Twenty Thousand Streets Under the Sky by Patrick Hamilton
‘Well, you ought to have known I wouldn’t. Fancy thinkin’ I’d’ve done a thing like that.’
‘Well, you might have done anything – after what I called you.’
‘Well – I am one, ain’t I?’
‘Maybe. But that ain’t your fault.’
‘Who’s fault is it then?’ ‘Oh, I dunno. Just circumstances, I suppose.’
‘Well, you don’t know how right you are. It ain’t nothin’ else.’
‘I know it.’
‘I tell you, I been at the stage where I had to go in to an A.B.C. an’ have one stale bun for lunch. You try some of that an’ see what you do.’
‘I know, dear. It’s all economic, anyway. Jever hear of Bernard Shaw?’
‘Yes. I’ve heard of him. He’s one of them Great Writers, ain’t he?’
‘Yes. Well, he wrote a book called Mrs. Warren’s Profession – an’ showed it was all economics.’ . . .
There was a pause.
‘Well,’ said Jenny, with emphasis, ‘I guess he was just about right.’. . .
And there was another pause as she sipped her drink.
‘How are you feelin’?’ asked Bob.
‘I’m better now, dear. I like this drink.’
There was another pause.
‘D’you read much, Jenny?’
‘No. Not much. Only the cheap stuff. You know. The threepenny stuff. It’s ever so silly. It’s only written for factory girls really – ain’t it?’
‘Yes. I suppose it is.’
There was a silence as he meditated upon her curiously subtle and involved relegations of class.
‘I should like to read that book by Bernard Shaw, though,’ said Jenny.
‘Would you, Jenny? I’ll get it for you if you like.’
‘Oh – it ain’t worth that. I should like to read it, though. Them writers are interested in us, aren’t they?’
‘Are they?’
‘Yes, they are. ’Cos prostitution’s been goin’ on for ever, ain’t it?’
‘Has it?’ Her detached and diffident interest in this topic was, as usual, disconcerting.
‘Yes, it has. We’re mentioned in the Bible.’
‘Are you?’
‘Yes. Didn’t you know that? We’re mentioned in the Bible. There’s a part where God’s goin’ to destroy a big city, ’cos they haven’t done what he told them to, an’ there’s this prostitute there, an’ she’s the only one that’s spared. ’Cos she did what God told her to. And she’s a prostitute.’
‘Thasso? . . .’
‘Yes. An’ God’s always speaking about us, all over the Bible. There’s another part, too, where all the people are throwin’ stones at one of ’em – see? . . .’
‘Yes.’
‘An’ God comes along an’ says, “You shouldn’t do that” – see? He says, “Don’t cast the first stone,” he says, ’cos “Who is without sin amongst you?” he says. An’ that’s not the only case. He is always goin’ on about us.’
Bob nodded.
‘An’ that’s ’cos God knows that there’ll always be prostitutes so long as the world goes on. There always was an’ there always will be. ’Cos there’s always men, and they always want ’em. You can’t get rid of us.’
‘Have another drink?’ said Bob.
‘Thank you,’ said Jenny, ‘I will.’
‘Tell me, Jenny,’ he said, when he returned with them, ‘would you come away with me for a holiday?’
‘’Course I will, dear. Why?’
‘Well, I got six days after Christmas. I thought we might go away together.’
‘That’d be fine. Where’d we go?’
‘We might go to Brighton.’
‘That’d be lovely, dear.’
Nothing, apparently, would go wrong to-night.
‘I love you, Jenny. That’s what’s the matter with me.’
‘An’ I love you, Bob, too. Don’t I?’
‘Do you?’ he said.
‘Yes. You don’t know how much I love you. I c’n tell you.’
He was very happy. He didn’t think he would have any more trouble with her. She was a simple soul, and it had all been his own fault.
