Twenty Thousand Streets Under the Sky by Patrick Hamilton
But now she had to unpack, and make his cold cave her own. To use his jug and basin, to open and shut his window, to draw his curtains, to make all the little sounds she had heard him making, as though by a process of metamorphosis she was him, and was hearing herself from the next room! It was almost more than she could bring herself to do. Never would this cave cease in her mind to be Bob’s cave, and she a nymph compelled sorrowfully to inhabit it, reminded ever and again of what had gone.
And that letter still to be written! In her present mood the mere thought of that man made her ill. Why not have done with him? How, with the dear memory of Bob in her mind, could she submit to his vile, moustached embraces – his Squeezes, and Teasings, and sly little Pussings? And he was so certain of himself in his financial power over her. She was to write to her Toodlums with a great big kiss! Oh – how she would love to put him in his place! Toodlums! She would give him toodlums!
On a sudden impulse she fetched pen and paper.
‘Dear Mr. Eccles,
‘Thank you for your letter, but after all this time I have been thinking it all out and have decided that we would never be suited to each other. I am sorry if you have been put to any inconvenience, but we are not in the same class, and I do not love you enough, and you must not write any more as I should not answer. I thank you very much indeed for the kind interest you have shown in me, but this is final I am afraid. Thanking you again.
‘Yours regretfully,
‘ELLA.’
She wrote this straight off, without any attention to punctuation or style, and she stamped and addressed the envelope when she was down in the bar and had begun her evening duties. But she did not post it.
She had her mother to consider, and she doubted if she would have the cheek to post a letter like that.
CHAPTER XXXIII
IT IS A SAD pass when a solitary young woman in London is so low in spirits and miserable in her thoughts that she decides she must buy herself some sweets and go by herself to the pictures and sit in the gloom, to hide from the roaring world, and try to divert her mind from its aching preoccupations by looking at the shadows. You will sometimes see such lonely figures, eating their sweets and gazing gravely at the screen in the flickering darkness of picture theatres, and it may well be that they are merely other Ellas, with just such problems and sorrows in their grey lives as hers.
It is the sweets which give the tragedy to the spectacle. To have reached such an age, to have fought so strenuously all along the line of life, and yet to have come to a stage of hopelessness and isolation wherein the sole remaining consolation is to be found in sweets! Yet this was Ella’s predicament the next afternoon.
It was raining. She could not stay in her room or she would go mad; she could not bear the thought of going over to Pimlico to her people. She had to have something to buck her up, and all she could think of was the pictures and some sweets. She decided to be extravagant and go to the Capitol, to which she had never been, and she bought four ounces of Italian Cream (for which she had a passion dating from childhood) on the way.
It was a tremendous extravagance, as she knew you could not get into the Capitol under one-and-six, but she was beyond caring about extravagance, and she had to have some distraction.
In her bag she still had her unposted letter to Mr. Eccles. That was why she dreaded going to Pimlico so much; for there she would be plied with further wretchedly hopeful questions about the Gentleman, and pressure might be put upon her which would cloud her judgment. She had to decide this matter by herself, but she still had no idea whether she was going to post the letter or not, or what she was going to do if she did not. Perhaps she would decide in the Cinema.
She had no sooner entered the imposing, lavishly mirrored portals of the Capitol than she had a feeling that her impulse to entertain herself had been a mistaken one. She bought her one-and-sixpenny seat, getting the impression that the uniformed staff and invisible dispenser of tickets at the office would have preferred her to have spent even more than that, and she was taken to a seat in the first six rows. Here she was with a few odd people and children, and she tried to concentrate upon the show and enjoy her Italian Cream.
But although this was very nice, she had to be careful not to make herself sick, and she soon found her mind wandering and her heart sinking. It sank in sudden unexpected lurches, which left a slow ache behind. When it sank like this, it did it either for no reason at all, or at some little memory or thought of Bob – of Bob now on the high seas, of Bob smacking Eric’s head, of Bob sending his ‘love,’ or Bob taking her to the pictures himself, and to tea afterwards, in those warm friendly days when she had no idea of the desolation that was to befall – of Bob this and Bob that – Bob all the time. It was no good. He had struck, as it were, a blow upon her soul which had been transmitted to her physical being – a feeling which she could definitely locate in the region of her diaphragm, and which nothing could alleviate.
