That Jenny should have bothered little about her make-up when meeting Tom, but have taken some pains in the case of Violet, was an apparent contradiction of feminine tendency. The explanation was to be found in the character of Violet herself. Violet was always made up to the nines, and she expected the same thing from her friends.
Actually Jenny had some doubts as to the wisdom of coming out with Violet to-night, and, indeed, of continuing the friendship at all. To begin with Violet was a perfect example of one beyond all dispute ‘common.’ Jenny had first become acquainted with her at the factory, whence, in Jenny’s time, she had been dismissed for impudence to her immediate superior. She was a violent, frank, disconcertingly outspoken girl, obsessed by one topic alone – Boys. By these she contrived not to be entirely neglected, less by virtue of her appearance (her face, though painted and powdered, was quite hideous) than by sheer high spirits, personality, cheerfulness, and the practice of raillery. She acted, indeed, as a tonic upon those who had the nerves to stand her, and if you shared her enthusiasm for Boys, there was no reason why you should not hit it off very well with her, for she had great experience, method, and initiative in that matter.
In Jenny’s mentality, however, Boys were relegated to a much more reasonable and proportionate niche, and she had long ago decided, for her own good, to ‘give Violet up.’ Whatever might have taken place in the past, Violet was certainly not the sort of friend she desired now in her new employment.
Jenny told herself, in fact, that she would not be meeting Violet to-night had that employment properly begun. But it did not properly begin until to-morrow, Saturday, when she was to sleep in. So long as she was sleeping out, she felt, she yet belonged to the world outside, and might, without damage to her conscience, have final commerce with associations and things that were, before definitely launching upon the things that were to be.
Violet’s faults did not embrace unpunctuality – she was much too anxious to be out on any sort of spree to be a moment late for it – and when Jenny came in to the Arcade entrance to Hammersmith Underground Station, where they had arranged to meet, she was already standing there.
Jenny had not seen her friend for a few months, and she was not prepared for what she now witnessed. ‘Common,’ she had always known Violet to be. But to-night, so it seemed, she was more than common. Jenny was not certain that she was not ‘glaring’ – the final epithet of impeachment in Jenny’s genteel vocabulary.
Violet was in a black lustre coat: she wore cheap, gaudy silk stockings of a reddish-brown colour, a small black hat and a skirt up to her knees. Her face, with its long nose, resembled rich confectionery.
Quite unaware of the impression she gave, she welcomed Jenny with fervour, and affably comparing notes as to how each had got there, they wandered aimlessly up in the direction of Baron’s Court, where the crowd was less dense.
But it did not take long for Violet to abandon small talk and enter upon the theme which dominated her.
‘Well – I don’t know why we’re walkin’ up here,’ she said. ‘There’s no Boys up this end.’
Subtlety, or a delicate sense of approach, were means unknown to Violet. This announcement rendered transparent at once her unambiguous conception of the evening they were to spend.
‘Ain’t there?’ was all Jenny was able to reply.
‘No. They don’t come up this way,’ said Violet, with the kindly, shrewd air of an old campaigner in this particular neighbourhood. ‘Let’s go back.’
And they turned round.
Jenny was filled with shame for her friend, and reproach against herself for having allowed this meeting to come to pass. But she knew how impossible it was to convey her feelings to the innocent and cheerful Violet, and so she tried to change the subject.
‘That’s a nice brooch you got in your hat, Vi,’ she said. ‘I ain’t seen that before.’
‘Yes, it is nice, ain’t it?’ said Violet. ‘A Boy gave it to me.’
Thus Jenny’s lead was serenely countered, and there was another silence as they walked along.
‘By the way,’ said Violet, ‘What’s happened to that pale Boy you was walkin’ out with?’
Violet never minced matters. A pale boy to her was a pale boy.
‘What pale boy?’ said Jenny. ‘Who do you mean?’
‘You know,’ said Violet. ‘That pale boy.’
And Jenny did know. Violet meant Tom. But there could be few things more perfectly calculated to throw a proud young girl out of countenance than the bland allegation that she is walking out with a pale boy, and Jenny was exasperated with Violet for dragging her into this despicably ‘common’ topic, and forcing her to defend herself.