He knew, of course, that she was not always as placid as now. He knew that she had endless and intricate powers of riling and maddening him. Indeed the affair, hitherto, had been nothing but torture. But the blame resided not in her – rather in himself and in the circumstances. Her character was dawning on him. He believed it was of the utmost simplicity and tragedy. Beautiful, ill-educated, foolish, weak, miserable, well-meaning, her beauty had been her downfall. If, occasionally, she was irritable and inconstant, how could he blame her? It was a marvel that she was not worse.
When you worked it out his only complaint against her was that she did not stand by her arrangements. But what did he know of her other life – the tortures and exactions of the streets.
And she looked so tired, sitting there. And yet so lovely. And only twenty-one. A child and a woman. He loved her to distraction. He could be so happy with her – merely to look at her and own her. It would compensate for all the bitterness of life.
Why not marry her? If only he had no future to consider, he would. But might not his future bear it? Might he not be great enough to carry Jenny on his own shoulders? She might rise with him, or be his secret girl. There was no precedent for it, but might he not create from herself and himself a romance undreamed of?
And he wanted her so badly – and he wanted her perpetual and exclusive kindness so badly. And the future was dark and here was a young, living, palpitating, enravishing thing which he might have for his own.
He would marry her! From this instant he would concentrate upon marrying her. It was always what he had wanted to do; and now the decision was made he could have peace of mind. It was the only thing for him to do. How on earth had he expected to carry on the affair like this? She – poor, submitting thing – must have known how silly it was. And yet she had made no complaint, but suffered his insults gladly, and snatched every moment from her hideous existence to come and be with him.
He thought of all these things as he was talking to her. Every gesture, every answer she made, confirmed his new theory.
‘Jenny,’ he said, at last.
‘Yes, Bob?’
‘Do you think we might be married one day?’
She looked at him.
‘What, Bob – would you marry me?’
She was staring at him.
‘’Course, I would. I love you, don’t I?’
‘After all what I done?’ She was still staring at him.
‘I don’t mind what you done. If you’ll get a job, I’ll marry you straight away. Why are you looking at me like that?’
There was a pause. She still looked at him.
‘What’s the matter?’ asked Bob.
‘Look, Bob. I got somethin’ to tell you.’
He knew what was coming. Incredible! Incredible! Incredible!
‘What, Jenny?’ he said.
‘It’s a bit of a shock, Bob.’
He might have known! He might have known!
‘What is it, Jenny?’
‘Well – I’m married.’
‘Oh God,’ said Bob.
There was a long silence. She put her hand out consolingly on to his. He was appalled by its white sweetness and beauty. He hoped people wouldn’t see. It didn’t look well – being tenderly consoled by a prostitute in a public place.
CHAPTER XXXIV
IT WAS NOT jealousy: he was beyond that. It was the snub. The perfect snub to his generosity and originality. He had thrown away the world for her, merely to discover that another had thrown it away before. After this he was prostrate before her. She had got him beaten. He loved her. He adored her. The touch of her hand, as it lay on his, sent excruciating currents of her being into his own. Another, before him, had known the same. They were both beggars for her kindness. Was there some magic in her? He looked at her. Yes, as
‘What’s the matter, Bob? You ain’t upset, are you?’ she said, and withdrew her hand.
‘Don’t take your hand away, Jenny.’
It came back at once.
‘What’s the matter, Bob? It don’t affect you, do it?’
He concentrated all his thoughts upon her hand. It soothed, excited, appeased, maddened, thrilled. It was slim, and white, and delicate, and weighted with the soft weight of paradise. He wanted to kiss it. He would have to kiss it.
On one of the forefingers there was a little freckle. He would certainly have to kiss that. He desired to kiss her hand in token of his defeat. He would be making a damn fool of himself in a moment.
‘God. It’s awful, Jenny.’
‘What’s awful, dear?’
‘I love you so.’
‘Nothin’ awful in that. Go on. Drink your drink.’
She took her hand away and put the glass nearer to him.
‘Who is he, Jenny?’
‘Oh. He’s not very interestin’. I shouldn’t worry about him.’
‘Do you love him?’
