Twenty Thousand Streets Under the Sky by Patrick Hamilton
‘Don’t be so silly, Bob,’ she said, employing her usual method of closing a topic with Bob, and seeing how profitless and possibly painful it would be to go on discussing the man to whom she was engaged with the man she loved.
CHAPTER XXI
IT WAS SUNDAY. By ten o’clock Ella was busy at her tasks in the bar, wondering what it was, breathing in the air, which made it so overpoweringly, all-permeatingly Sunday – so that she would have known it was Sunday morning if all the almanacal evidence in the world had spoken to the contrary.
Was it because she had risen an hour later? Was it because six million people encircling her had risen an hour later? Was it the fineness of the weather? (There had been such a long succession of bright days on Sunday lately that she had got a queer subconscious impression that that was why it was called Sunday.) Was it the disquieting way in which this Sunday sunshine served to intensify rather than remove her depression of spirits – casting, as it did, churchy beams and shadows into the poorly lit bar, and making her think of God – a subject which she still could not get the hang of and which always dejected her? Was it the familiar sight of the fat Sunday paper, with its menu of thick ultrasensationalism on this holy and paradoxical day? Was it the diminished, almost stilled, roar of the traffic in the Euston Road in the distance? Was it the sound of the milkman, who alone among tradesmen was left over from the week, and whose voice yodelled in solitary mournfulness over the land of streets? Was it the instinctive knowledge of the aspect of those streets – empty here, teeming there with a proletariat arrayed in its collarless Sunday best – shuttered, littered, despondent? It was something of all these well-known Sunday things, taken in conjunction with a well-known lingering taste in Ella’s mouth of the sausages they were always given for breakfast on Sundays, which made her feel the day in the intuitive depths of her being.
‘Another lovely Sunday,’ said the Governor, passing through the bar, and she felt worse than ever.
Yet another cause of her instinctive conviction of the Sabbath was the fact that she was booked to walk in Regent’s Park with Mr. Eccles in the afternoon. Three weeks or more had now passed since Mr. Eccles had first dived with her into the darkness of that park with such momentous consequences, and it had now become a regular practice on Sunday afternoons to walk therein with ‘Ernest.’ Yes – by dint of strenuously and continuously applied hydraulic pressure, he was almost ‘Ernest’ to her now, though she did not think she would ever be quite able to dispel the inverted commas.
It was strange, she reflected, how she had grown into a habit of mind wherein this walk in the Park, and ‘Ernest’ in general, had come to be taken for granted as belonging to a natural order of things. Little more than three weeks had passed, yet it now seemed as though there had never been a time when the problem of ‘Ernest’ had not been with her as it was now, like a hidden anxiety grown almost stale to the perplexed sufferer – still the focal point of all her waking thoughts and speculations, but seen in the light of day-to-day resignation. You could not keep up the breathless wonderment of those first few meetings for ever. In fact there were moments when ‘Ernest’ was simply a bore.
‘Ernest,’ too, was perhaps not quite the bouncingly enthusiastic creature he had been. Without having made (and she was in a way thankful for it) any further practical allusions to the future or the esoteric meaning of their supposed ‘Engagement,’ he had nevertheless succeeded in taking whatever relationship they did bear to each other for granted, and seemed quite content to jog along in their present course indefinitely.
She noticed, too, that everything being apparently settled in his mind, he had lost much of his self-consciousness, and talked less about her and more about himself – his likes and dislikes, his approvals and disapprovals – rather with an air of giving her a Short Course in himself for her present convenience and future reference. In fact, Railings apart, he seemed curiously to have lost interest in her as a human being, and Ella’s good-natured attempt to disregard this was in no way aided by her discovery of the fact that he definitely had a Temper. He had a peculiar way, particularly when crossing traffic (which always drove him mad) of going yellow in the face and saying ‘Come on!’ or ‘Make up your mind then!’ with uncontrollable spleen. Also he would behave very sharply on entering cinemas when they couldn’t find each other and were trying stumblingly to sit on air in the darkness. Indeed there were sometimes whole meetings with him when he bore that yellow look on his countenance, and she had to be careful all the time. But he made up for this with extreme cheerfulness at other moments, and the forbearing Ella respected his seniority in years and for the most part took it all in the day’s work.