‘No,’ said Jenny, persistently. ‘What pale boy?’
‘You know,’ returned Violet. ‘That pale boy.’
She seemed to think that the more she underlined his pallor, the easier it would be for Jenny to identify him. But actually this was aggravating the affront.
‘You don’t mean Tom, do you,’ said Jenny. ‘ By any chance?’
‘That’s the Boy,’ said Violet. ‘Tom.’
‘What!’ cried Jenny. ‘Me walking out with Tom! I should like to see myself.’
‘Oh, I thought perhaps you might be. I knew you went about with him.’
‘Well, I might go about with him sometimes,’ Jenny allowed. ‘But that ain’t walkin’ out.’
Their idiom required no further comment to illustrate the vast distance between these two procedures, and Violet said she was sorry for making the mistake.
‘He’s in consumption, ain’t he?’ she casually added.
‘What? Tom in consumption? I’ve never heard of it. Who told you that?’
‘Oh, I may be wrong,’ said Violet. ‘I thought I heard he was inclined that way, though. He looks it, anyway.’
It was typical of Violet to throw out a fantastic rumour in this inconsequent way, and Jenny knew that she was talking nonsense. All the same, she did briefly wonder whether Tom’s ill look derived from unsuspected disease. Also she began to wonder how she was to explain to Violet that she had already arranged to meet the pale boy himself to-night. In fact she was trying to think of some excuse whereby she could get away without telling her at all, when Violet cut into her thoughts.
‘I know those two,’ she said suddenly, having turned her head round in continuation of a self-conscious and mocking glance she had bestowed upon a passing couple. ‘But they ain’t no good. Specially that soppy one with a moustache.’
‘That so?’ was all Jenny could say, and there was another silence.
All at once Violet cheerfully espied a fresh problem.
‘Do you like moustaches on Boys?’ she said. ‘Some girls don’t.’
Moustaches on Boys! Really, Violet was nauseating.
‘I don’t know anything about ’em,’ said Jenny.
‘I like ’em myself,’ said Violet. ‘So long as they’re not too Prickly.’
Prickly! This was really intolerable. Jenny felt she must make some sort of stand about it.
‘Well, where are we goin’, Vi,’ she said. ‘We don’t seem to be movin’ nowhere at present.’
‘Going? Where d’you want to go, then, Jen?’
‘Well, I thought we might go an’ have a cup of coffee at Lyons or something.’
A puzzled look came over Violet’s face.
‘What – do you want to go into Lyons, Jen?’
‘Yes. Why not?’
‘Go on,’ said Violet. ‘You don’t want to go stuffin’ yourself up in Lyons a lovely fine night like this. You want to get the air while you can.’
This deceitful and transparent attempt to identify herself with the cause of pure hygiene would have beguiled not a soul in the world. Environed by Boys, the depths of the Black Hole of Calcutta would have awakened few misgivings in Violet.
‘I’ll tell you what your trouble is, Vi,’ said Jenny. ‘You can’t think of nothing but boys.’
‘O
o – Jenny, what a thing and a half to say! I never think about them.’
‘Yes, you do. You know you do.’
‘No, I don’t. And you ain’t the one to talk, anyway.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, other girls ain’t got much chance with you hangin’ around.’
‘What do you mean?’ said Jenny.
‘If I had a part of your looks,’ continued Violet. ‘I shouldn’t be worrying.’
‘Don’t be so silly,’ said Jenny. ‘You’re pretty enough yourself, ain’t you?’
‘No I ain’t,’ said Violet. ‘I’m as ugly as the devil. It’s a wonder what I do – with what I got to work on.’
In her odd way she had hit the nail on the head.
‘Don’t be so silly,’ said Jenny.
‘But you’re different. You’re lovely. You’re as pretty as a Picture. Yes you are. You’re a real Picture.’
There returned to Jenny a glimmering of what she had once had in common with Violet.
‘Come on, Vi,’ she said, cajolingly. ‘Let’s go to Lyons.’
