‘Well – grumbling won’t help,’ she said . . . and both of them looked sideways at different objects. . . .
‘S’pose I shouldn’t have come in here drinking,’ she added, and looked at her wrist-watch. ‘What’s the time? I ought to be off.’
‘Only ten to ten.’
All at once she sat up stiffly.
‘Oh lord – I don’t half feel bad,’ she said. ‘Really.’
‘I guess you ought to be in bed,’ he said, not quite knowing what to say.
‘You bet.’ She drew her lips into a little sneer, not at him, but with him, against existence.
‘What about another Gin and Pep?’
She nodded. ‘Yes. That first one did me good, didn’t it?’ She was clearly in pain.
‘Yes. Go on. I’ll get you one.’
‘Right you are. A Gin and Pep.’
She smiled again, conveying her appreciation, and he returned to the bar.
Here the noise was tremendous, and Ella was off her head with work. ‘Well, what do you want, Bob?’ she asked, as she poured out drinks for somebody else.
‘I want a Gin and Peppermint, please, Ella.’
‘I’m surprised at you, Bob,’ she said, as she served him.
‘Heard that somewhere before. What’s the worry?’
Ella glanced at him reproachfully, and explained herself. ‘Talking to those Prostitutes,’ said Ella. . . .
Her violent stress upon the first syllable of this word implied a differentiation between a large class of almost venial Titutes, and another branch of the same class, designated as Pros, and beyond the pale.
‘What’s wrong with ’em?’ asked Bob.
‘What’s wrong with ’em!’ said Ella. ‘The creatures.’
‘Ladies must live,’ hazarded Bob, a little insecurely.
‘Don’t you tell me,’ said Ella, and left him.
Her illness and isolation glowed all the stronger for Ella’s derision, as he placed the drink upon her table and she fumbled in her bag and produced a two shilling piece. He gave her the change, and she tried to pass him another sixpence.
‘No,’ he said, smiling, and slipping it back. ‘I guess that’s the sort of thing you’re wanting.’
‘No. Go on. Don’t be silly.’
A sudden intimation that people near by were watching them, and that he, a self-respecting waiter in a decent house could not stand there arguing about change with a woman of the streets, compelled him to accept it. He picked it up quickly.
‘Well,’ he said. ‘I only wish I could do something, that’s all.’
Her reply was another weary smile.
He stood there, with his tray balanced on the table, looking around as though to see if anyone needed serving. . . .
‘And it’s only a question of eight and sixpence too,’ she said. . . .
‘What? –’ He spotted a customer. ‘I must go and work.’
He left her for five minutes.
He returned with a soul expanded.
‘That’s not much,’ he said.
‘Too much for me, at any rate.’
‘Why not let me give it to you.’
‘What? You? Likely! I bet you’ve got a lot to throw away.’
‘No. Go on. You can pay it back, if you like.’
‘Don’t be silly.’
‘No. Go on. It’s not silly.’
‘Don’t be silly. I wouldn’t think of it, an’ that’s flat.’
‘But what’s wrong, if you pay me back?’
There was a pause. She looked into the distance. ‘I’d certainly do that,’ she said. . . .
‘Well come on. I’ll give it you. An’ then you can go to bed.’
She still looked into the distance. ‘Come on,’ he said. . . . She was very pretty. It was almost as though he were making love to her. . . .
‘Well – if I pay it back to-morrow. . . .’
‘Just when you like.’
‘All right then.’ She met his eyes. ‘And you know how grateful I am, don’t you?’
‘No cause for that.’
‘Well, there is, an’ that’s a fact.’
‘Tell you what though. Don’t want ’em to see me giving it you in here. You finish that drink and then go out an’ wait outside. An’ then I’ll slip out an’ give it you. That’s the best way, isn’t it?’
‘That’ll do fine. Shall I go now?’ She sat up again.
‘No. Wait a bit. I’ve got to serve some people. I’ll spot you as you go out, and then I’ll follow. Don’t mind if I keep you waiting a bit. Well – good-bye for the present.’ He smiled and again left her.