Their arrangement was, as usual on Sundays, to meet at Great Portland Street Station at five past three. To-day she was there at three minutes past, and found him waiting for her. She was in quite good spirits herself, for she always found that the brooding gloom of the Sabbath could be almost kept at bay in the afternoons as opposed to the hopeless mornings and evenings. But she had only to glance at him to diagnose that it was one of his yellow days.
Not that anyone less sensitive than Ella to his moods would have known this. He raised his hat and smiled, and at once took her arm, as was his habit (though Ella could never quite feel happy about it, or cease to marvel at the fate which had ordained that they should thus be linked in their own eyes and those of the world), and they immediately afterwards launched upon their first skirmish with the traffic in crossing over to Marylebone Church.
This was always one she dreaded, as it was a tricky corner even for those who did not lose their heads, and Mr. Eccles today behaved more like someone in a padded cell than someone in a public thoroughfare, pushing her forward, dragging her back like a shying horse, epileptically clasping her lest she made a move, and finally, when they were over, laying all the blame on her with ‘It’s better really to make up one’s mind from the beginning, isn’t it?’
Not a very good start. She tried to be cheerful as they walked along the other side, but he relapsed into monosyllables, as he always did after quarrelling with the traffic. Nor had any real improvement taken place by the time they had entered the Park at York Gate, and were walking up the main avenue towards the Zoo amidst the winter-gripped flower beds and the rippling murmur of a post-prandial Sunday crowd gratefully disporting its undistinguished self in the sun – a sight which always saddened Ella for no exact reason she knew. In fact at last she got so cast down with her silent companion (having had a sudden vision of being married to Mr. Eccles and walking staidly in the Park like this every Sunday afternoon for the rest of her life) that she had the courage to remonstrate.
‘You’re rather quiet this afternoon,’ she said,’ aren’t you?’
‘Am I?’ said Mr. Eccles. ‘I didn’t think so.’
‘Yes you are. You’ve been ever so quiet.’
‘Have I?’ said Mr. Eccles, in the tone of one who intended to go on being as quiet as he wished, which rather enraged Ella.
‘Yes. You have,’ she said. ‘Is there anything on your mind?’
To her surprise Mr. Eccles, instead of sinking further into himself, here took hold of her arm and became companionable. ‘Now what should make you think that?’ he said. ‘Eh?’ And he gave her arm a little pressure (he would call it a squeeze!).
Did she detect a confessing eagerness in his manner, an admission that he had been silent, and a desire to confide in her the real causes thereof?
‘Go on,’ he said, ‘what made you think that?’
She was now certain of his anxiety to get something off his chest, and felt relief mixed with a not displeasing sense of agitation. What if something was coming to light? It was about time, after three weeks of silent evasion of main issues. They had got to come out into the open sooner or later, and whereas he was possibly in a state of perturbation, she at the moment felt triumphantly ready for anything.
‘I didn’t think,’ she said, ‘I knew.’
‘
She had never understood any man less in her entire experience of men, but that was by the way. She gathered that he was trying to flatter her, which was itself possibly ominous of the gravity of what was on his mind, and which gave her the hope that this was going to be anything but a dull Sunday afternoon, after all.
‘Yes. I understand you all right,’ she said, flattering his flattery. ‘Go on. What is it?’
‘Oh – it’s nothing.’
‘Yes it is. Go on.’
‘No, there isn’t anything really.’
‘Yes, there is,’ said Ella. ‘Is it anything about Us?’
‘Now what should make you think that?’ said Mr. Eccles, renewing his pressure on her arm, and giving the show away.
‘Go on. What is it?’
‘Oh, nothing much. . . .’
