Twenty Thousand Streets Under the Sky

  ‘Really,’ said Bob, ‘did they?’

  They had now branched off to the left.

  ‘I always think,’ she said unaffectedly, ‘that there’s a Lot of Romance – don’t you?’

  ‘I certainly do.’

  ‘In History, like, and all that – you know what I mean?’

  He did. She kept up the same chatter for the next ten minutes. They approached green and rather pathetically countrified spaces. To their right was a steep green slope, and they were walking by a little stream, with trees leaning over the water, beneath it.

  ‘Oo,’ she said, ‘I ain’t half glad you brought me up here. You might be right in the country, mightn’t you?’

  ‘Never been this part before then?’

  ‘No. I never been this part,’ she said, quietly. She seemed subtly to realize that the news would please him. It did. He was enormously happy.

  They climbed the hill. At one point she tripped up, and he saved her with his hand. He retained the hand, and they went on together, speaking less.

  ‘Ain’t that lovely?’ she said, when they reached the top.

  ‘Yes. Ain’t it,’ said Bob.

  It was not very lovely really. Far below them were factory chimneys, works, and suburban villas, interspersed with green – merely a thin distant outpost of the glimmering and smoky town. It was about half-past three. It was very warm, but the sun was already reddening in its decline.

  ‘Well – let’s sit down,’ he said. They did so. They were propped up comfortably against a bank of turf. She took off her hat.

  They did not speak, but listened to the wind, and sensed their own solitariness. He was in an easy attitude and chewing a bit of grass.

  ‘Did you get my wire all right, yesterday?’ he said.

  ‘Yes. I got it. And did you get my letter?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He looked at her and thought of her sins. She was not thinking of him. She was looking out into the distance, with her hands clasped over her knees, as though concentrating upon some problem – possibly that of her own life. The wind ruffled her yellow hair. For all her youth and freshness he could discern faint lines of sorrow and dissipation. She perpetually looked as though she might have been crying an hour ago. She could not be more than twenty-one, but she was a woman of the town – of the streets. He was filled with pity.

  She caught him looking at her and smiled at him.

  This was a new Jenny.

  ‘You shouldn’t eat that grass like that,’ she said, ‘you’ll catch something.’

  She suddenly changed her position, and sat up facing him, her legs beneath her. She pulled a long blade of grass herself and began deliberately consuming it, looking down at it after each little bite. He laughed.

  ‘An’ then I’ll have to take you to Hospital,’ she said.

  He did not answer.

  ‘Won’t I?’ she added, dreamingly, and leaned over to pull a little yellow flower by his feet. ‘There you are. There’s a pretty little buttercup.’ She fondled it.

  ‘That’s not a buttercup,’ he said.

  ‘Yes it is,’ she said. ‘Come on. Let’s see if you like butter.’

  ‘How do you do that?’ But he knew.

  ‘Come on,’ she said.

  He drew nearer to her, and she to him. She made him hold up his chin, and held the little flower under it, scrutinizing the results carefully. ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘you like butter.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘’Cos there’s a little reflection. That means that you like butter.’

  ‘No, it don’t,’ he said.

  They looked at each other. Her face, radiant in its young and sorrowful beauty, had never been so close to his before. He was overcome.

  ‘Yes, it does,’ she repeated gravely, ‘that means that you like butter.’

  He looked at her for another moment, and then, with the utmost simplicity, kissed her, and looked at her.

  It was as though she was frightened. She did nothing. Her blue eyes were merely fixed upon him. The little flower was held out absurdly in her right hand. He thought of all the kisses she must have known – she, the courtesan, who traded in the whole bad trade of kisses. He was appalled by his own innocence and hers – with her blue eyes and the flower held out.

  She was innocent. His own purity made her pure. He took her hand. He kissed that. His emotion arose. He could not understand the way she was taking it. Was it surprise, fright, gladness, or mere submission to a familiar importunity – an importunity which she had learnt not to expect from him?

  Then he had her in his arms, and she was looking up at him. She neither rejected nor invited him, but merely looked up at him.