‘Love him? My word, no.’
‘Who is he? What does he do?’
‘He works in a bicycle shop.’
Bicycle shop consoled him. He was a common man – like himself. Also he could discern a faint aura of ridiculousness attached to bicycles. Perhaps he might even be able to pity this newcomer – this interloper – her husband.
‘Does he love you?’
‘Yes. He thinks he does.’
‘But you don’t love him?’
‘No.’
‘Why not?’
‘’Cos I don’t, I suppose. That’s all.’
This was horrible. The man loved her, but she did not love him. Her favours, then, were arbitrary and selective. (And he had once thought he could win her with a ten shilling note!)
‘Do you love me, Jenny?’
‘Sure. I’ve said I do.’
‘But do you?’
‘Yes. Don’t be so silly.’
‘He doesn’t love you as much as I do, does he?’
‘Don’t know, I’m sure.’
‘But he doesn’t!’
‘All right. He doesn’t.’
‘Oh, Jenny, do be merciful. Can’t you see I adore you? I’d die for you, Jenny.’
‘All right, Bob. Why are you takin’ on so?’ She gave him her hand again.
‘He couldn’t love you – not if he lets you do what you do now.’
‘Oh – I’m not livin’ with him. I’ve left him a long while ago.’
‘Why did you leave him?’
‘Oh, he’s a big brute. He used to knock me about.’
Joy! He had knocked her about! A lyric thankfulness to the man arose in Bob. He had put himself beyond the pale. He had knocked her about. (He didn’t blame him, by God!)
‘Why did you marry him?’
‘Oh. I dunno. He was kind to me. I used to know him when I was only seventeen, when I was straight, like. An’ then he found me afterwards and asked me to marry him, that’s all. An’ after all I’d been through I thought I liked him enough, and I did. That’s all.’
‘How long ago was all this?’
‘He married me about two years ago. We was never compatible, and never will be.’
Compatible? What words she got hold of! Would then, he, Bob, be compatible? He was physically sick with longing for her.
‘Lord, I don’t half feel bad. . . .’
‘What’s the matter, Bob? Don’t be so silly. I’ll marry you, if you like.’
For a brief instant he could not resist a droll comparison of his state now with what it had been. That she should have brought him to this – that he should be aspiring to her hand! But it was the case.
‘How can you marry me, if you’re married?’
‘Well, he can divorce me, can’t he?’
‘Will he?’
‘Yes. He’ll do anything I tell him. He loves me, really, in his funny way.’
Then he was to rob another of this strange and terrible prize? He could not do such a thing. He must hear some more about this knocking about.
‘But how can he love you if he knocks you about?’
‘Well – p’raps that’s just his way of showin’ his love.’
There was no outlet. She crushed him everywhere. He had better run away and never come back.
She finished her drink.
‘Well, Bob,’ she said, ‘it’s about time I was movin’.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, I got to go out to-night, ain’t I?’
‘What do you mean – “go out”?’
‘Well – “go out” – you know what I mean.’
‘Oh, don’t do that, for Christ’s sake.’
‘Well, I can’t help it, can I? I got to get some money.’
‘How much do you want?’
‘I want thirty shillin’s, really. But I got to get a pound at least.’
‘I’ll give it you. I’ll give you thirty shillin’s.’
‘Well, a pound’d be enough. But you can’t afford it.’
‘Yes I can. Don’t talk any more.’ He was irritated by the continuance of this grotesque aside.
‘Well, I’m very grateful. I wouldn’t take it – only I’m not feelin’ very well myself to-night.’
‘Ain’t you feeling well?’
‘No. That pain’s comin’ on again.’
‘Well, I’ll see you home. May I see you home – to Doughty Street?’
‘All right. And you need only give me a pound. That’ll be quite enough.’
He need only give her a pound! Another ironic instant! But he was thankful, at the price. He was going to take his loved one back to her abode.
‘Oh, I do love you, Jenny,’ he said, ‘can’t we do something about it?’
