Bell,’ but it was still bitterly cold. He had not really expected her to be there, he told himself. Now he would have to wait until to-morrow, that was all. Where on earth was she?

  He had patched up that little squabble with the woman. That was something.

  The Governor had already opened the house, and he was only just in time when he came down to the bar.

  The Governor handed him the Evening News. There, sure enough, on the front page, was a ghostly picture of darkened policemen and flares. It had been an odd day.

  CHAPTER XXI

  IT HAD RAINED during the night, and when Bob woke next morning he looked at the window and noticed with relief that the Universe had returned.

  By ten o’clock he was rubbing away briskly and regarding yesterday as a kind of nightmare. It had been the fog. He had been frightened of the dark, and had lost his nerve. In familiar weather everything was all right again. He would ’phone her this morning at eleven – probably without results. In that case he did not know what he would do – but it did not matter very much.

  By the way, that pound had gone west absolutely for nothing, hadn’t it?

  Again, at five to eleven, he left the house. The sky was blue, the wind was blowing, the sun was shining. ‘Fresh’ was the word that Ella had applied to the day, and there could have been no more apt and lovely epithet. Drains ran, the reflecting mud on the pavements was bright blue, bicycles were skidding, the wind smelt keen and bashed you in the face, slates glistened, and everything was washed and beginning again. It all wafted him along to the ’phone box without the slightest morbid introspection.

  But once inside, with the door closed tightly, and with the sound of the traffic deadened, and with the bracing wind merely a surrounding and moaning old enemy, and with the stale smell and heat of the box, he was up against something different. He was face to face with his problems.

  His two pennies fell, and he had to wait a long while until they attended to him.

  ‘Holborn,’ he said. ‘X143.’

  ‘Holborn X143?’

  ‘Please.’

  A long silence. . . .

  ‘’Ullo.’

  Button ‘A’ and his pennies falling.

  ‘Hullo, Hullo!’

  ‘’Ullo.’

  ‘Is that Holborn X143?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Could you tell me if Miss Jenny Maple’s there yet, please?’

  ‘Yes. She’s upstairs. Will you ’old the line a moment, please?’

  ‘Oh. Thanks very much.’

  Then he had got her. She was coming down to him – now. He was going to speak to her. ‘She is coming, my own, my sweet!’ That was Tennyson. Perfectly inapplicable. How did it go on? ‘Were it ever so airy a tread. . . .’ He couldn’t remember. She’d have excuses, and he would forgive her, of course. She was coming. He could hardly believe it.

  ‘Hullo, are you there?’ The voice was merely surly and enquiring.

  ‘Hullo. Is that Miss Jenny Maple?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Hullo. Miss Maple.’

  ‘Hullo. Who’s that?’

  ‘Can’t you guess?’

  ‘No. ’Fraid I can’t.’

  ‘This is “Bob,”’ he said, putting himself in inverted commas.

  Her whole tone changed to a bright and welcoming gladness.

  ‘Oh – is that you, Bob?’ she said. ‘I’m so glad you rang up. How are you?’

  He noticed that she had removed the inverted commas from ‘Bob’ – uttered it quite spontaneously, in fact – and he was singularly appeased.

  ‘Question is how are you?’ he said. ‘What’s been happenin’ to you?’

  ‘Oh, I’ve had to go out of town. I’ll tell you all about it when I see you. I do hope you ain’t been put out, Bob.’

  Bob again. Complete and vivacious spontaneity. It made him go all funny with pleasure. Rather cheek, too – bless her. As though he were an old friend – as though there were really something between them.

  ‘No, that’s all right. I ’phoned up once or twice, but I thought something must’ve ’appened.’

  Elation invariably deprived him of his aitches.

  ‘Oh well, that’s all right,’ she said. ‘But I hope you weren’t put out.’

  ‘No, not a bit. Now when am I goin’ to see you?’

  ‘Well. Whenever you like.’

  ‘M’m. Well, let’s think. . . . Well, I’ll tell you what, Jenny — ’

  ‘Yes, Bob?’

  This was getting absurd. She was all over him. But he could do with it, after all he had suffered in the fog yesterday.

  ‘Our trouble is,’ he continued, ‘that the only time I can get off is in the afternoon.’

  ‘Well, what’s wrong with the afternoon, dear?’

  ‘Dear!’ It seemed she regarded him as her own. Cheek again – but tremendously bracing. Perhaps this was an affair, after all. Dare he return it?

  ‘Well, dear,’ he said (he had!), ‘it’s all right if you can get away.’

  ‘Yes. I can get away all right. You just say the time’n I’ll meet you.’

  And this clear, bright, sweet childish voice of hers. It was naïve and pure and friendly as the virgin’s kiss she had bestowed. It came into his ears like siren’s music, at once soothing and exciting, wrapping him round with fervid delights. She was certainly, in her str
ange way, a marvellous girl.

  ‘I’ll tell you what though,’ she continued, ‘I’m supposed to be going out with a girl friend of mine this afternoon. What about to-morrow?’

  That, he said, would do finely. They arranged to meet at three fifteen outside ‘The Green Man,’ opposite Great Portland Street Station. That would be most convenient for him, and she could easily get up there in time. They might go to the pictures.

  ‘Well then,’ said Bob, ‘good-bye.’

  ‘Good-bye, dear,’ she said, and rang off.

  He came out into the freshness of the air.

  Well, that was that, he told himself, as he walked briskly back to ‘The Midnight Bell.’ Nothing much to it, now he had got the matter cleared up. She was a queer kid. He was quite indifferent, of course, really.

  Mr. Sounder was already in the bar when he returned.

  ‘Ah – ha,’ said Mr. Sounder. ‘Our Literary Servitor! Where have you been?’

  ‘Me? I’ve been for a stroll.’

  ‘It’s nice and fine outside, isn’t it?’ said Ella, making conversation.

  Yes, it was all really a matter of indifference now: but ‘You’re right,’ he said emphatically, in reply to Ella. ‘Glorious!’

  And it was as though he was jovially slapping her on the back about the day.

  ‘Any more letters in the paper, Mr. Sounder?’ he asked, with a kind of rich, chaffing humour, and another metaphorical slap.

  ‘No,’ said Mr. Sounder, ‘nothing lately.’

  ‘Oh well,’ said Bob consolingly, ‘I expect there will be soon.’

  Mr. Sounder, slightly taken aback, looked curiously at Bob.

  ‘Your constitutional,’ said Ella, ‘seems to have done you good.’

  She had again hit the mark.

  CHAPTER XXII

  THE NEXT DAY was grey, threatening rain. He was there at seven minutes past three. The clock on the church over the way pointed to it. They had arranged to meet at three fifteen. Therefore, if she had been there when he came, she would have been eight minutes before her time. But, very sensibly, she was not there eight minutes before her time.