  ‘Oh, I do love you, Jenny,’ he said.

  She put her head down. ‘No you don’t,’ she said, ‘you couldn’t love me. . . .’

  He passed his lips along her cheek, and she drew up nearer to him. Her warm, living being, seeking his own being for consolation – the little wanton with her wanton charms, tacitly confessing all and awaiting a child’s absolution. And obtaining it, too, for he knew now that he had always adored her. He knew that all other moments and attitudes were as nothing compared to this moment. He knew that, in fact, he held heaven within his arms.

  ‘Why couldn’t I love you?’ he said.

  She did not look up. ‘No,’ she said, ‘you couldn’t love me.’

  ‘But I do. I do!’ he said, and held her closer. ‘Why couldn’t I love you?’

  ‘You couldn’t love me,’ she said, ‘’cos I’m what I am.’

  ‘Well, what are you?’

  ‘You know what I am all right. You wouldn’t have helped me if I hadn’t been what I am.’

  ‘But I love you – I love you. It don’t matter I tell you. It don’t matter!’

  ‘Oh, yes it do. You couldn’t love me, ’cos I’m a prostitute. That’s what I am. You couldn’t love one of them, could you Bob?’

  ‘Oh – you’re not, you’re not, dear!’ he said absurdly. He was astonished beyond measure, and bizarrely amused, by her employment of this term. He never thought she would have heard of the epithet, let alone level it against herself.

  ‘But I am one, all the same, ain’t I?’

  ‘Look here, Jenny. Do you love me?’

  ‘Oh yes. I love you all right.’ She looked at him. ‘You’re real straight, ain’t you, Bob?’

  ‘D’you only love me ’cos I’m straight?’

  ‘Oh, no,’ she said, and put her head down and began to fondle his hand. ‘I love you in all sorts of ways.’

  His eyes were misty with tears. He caught her up and kissed her and kissed her again. Her head fell once more. He kissed her hair. Her real natural fair hair. She drew closer to him. ‘You’re my straight Bob,’ she said.

  There was a long silence.

  ‘Did you always love me, Jenny? From the first?’

  She paused to deliberate, still playing with his hand.

  ‘Yes. I always loved you,’ she said, at last. ‘Not ’cos you helped me – but ’cos you respected me.’

  He held closer still the child’s weight of her body, and looked out upon the scene. Now the red sun was setting over the works and villas. Lights were peeping out, and smoke was rising into a smoky sunset.

  ‘An’ I’ll always respect you, Jenny,’ he said.

  And he knew he was speaking the truth. He loved her. He could hardly bear his happiness. He was filled with a calm and overflowing happiness.

  This, then, was what life had held in store for him. Life – all these marvels and mysteries – the smoky sunset, and the ancient night above, and the living being in his arms – it was too much. But it was reality. And she had real natural fair hair. He touched it. His own dear Jenny. Life. He was thankful, so thankful for the gift of life. He could have prayed with thankfulness and happiness.

  CHAPTER XXVI

  ‘LOOK, BOB,’ SHE said, ‘the sun’s goin’ down.’

  ‘I know, dear. . .
. Jenny, dear?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You understand, dear, don’t you? I love you, dear.’

  She did not reply.

  ‘Don’t you, dear?’

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘I don’t ’speck you really love me. I ’speck you only ’magine you love me. I don’t see how you could love me.’

  ‘But I do, dear. I do, I tell you I do!’

  ‘No. I ’speck you just think I’m pretty.’

  ‘No. It ain’t that, dear. It ain’t that.’

  ‘Not that I am,’ she added. ‘’Cos I’m ugly.’

  ‘Oh, you aren’t, Jenny. You aren’t. You’re lovely! You know you are.’

  ‘You ain’t half been good to me, Bob,’ she said. ‘Ain’t you?’ She looked up at him, and was kissed again. There was a long silence, as she took his hand again in hers. . . .

  ‘Well. I guess you got a girl, now, ain’t you, Bob?’

  ‘Yes. I got a girl. But she don’t love me as much as I love her.’