In the next few minutes he threw himself into his work with tremendous bounce, once or twice looking over in her direction, and catching her eye, and smiling. And then he saw her rising, with a mock-serious and self-conscious little look (which was a kind of wink to him), and passing through the bar, and going out.
Some three or four minutes passed before he was again released. Then he went audaciously to the door, and out into the street.
She was not just outside, as he had expected she would be, but about twenty yards away, looking into the window of a little sweet-and-newspaper shop which was closed. He went towards her and she came towards him. The night was cold and serene in the light of a clear, buoyant moon. After the fuddled thick noise of the house it was as though he stepped from orgy into spirituality. He spoke low, out of deference to the atmosphere, and so did she.
‘Here’s the doings,’ he said, and proffered a ten shilling note.
‘Oh – but I don’t want all that. It’s only eight and six.’
‘Oh, that don’t matter. Go on.’
‘All right, I will then,’ she conceded, and put it in her bag, and snapped it close, without ado. Then she looked up at him, speaking rather like one who has been punished unjustly. ‘An’ I hope you know how grateful I am – ’cos I am.’
He held out his hand. ‘Not a bit. Only too glad to help where I can.’
‘An’ I’ll come in an’ pay it back to-morrow. I will, honest.’
‘No need for that. Just when you like.’
Their hands were still joined. ‘And whenever you want any help, I’ll give it to you,’ she said, in the same punished tone. ‘I will, truly.’
‘Let’s hope I won’t.’
It was all rather awkward. She released her hand, smilingly bending her head sideways to make the withdrawal gracious and tender. ‘Well – good night,’ she said.
‘Good night. Sleep well.’
‘You bet. Good night.’
‘Good night.’
He watched her going down the street. As she reached the corner she waved and vanished. He stood at the door of ‘The Midnight Bell’ for a few moments, with his hands on his hips, looking each way, savouring the night; then went inside.
CHAPTER VIII
THE CLOCK STOOD at five to ten, and he at once perceived that the climax of the evening had been reached. Apart from a few at the back of the lounge, there were now no women in the place, and it seemed as though their disappearance had relaxed the last bonds of equability and restraint.
A horrible excitement was upon everybody and everything. Indeed, to one unacquainted with the feverish magic that alcohol can work there could have been only one way of accounting for the scene. This house must have been the theatre of some tremendous conference, in which some tremendous crisis had arisen at the moment of adjournment, and the individuals had gathered into frightened but loquacious groups to discuss the bombshell. (But some of them were in fits of laughter about it.) In such circumstances alone might the ordinary despondence and lethargy of man have been galvanized into such potency of discourse, such keenness of confidence, such an air of released honour-brightness and getting down to the essentials of life as was apparent everywhere here.
Men! They thrust their hats back on their heads; they put their feet firmly on the rail; they looked you straight in the eye; they beat their palms with thei
r fists, and they swilled largely and cried for more. Their arguments were top-heavy with the swagger of their altruism. They appealed passionately to the laws of logic and honesty. Life, just for to-night, was miraculously clarified into simple and dramatic issues. It was the last five minutes of the evening, and they were drunk.
And they were in every phase of drunkenness conceivable. They were talking drunk, and confidential drunk, and laughing drunk, and beautifully drunk, and leering drunk, and secretive drunk, and dignified drunk, and admittedly drunk, and fighting drunk, and even rolling drunk. One gentleman, Bob observed, was patently blind drunk. Only one stage off dead drunk, that is – in which event he would not be able to leave the place unassisted.
And over all this ranting scene Ella, bright and pert and neat and industrious, held her barmaid’s sway. She was the recipient of half the confidences, and half the jokes, and half the leers. Because she symbolized, in her sober but smiling figure, all those restraints and righteous inhibitions which had been gloriously cast behind to-night, she was made the butt of their friendly irony and arrogance. And she accepted the challenge, and adopted one good-humoured, non-committal and chiding attitude to all. Furthermore she was never at a loss for a reply to throw over her shoulder as she swept away to fulfil the next order.