‘Well, what’s the sense of going to Lyons,’ said Violet, ‘if you can get taken?’
‘You mean you want to get off?’
‘No. I don’t want to get off. But you never know what might happen.’
‘Well, I don’t want to. It’s too near where I Am.’
‘What’s the matter with that?’
‘Well – I might be seen. And in any case I don’t want to.’
‘Come on, Jen. Let’s hang about a bit,’ said Violet, and at this moment a startling thing occurred.
‘Pardonnay mwa!’ came a masculine voice from behind, and they turned round.
‘My word!’ said Violet. ‘You didn’t half give me a turn.’
* * *
Jenny and Violet confronted two figures. One seemed little more than a perky boy of about nineteen; the other was a fully grown man of stunted stature. The boy’s gawky and countrified figure was garbed in a blue suit of navy serge surmounted by a double-breasted blue overcoat: he wore a trilby hat (which was at the moment still held humorously in the air in Gallic manner after his ‘Pardonnay-mwa’); his complexion was red and fresh, his eyes were blue, and though he was neat and clean he obviously had no pretensions as regards style.
His companion presented a completely different picture. Over thirty, and resembling, in his wan face, gait, and figure, a dismissed stable-boy, he was yet dressed in obedience to the highest and latest caprices of Hammersmith mode. A light brown overcoat of velvety material (taken well in at the waist and prodigiously buttoned and banded) matched a brown hat, a brown suit, and brown shoes, and was set off by a brilliant white knitted scarf, which poured like a waterfall down from his chin, and which he kept on touching and adjusting in a self-conscious manner. In this waterfall his chin like a rock was permanently embedded; since he did not shift it even when he turned to speak, but reared his shoulders round in a choked way, and gave a sidelong glance. But then he spoke very little; indeed he quite evidently took pride in taciturnity and pithiness. Also his companion did all the talking that was necessary and more.
The latter now followed up his opening with ‘Was you going anywhere by any chance?’ and an awkward grin. His gusto and diffidence were at present at strife inwardly with each other.
‘No – we ain’t goin’ nowhere,’ said Violet. ‘Are you?’
‘No. I ain’t. Ain’t I met you before somewhere?’
‘Can’t say I remember it,’ said Violet, fully mistress of the situation. ‘Glad to meet you, though. Meet my friend.’
‘Good-evening.’
‘Good-evening,’ said Jenny, smiling as pleasantly as her feelings allowed.
‘And meet my chum. Andy’s ’is name.’
‘Good-evening, Andy,’ said Violet, smiling brightly upon him. His age and weedy appearance were nothing to Violet, who had, in this respect, a heart like that of a Madonna, in whose broad and undistinguishing robe all of his sex, whatever their age or uncouthness, might find welcome and shelter simply as ‘boys.’
Andy, however, merely gave a brief smile and nod, and then looked away at the traffic and twitched the waterfall. This made things rather awkward for everybody concerned, for it looked as though he took no interest in the proceedings at all, and was inclined to be rude. There was a pause.
‘And mine’s Reginald,’ said his junior. ‘Commonly known as Rex.’
‘Good-evening Rex,’ said Violet, and there was another pause.
‘Well, what do you two girls say to a little liquid refreshment?’ suggested Rex, rubbing his hands together.
‘All for it,’ said Violet. ‘Where do you suggest?’
‘Well, what’s wrong with the King’s Head down here, where we can sit down?’
‘Well, I don’t mind,’ said Violet. ‘Don’t know about my friend, though.’
‘Go on? She doesn’t mind a pub, does she?’
‘I think she’s a teetotaller – ain’t you, Jen?’
‘Go on?’ said Rex.
‘Don’t be so silly, Vi,’ said Jenny. ‘Of course I ain’t.’ And she blushed.
‘Well, that’s a blessing,’ said Rex. ‘You nearly gave me heart failure.’
There was general laughter at this and the four began to walk in the direction he had indicated. But inwardly Jenny was resolving that this was the last time she came out with Violet. She would never forgive her for letting her into this scandalous escapade. Going into a Hammersmith ‘pub’ with a painted thing like Violet and two casual ‘pick-ups’! She was too flabbergasted at the moment to think of an excuse to get away, but that she was going to get away, and that in time to meet Tom in three-quarters of an hour’s time at Camden Town, as she had arranged, was clear in her mind.