‘Do you want to give it all up?’ said Ella, with a sudden frankness which surprised herself. But, glancing at him, she had seen him looking so evasively puzzled and thoughtful, and she had suddenly felt so bored with his silliness and the whole thing in general, that so simple and rapid a denouement had offered itself spontaneously to her mind.
‘Oh no,’ said Mr. Eccles, ‘I don’t think I want to do ‘that. . . .’
Which was an even more surprising answer, and one which, when the shock had passed, she found angering her. Think, indeed! Had he been remaining coolly and autocratically undecided all this time, wasting her time and his, and making a fool of her? She was sure she wouldn’t mind if he gave it all up, and she had a good mind to tell him so.
‘Well,’ she said, ‘I should have thought you would have made up your mind by now.’ And that was actually the first harsh word she had ever spoken to him.
‘So I have. . . . I didn’t mean that, exactly.’
‘What did you mean then?’ she said, more gently, ‘go on.’
‘Well, it’s not so much a question of Us, so much, is it?’
‘Isn’t it?’
‘No. You see, it’s the other people that make the trouble, isn’t it?’
‘Is it?’ said Ella, smelling sisters-in-law in the air, but saying nothing.
‘Yes. But what’s the use of talking about it. Let’s change the subject.’
‘Go on. Who is it?’
‘No. Let’s change the subject.’
‘No. Go on,’ said Ella, ‘is it your sister-in-law?’
‘Now, how did you guess that?’
‘What has she been saying?’ said Ella, feeling very resentful. She might not desire Mr. Eccles herself, but it was not in human nature to like the thought of Mr. Eccles’ relations not desiring her, however well she could see their point of view. In fact nothing in the world can be more calculated upon to make any person feel as Good as Anybody Else (or Better) than this sort of thing.
‘Oh – there’s been a fine old How-d’ye-do,’ said Mr. Eccles.
‘Has there?’ said Ella, sternly. ‘How’s that?’
‘Well, of course, They think I’m making a fool of myself,’ said Mr. Eccles. ‘That’s all.’
And there was in his voice so strong and basely unloverlike a hint that he himself saw and with certain qualifications subscribed to their point of view, that Ella had a notion that this was going to be the last, and fatal, walk with Mr. Eccles, and she got ready for battle. If there was the smallest relaxation on his part, she was only too willing to be rid of him, and she was going to see that she was not humiliated.
‘And what do you think?’ she said.
‘Oh – it’s nothing to do with myself. I’m only telling you what they think.’
‘But I’d’ve thought it was what you think that mattered.’
‘Are you Angry?’ asked Mr. Eccles.
‘No, I’m not a bit Angry. I only want to know.’
‘You musn’t be Angry, you know,’ said Mr. Eccles, with an air or consoling her. ‘You mustn’t think I want to back out.’
The patronage and condescension which this implied – the impudence with which this pursuing little man in his Sunday bowler hat and dark overcoat, dared, from the superior height of his wealth and connections, to turn the tables and play the kindly rôle of the pursued, was too much for Ella.
‘Perhaps I might want to Back Out,’ she said.
‘Oh – now you’re not being reasonable.’
‘Well, what’s so unreasonable in that?’
‘No,’ said Mr. Eccles. ‘Let’s talk about it reasonably. I can’t help what other people say, can I?’
‘What have they been saying, then?’ asked Ella, moved to curiosity in spite of herself.
‘Well, I suppose they don’t think it’d be a suitable match. I’m sure I don’t know why.’
That was more happily put, and Ella relented somewhat.
‘Well, perhaps, they’re right, you know,’ she said. ‘I’ve always said so, haven’t I?’
‘I don’t see why they’re right. Why do you say they’re right?’
‘Well, I’m not – Educated, am I? What’d you think if one of your relations went and married a barmaid?’
‘I wouldn’t think anything.’
‘Oh yes, you would. You would think she was after their money.’
‘Well, that’s absurd. I know you’re not after that,’ said Mr. Eccles.