‘Oh yes. We can do somethin’ I ’spect. Well, let’s go – shall we?’
She didn’t care. She expected something could be done, and wanted to go. ‘Yes,’ he said, and rose in despair.
He was following her out like a dog. It was obvious that she was sexless. She had bewitched him.
They came out into the air and Wardour Street. He took her arm.
‘Oo, look!’ she said, ‘it’s snowing!’
And it was. Quite hard. Tiny flakes, whirling and scampering down, as though in terror or ecstasy, from the hidden night above. A myriad host of minute invaders, coming to fill, with their delicate but excited concerns, the gloomy plains of electric-lit London. A pleasant surprise – a visitation! One little flake fell on her young cheek and stayed there. She put her blue eyes up to the sky. She was delighted.
‘Oo!’ she said. ‘It ain’t half coming down!’
They walked on. There were many of her calling lurking about. She smiled at one of them, in passing, in an amiable way.
CHAPTER XXXV
HE HAD NEVER had before the slightest intimation that he loved her like this.
‘I love you, Jenny, dear,’ he said, ‘I love you. I’d die for you!’
‘Well,’ she said, smiling faintly, ‘there wouldn’t be much sense in that. . . .’
She was plainly gratified by the new turn of affairs – gratified in a quiet and rather greedy way – in the way that a cat is gratified when it has at last consumed the canary.
‘Would there? . . .’ she added. And, with their arms interlocked, she slipped her hand into his. The cat lay down on the rug before the fire.
‘Oh, Jenny, dear, I’ll work for you. I will. I’ll work till I get you, Jenny!’
She did not answer, but gave his hand a little pressure. They were by now in Shaftesbury Avenue.
‘How old is he?’ asked Bob.
‘What – my husband?’
‘Yes.’
‘Oh. ’Bout thirty-two.’
She could speak of him so coolly now. Her monstr
‘Oh, Jenny. I do love you!’
‘All right, Bob. I know you do. You mustn’t take on so.’
‘Jenny, dear?’
‘Yes.’
‘You’re coming away with me, aren’t you? For a holiday. After Christmas.’
‘Yes. All right. I’ll come away with you.’
She was taking advantages already. Before, the idea of going away for a holiday had been ‘lovely.’ Now, graciously, she was conceding it.
‘I’ll give you a lovely holiday, Jenny. We’ll go to Brighton.’
‘All right.’
(All right!)
‘Where do you get all your money from, Bob?’
‘I ain’t got any. That’s the funny part. I got seventy pounds – what I saved. I had eighty. I only got seventy now.’
‘You shouldn’t be so extravagant,’ said Jenny.
‘I guess you’re an extravagant article, Jenny.’
‘No, I’m not. I’m ever so thrifty, if you knew me. I’d make ever such a good wife. I would. Honest. I know how to save, ’cos I’ve learnt the need of it.’
‘Oh Jenny. Why ain’t you my wife?’
‘Well, p’raps I will be one day.’
‘Oh Jenny. I’ll get you. I will. . . . An’ maybe I’ll have a lot of money one day.’
‘What – have you got rich relatives, or somethin’?’
‘No. I ain’t got no rich relatives. But I may make some money, all the same.’
‘How’s that?’
‘Oh, I ’spect you’d only laugh if I told you.’
‘No. I wouldn’t. Go on.’
‘No. I won’t tell you.’
‘No. Go on, Bob.’
‘Well – remember our talk about writers?’
He had never spoken of this to another soul in the world. All things flowed irresistibly from him into her loveliness.
‘What?’ said Jenny. ‘Are you goin’ to be an Author?’
‘Yes. Sounds silly. But I got my ideas. . . .’
There was a pause. He was breathlessly anxious for her answer.
‘I’ll write a book one of these days,’ said Jenny, and smiled to herself.
Her perfect cruelty and egotism appalled him. He had told her his most secret secret, revealed his anguished, dearest hope. And she had turned it off lightly, to afford a pretty conceit for herself.