  ‘Oh, yes, she does. She loves you more than what you do.’

  ‘Does she?’

  ‘Yes. An’ she won’t let you go now she’s got you. You’re my Bob now, ain’t you?’

  ‘Yes, Jenny.’ He was so happy. Her Bob. His Jenny. His! His living Jenny in his arms! The perils of the future were obliterated by her warm consoling presence and reality. He would love her for ever.

  ‘Oh, I’m so lucky and happy!’ he said.

  ‘Well, I hope you will be,’ she said. ‘’Cos I won’t let you go. Not never.’

  A long silence followed. She would never let him go. He believed her. He gloried in his sentence. He took stock of his delicious and inescapable possession. Not only the real natural fair hair – not only the real natural blue eyes – but the mouth, and the hands, and the sweet limbs, and all the fabrics and silks containing them and made magic by them. Her shoes. Her stockings. The bangle on her wrist. Every little appurtenance. A complete and golden girl! His girl. She would never let him go. Oh, indeed, his doom was sweet! – and she had pronounced it. He asked no more of life.

  All at once she drew away from him and sat up. ‘Oo, ain’t it gettin’ cold?’ she said. And with her legs beneath her she began to adjust her hair.

  Her skirt fell above her knees, and one garter, ornate and trim, was revealed. Another accessory! Another little article, as it were, which he had forgotten to include in the heavenly inventory! Where would it all stop?

  She produced a little comb – (another still!) – and ran it through her hair. He asked if he might do it for her.

  ‘No, it’s all right,’ she said, ‘finished now.’

  He childishly felt rebuffed. She would not let him do her hair. What if all this was not his own? What if this ravishing organism preserved its aloofness and independence – was merely something to be admired and adored, by others as well as himself? What if she did not love him? But no. She had said that she would never let him go. You couldn’t expect her to ‘take on’ (as she would put it) all the time. She had made him mad and greedy.

  ‘It’s about time we went,’ he said. . . .

  ‘I know,’ she said, and commenced fumbling in her bag.

  She closed it with a snap, and began putting on her hat. . . . The episode was over.

  He rose, and gave her his hand to help her up. She stood, and he kissed her again. For a brief moment the episode was renewed and he felt securer and more deeply happy than ever. Then they began to walk back.

  On the heights of Hampstead the lamps were already lit. A crescent moon was out. Dead leaves rustled beneath their feet. The sensuous fervours of his passion had fled, but the charm remained, and quiet Nature conspired tender scenery for their romance. They hardly spoke.

  When they reached the road between Jack Straw’s Castle and the Spaniards, however, the high atmosphere was different.

  ‘Oo – ain’t it jes’ cold!’ she said; and it was. Bitterly cold – and windy, and dark. He took her arm. It was too cold and windy and dark even for romance. They hurried along.

  They descended the hill towards the station, and were back again with people and unchanged reality. He had burned his emotions out, and was glad to speak of other things.

  In the lift at Hampstead Station the strong light glared upon her powdered but faultless skin. He saw that she was tired, and so was he. The noise of the train obliterated – or at least suspended – any feeling of any kind.

  Where was she going to-night? To earn her living? Unthinkable thoughts. The situation was really ghastly. He would have to think it all out before he saw her next. At present he was a little too tired to think or even care about anything.

  She came out with him at Warren Street Station, and walked along the Euston Road with him.

  ‘Well, Jenny dear,’ he said, ‘have you had a nice afternoon?’

  She smiled, but did not reply.

  ‘And you’re not to worry about things,’ he said. ‘’Cos I’m going to do a lot of hard thinkin’, and get everything straight. By the way, how much money have you got?’

  ‘I got three shillings – why?’

  He had three of his five pounds left. He now offered her two. After a little argument she accepted them. She looked at him as though she thought him too wonderful for words, and he rather agreed with her. They had stopped at a corner.

  ‘Well, when am I goin’ to see you again?’ he said brightly.

  ‘Whenever you like, dear.’

  ‘Well – why not come in and see me? To-night. ’Bout nine.’