The weird, circuitous, and paradoxical thing about the whole situation, reflected Ella, was that she was after nothing else. Would she have suffered Mr. Eccles so long if he had not been comparatively a millionaire, if she had not resolutely reproached herself for her abnormality and fastidiousness in not jumping at so unexampled a Catch? Upon what lies and misunderstandings, therefore, this affair had its foundation. But how could she explain this to him?
‘I don’t know why you’re so sure,’ she said, having to pretend she was speaking half in jest.
‘Don’t be so silly. Do you think I don’t understand you?’
‘Do you?’
‘Of course I do. I know every little thought that’s going on in your dear little head,’ said Mr. Eccles, again pressing her to him, and Ella was too dumbfounded to reply.
‘I thought we were getting into the Tantrums for a moment,’ went on Mr. Eccles, ushering in the reconciliation, ‘and that would never do – would it? We’ve got to discuss these things some time, haven’t we?’
‘Yes. I suppose we have.’
‘You see, I thought we might fix up a meeting sometime, and then she could see for herself – couldn’t she?’
‘What?’ said Ella. ‘Me meet your sister-in-law?’
‘Yes. Suppose you came along to tea one day? I’m sure she’d like you if she saw you.’
‘Oh – I don’t think that’s necessary, do you?’ said Ella, thunderstruck. She had never remotely taken into account the material prospect of a début amongst his relations – she supposed she had never really taken him seriously enough. And now she recoiled in frightened self-mistrust.
‘Why not?’ said Mr. Eccles.
‘She wouldn’t want to see me, would she?’ ‘Of course she would. In fact I’m sure she’d be most interested.’
Then she was to be taken up and shown off like some doubtful horse or ox on approval? She could see that Mr. Eccles, for all he inferred to the contrary, was desperately anxious to get an outside opinion on her.
‘If you wore that dark hat and coat of yours,’ said Mr. Eccles, ‘you’d make a great impression, I’m sure.’
That, she also saw, was a shy hint as regards impressing the aristocracy of Chiswick. He had praised the sober style of that dark hat and coat before. ‘All right,’ she wanted to say, ‘I know how to dress myself – thank you.’ But of course she did not say it.
‘But I thought we were going to keep it a Secret,’ she said instead.
‘Yes, we Were’ said Mr. Eccles. ‘But we can’t go on like that for ever, can we? If we’re going to be married you’ll have to meet them.’
‘
‘Oh, in two or three months,’ said Mr. Eccles, and caused the whole of Regent’s Park to recede from Ella in surprise and confusion.
‘Two or three months?’
‘Yes. We could do it before if we could get things in order.’
Two or three months! With the warily manoeuvring, cautiously advancing Mr. Eccles, she had thought of this consummation in terms of years – of tens of years! And here he had brought it down to a matter of weeks – eight weeks or less! Eight weeks only in which to make up her mind, when she thought she had the greater part of eternity.
‘You see that’s why I wanted to talk about it,’ said Mr. Eccles, all of whose doubts now seemed to have fled. ‘I want to get the Ring some time next week.’
The Ring! The Ring, and after eight weeks, enslavement for life – a life of Sundays in which she walked respectably round Regent’s Park with this rather elderly, rather good-looking, arch, often irritable, self-conscious bowler-hatted maniac who had never rightly understood a single thought going on in her head! How could she decide such a thing in eight weeks? No – she had decided already – she could not go through with it.
‘And then you’ll be really mine,’ said Mr. Eccles. ‘You needn’t think I’m going to let you go.’
‘Aren’t you?’ said Ella, faintly. How was she going to tell him? Was ever anyone more complacent, purblind, and inaccessible? Could she write him a letter? Yes – that was an idea. She would write him a letter.
‘Doesn’t the lake look lovely?’ said Mr. Eccles, for by now they had walked right round into view of the lake. ‘I shall never forget this lake.’
‘Won’t you?’
‘No. That was where we walked when we first Knew,’ said Mr. Eccles, giving her another nudge, while Ella concentrated gropingly on a Letter. A postman alone could curb this prodigious man.