It was impossible to walk four abreast on the crowded pavement, and Jenny found herself alongside Andy in the throng, with Violet and the other talking busily ahead. She had no intention of being the first to speak, and neither had he, apparently. Fortunately, however, they reached the King’s Head in less than a minute.
This was a large and respectable house in the most crowded section of King Street. They went through a door marked ‘Saloon Lounge’ into a spacious room with chocolate-coloured wood panelling, and copper-covered tables all round. There was a bar at one end, and one or two shining specimens of old-time armour in the corners. It was fully and brilliantly lit, though it was not yet completely dark outside and few of the tables were engaged.
‘This is ever such a nice place,’ said Violet, as they sat down, and Jenny herself was agreeably surprised. In point of fact, and although in her present company this would have been the last thing she would have openly granted, she was impressed. The truth was that she had never been in a public house in her life before, and she had a preconceived horror of them derived from glimpses of habitué lurching from low-class bars into the street. She was aware, however, that ‘times were changed,’ and that many of her more ‘common’ and ‘fast’ acquaintances frequented them regularly with their boy friends: and now that she saw this spacious, clean, and well-ordered lounge she felt that she might very soon have to readjust her views herself. All the same, she would have much preferred a Lyons.
‘Well,’ said Rex. ‘What are you takin’?’
Here, for Jenny, was a quandary. She knew as little about alcoholic drinks as she did about public houses. At Christmas times she had had sherry and white wine, and once or twice she had partaken of a glass of Guinness in sedate company. She thought she had better ask for a Guinness now. Guinness she knew to be ‘the ladies’ drink,’ a fair compromise with the devil, a legitimate ‘pick-me-up.’ Even Doctors advised a Guinness ‘now and again.’ Its prime and avowed object was to ‘nourish,’ its accidental operation to intoxicate. But outside the realms of Guinness and festive occasions, Jenny had inherited from her mother what her mother called ‘a horror of drink.’ She knew that so soon as a ‘taste’ was acquired, ruin followe
d in clearly discernible stages. The danger lay in once starting: a single drink had been known to lead to ruin. On the other hand she had no desire to be fanatical, and for one in full control of herself a ‘nice glass’ of something, before or after a meal, could do no harm. She now decided to follow Violet’s lead.
‘I don’t know I’m sure,’ said Violet. ‘What are you havin’ Jenny?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Jenny. ‘What are you?’
‘Come along now,’ said Rex. ‘Make up your minds.’
‘Well then,’ said Jenny. ‘I think I’ll have a Guinness.’
‘What?’ exclaimed Rex, looking at her curiously. ‘Did I hear you say Guinness?’
‘My word!’ said Violet. ‘You are going the pace, aren’t you?’
‘Why – what’s wrong with Guinness?’ returned Jenny. But, without knowing exactly where her mistake lay, she knew that she had made a faux-pas. Here was a fine state of affairs! The tables were turned, and these ‘common’ people whom she despised, were making herself look cheap! Her resentment against Violet glowed stronger than ever.
‘Well, I’m going to have something shorter,’ said Violet. ‘I’m going to have a port.’
‘Same here,’ said Rex. ‘You going to have a port, Andy?’
Andy nodded curtly in the waterfall.
‘Sure you won’t change your mind,’ said Rex to Jenny.
‘Well, I might have something shorter, then,’ she said, having quickly perceived that this was the line to take. ‘Perhaps I will.’
The waiter had already appeared.
‘Four Ports, Please,’ said Rex.
‘Tens or one and twos?’ asked the waiter, a brief and rather disapproving man.
‘One and twos,’ said Rex. ‘And you might bring some biscuits.’ And having thus dominated and dismissed the surly son of toil, he was pleased with himself, and hitched his trousers. He then turned to the ladies with an airy ‘What was you sayin’?’
‘Wasn’t saying anything,’ said Violet. ‘This is ever such a nice place, isn’t it?’