It seemed to Bob that he never admired Ella so much as at this time of night. Her naïve goodness and innate decency never glowed out so strongly as when she gave tit for tat amid this maudlin and besetting pack. But there was something even more than this. There was the fact of her femininity and the charm of her infinite tolerance. And these things, added to her wonderful equability and efficiency, transformed her into something quite maternal and irresistible. She became, in fact, scarcely a barmaid at all, but rather the little mother of the bar, and everyone was made just naughty and innocent in the radiance of her forgiveness.
But Bob was in that sort of mood to-night. He had only just come in from under the stars – stars in whose tender light he had proffered aid to a fallen human being. And one who has just done that sort of thing feels he wants to forgive and love everything.
He apprehended the enormous gulf that separated Ella from the little wretch (the rather pretty little wretch) he had just assisted. He apprehended the gulf, but bridged it with his magnanimity. Ella, the sweet and upright Ella, did as she should in designating her as a ‘Creature’ – but he also did as he should in bestowing his compassion upon a ‘creature’ – if only for the very reason that she was a ‘creature,’ and in need. For he was in that mood when he loved all human creatures. He loved Ella because she was a good woman, and he loved the other because she was a bad woman. It was a good world.
In brief, because he had given ten shillings to a young prostitute without expecting the usual thing in return he was dreadfully conceited. He was so innocent as to believe the transaction was almost unique. He little suspected cunning mankind’s general awareness of the charms of chivalry. He was in love with himself.
And a man successfully in love desires above all things to sing. And the fates were so propitious to Bob to-night that no sooner was the desire formulated than he was given the chance to do so. The deceitful clock pointed to ten o’clock, and it was time to cry ‘All Out!’
The Governor began it. His voice was scarcely heard above the din. ‘Now then, gentlemen, please!’ he cried. ‘Last orders, please!’ And he looked over at Bob.
Bob, serving in the lounge, waited a few moments. Then ‘Last orders, please, gentlemen! Time please!’ he cried, in sternly expressionless tones.
Bob did not suppose that this would cause any modification in the great, grumbling growl of talk around him, and it did not. Possibly, in the far recesses of vinous brains, the dark admonition was heard by a few. Possibly this manifested itself (in the persons of those few) in a sudden vague unease, a glancing round, a barely observable drop of the countenance. . . . But the infamy (or rather the absurdity) could obviously never gain popular credit. And it was, of course, an absolute absurdity, for the people in ‘The Midnight Bell’ were only just beginning to enjoy themselves.
He began again, more loudly, and more reproachfully.
‘Now then, gentlemen! Time, please!’
But they did not hear that, either. He paced to the door, flung it back, fastened it back, and opened his lungs.
‘NOW then, gentlemen! TIME, please!’
They had got that all right. He went to the tables in the bar, snapped up empty glasses, shoved his way through to the counter, and slammed them ferociously down.
‘TIME please, gentlemen! ALL OUT please!’
And now a kind of panic and babel fell upon ‘The Midnight Bell.’ A searching draught swept in from the open door, and suddenly the Governor lowered all the lights save one above the bar. At this a few realized that the game was up, and left the place abruptly: others besieged Ella madly for last orders. Some of the groups dispersed with bawled farewells: others drew closer protectively, and argued the louder and more earnestly for the assault that was being made upon their happiness.
‘NOW then, gentlemen, please! LONG PAST TIME!’
He rushed about the place, filling his fingers with empty glasses, and banging them down on the counter. He was, for the moment, a bully and a braggart. And his miserable, huddled victims knew it and resented it.
But they knew also that they had to go. Suddenly one of the groups – a group of five men – broke up and filed out. It was instantly apparent that they had been responsible for the greater part of the din. There were not more than half a dozen left. A hush fell, and he had no further need to shout. His voice became quiet and full of expression.
‘Now then, gentlemen, please. It’s long past time, you know.’
A minute later, and only three remained – two drunk gentlemen, and the blind drunk gentleman. The Public Bar round the corner was empty and in darkness. The two drunk gentlemen were talking drunkenly to Ella, and the blind drunk gentleman was talking drunkenly to the air. Bob went up to him.