  ‘Certainly, dear.’

  They arranged that she should come in by herself, go along to the table at which she had first met him, and wait for him to come along and attend to her.

  ‘Only you will be there, dear, won’t you?’ he said. ‘’Cos something always seems to go wrong with our meetings.’

  ‘Yes, I swear I will.’

  ‘Swear solemnly?’

  ‘Yes. Honest I will. Look. I swear on my Liberty – there.’

  He wondered what exactly she meant by her Liberty, but she seemed to attach great importance to the oath, and he was satisfied.

  ‘Well, good-bye, dear,’ he said.

  ‘Good-bye, dear.’

  She put up her face for a brief and final embrace. He gave it to her. The gesture was as spontaneous and respectable as the most conscientious citizen might require. But, coming from her, it had wonderful piquancy.

  ‘Good-bye.’

  ‘Good-bye.’

  She smiled again, and was gone. He walked to ‘The Midnight Bell.’

  ‘Liberty’ dawned upon him. He had never thought that the little sinner had ever been locked up. But she had, of course – must have.

  She would never let him go.

  Oh lord – he was rather letting himself in for something, wasn’t he?

  Well – it was done now.

  CHAPTER XXVII

  NEVERTHELESS, HE WAS in great spirits as he entered the bar for his evening duties, and again slapped Ella metaphorically on the back. He no longer envied, but rather pitied, her goodness.

  Mr. Sounder was the first in as usual, and was soon joined by Mr. Wall and also by Mr. Loame, the actor. With the latter Mr. Sounder had now got beautifully off – even to the extent of having Little Things in – ah – Mr. Loame’s line – dramatic sketches, to be blunt – which he thought Mr. Loame might just like to cast his eye over. But he had only Turned them Out every now and again and was quite willing to admit that the dramatic craft was very different from the literary one. That was where Mr. Loame came in. He would Know. He would doubtless be able to Put him Right on countless little points. . . . Thus worked the silver tongue of flattery. Production was imminent; and the proceeds would of course be halved. In the meantime if Mr. Loame had anything in the literary line (and he had confessed to short stories) very possibly Mr. Sounder could Put him Right. In fact they were both going to put each other right. They had both been more or less in the dark all their liv
es, and it was a decidedly fortunate encounter. Mr. Loame (perhaps a little more doubtful than the other) paid for the drinks.

  Also ‘The Midnight Bell’ was to-night visited by the Illegal Operation.

  This young man’s actual name was MacDonald. But this was transcended by his reputation. As an Illegal Operation (and as nothing else) he drank his whiskies, leered across his bar, and inhaled his endless cigarettes before the world. For he never told you his name, but when he had had more whisky than was good for him he invariably began to swagger confidentially about his Illegal Operation. By performing one of these (successfully), it appeared, he had abruptly terminated his career as a medical student, and served six months in prison. This was his tragedy, and he was famous for it in ‘The Midnight Bell.’ He was now about thirty-two, and wore old grey flannel trousers, a sports coat, rather dirty shirts, and knitted ties. He had sandy hair, rather closely cropped (as though he had acquired the habit in prison and rather fancied the style) and grey eyes. He had enormous ears, and a long nose with a rather bashed-in appearance – an illegal nose, in fact – and a full mouth and a large chin. Every now and again he tried to commit suicide, but could never manage to bring it off. Despite all these things, he really wouldn’t have hurt a fly and was quite a good fellow if you didn’t rub him up the wrong way. He lived in Fitzroy Square.

  To-night he was perfectly inebriated even before entering. But this was not surprising, since he was known to take bottles of whisky back to his own room. Ella gave him his whisky before he asked for it, and he smiled at her.

  He then, without getting out his money, gazed at Ella steadily, rather as though he thought she wouldn’t be at all a bad subject for an illegal operation, either. Or at least so it seemed to Ella, who looked foolish, and asked him what he wanted.

  ‘Li’l Splash,’ he said, with the same transfixing and decidedly operative eye upon her.

  She produced the syphon, and took his glass to fill it, but he snatched it away from her.