‘This way out, sir.’
‘S’all righ’, wair,’ said the blind drunk gentleman. ‘S’allrigh’. Wonnarseyousuth!’
‘What’s that, sir?’
‘All ee sigh God? – Nod all ee sigh God?’
‘Sight of God, sir? Yes, sir, all equal sir. It’s time you made for home though, isn’t it, sir?’
‘Then why,’ said the blind drunk gentleman, grasping Bob’s coat with one fist, and making his point with the other, ‘then why . . . then why. . . .’
‘Why what, sir?’
‘Wize everybody s’znobbish?’
‘Couldn’t say, sir. Way of the world, I suppose, sir. No sir – this way, sir.’
‘Z’damznobbish. . . . Z’damznobbish. . . . Z’damznobbish,’ murmured the blind drunk gentleman, and, so protesting, groped his staggering way into the night.
He was followed by the two drunk gentlemen, who walked out with that too balanced strut peculiar to drunk gentlemen knowing themselves to be nothing of the sort.
‘Good night, waiter.’
‘Good night, sir. Good night.’
He went out with them, and gazed again at the cool and temperate heavens.
The blind drunk gentleman, lingering darkly, at once connected with the two drunk gentlemen, and a short conversation ensued. Unanimity was instant. Three crusaders against Snobbery, arm in arm and full of faith, staggered down towards the south side of Oxford Street, where drinks might yet be obtained and the world awaited conversion.
He came in again. Ella, about to retire, was patting her hair for the last time in her little bottle-surrounded mirror. The one light feebly lit the bar, and the silence was that ultra-silence, at once sad, and terrifying, and beautiful, of a banquet ended, of people gone. They were both highly susceptible to it.
He bolted the door. ‘Well,’ he said. ‘How’s everything?’
‘I’m surprised at you, Bob,’ said Ella, and went upstairs.
CHAPTER IX
THE LESS SPECTACULAR side of Bob’s employment revealed itself every morning. The Brass was his care, and by half-past eight he was up and rubbing. He also replaced an old with a new fire in the Lounge, but did not put a match to it until the place opened at eleven o’clock. For these activities he dispensed with his coat and collar, rolled up his shirt-sleeves, and wore professional trousers of unknown age and origin. Ella called him (accurately) a Sight.
But he exchanged few words with Ella at this time of day, drawing into himself and soothing his soul with rubbing, humming, intermittent whistling, and a tacit understanding with the dog.
For ‘The Midnight Bell’ ran to a dog. It was a belonging of the Governor’s Wife and known as Jim. It trotted placidly about with its head held high, and its brown eyes were filled with a chilling and noble aloofness. ‘Well, what do you want?’ Ella asked it every other five minutes, but it clearly did not want anything. And it wouldn’t ask you for it if it did. It was surprising, indeed, that its pure and passionless detachment from her did not finally repel Ella. But it did not needless to say. She took snub after snub all the morning, and had a profound love for the animal.
At eleven o’clock ‘The Midnight Bell’ opened. Bob resumed decent clothes and his white coat, and a few people came in. But business was very slack until about half-past twelve, when the place filled up with a sober crowd. Ham sandwiches, beef sandwiches, arrowroot biscuits and cheese, sardines or prawns on toast – all these were in constant demand and allayed the fumes of bravery. But these were mostly taken at the bar, and Bob had very little to do. The dog, by this time rather weary, came down to earth so far as to go round smelling everybody in turn (without apparent pleasure), and to trot away and occasionally get a biscuit, which it consumed in the manner of dogs – that is, by having almost to throw it out and catch it again in order to achieve a bite, and then moving its nose despondently amongst the crumbs. Bob was offered drinks, but, remembering yesterday, withheld. In the Public Bar round the corner there were corduroys, pint glasses of beer, hunks of bread and cheese, and arguments – all about as thick as they could possibly be. When, at three o’clock, it was time to turn them all out, there was no need for shouting.