Moreover she had come in in the middle of a picture, and the children behind her kept on kicking her in the back. Each time those sudden love-sick lurches came, she felt she could barely keep still, but must get up and walk away somewhere – but where? However, she manfully stuck it out for an hour and a quarter. Then, after a succession of lurches increasing in pain and frequency, as though the ship of her lovelorn condition had entered even rougher water, together with a cold feeling all over her body, she sprang impulsively from her seat and left the theatre.
But you cannot walk away from sorrow like that. And in any case there is nothing in the world more dreary, damping, and obscurely perturbing than to come out of a cinema in the afternoon to a noisy world. And she did not want any tea, or know where she was going. And it was bitterly cold again, with the wind in the east. She walked into Lower Regent Street and up towards Piccadilly.
And in the murky dusk of evening, it was a turbulent and terrifying spectacle which met her eyes and smote her ears. She had never seen so many desperate buses, and blocked cars, and swarming people, in her life. In all the teeming, roaring, grinding, belching, hooting, anxious-faced world of cement and wheels around her it really seemed as though things had gone too far. It seemed as though some climax had just been reached, that civilization was riding for a fall, that these days were certainly the last days of London, and that other dusks must soon gleam upon the broken chaos which must replace it.
And what place had she in it all? And where was she going now? Back to ‘The Midnight Bell’ to talk to Bob? No – no Bob ever again. The horrible New man – John – instead. At this thought her heart sank down again; she felt she was being drowned in the flood of passing people and savage traffic; and her soul cried out for aid in its darkness. Oddly enough it came.
‘Ella!’ came a voice from behind her, and she turned and was staring at Bob.
CHAPTER XXXIV
FOR A MOMENT they simply stared at each other, in the stream of people passing them each way, she looking with fright into his dark eyes, and he looking down at her with a sort of diffident concern and suspense.
‘Well, you, of all people. . . .’ he said. . . .
‘But, Bob, I thought you was gone to sea,’ she said.
She could say nothing else, seeing this strange, lovely and comforting ghost from a lost world.
‘No. I don’t go till next week,’ said Bob. ‘Well, this is fine. What’re you doing down here?’
‘I’ve been to the pictures,’ she said, like a scared child answering examination questions – so impressed, so awed was she by his presence.
‘Well, let’s go and have some tea,’ he said, taking her arm, and leading her away stupefied. ‘You’ve got time, haven’t you?’
‘Yes. There’s plenty of time.’
‘I know the times all right,’ said Bob, ‘I’ve cut it short enough plenty of times.’
‘So have I,’ said Ella, but she felt a bitter pang at this reference to their old companionship, in the fetters from which he was now mysterious
‘You’ve got more than half an hour,’ he said. They were now in Piccadilly itself, and she had no idea where he was leading her.
‘But, Bob, why did you leave so sudden?’ she said.
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ he said. ‘I was waiting for the chance you know. An’ it just come along.’
‘But you ought to have let me know, Bob. I was ever so hurt.’
‘Were you? I’m sorry Ella. I hoped you would be in that day. I was going to write to you in any case.’
‘Oh, Bob, you weren’t!’
‘Yes, I was, Ella. Honest.’ And he seemed so sincere and friendly as he looked down on her, that she almost believed him.
‘I wouldn’t forget you,’ said Bob. ‘Let’s go down here.’
And he led her into the doorway of a little lunch-and-tea restaurant which was reached down some dark stairs.
There was only one other customer in the dimly-lit, fancifully decorated little dive, and they sat at a small table covered with a red, checkered cloth. They were served by a lady-like looking person in green. The one other customer left, and she was alone with Bob. So in these strange surroundings, and at so strange a time of day, she had been destined to spend her last moments with the man she loved.
‘But where are you going, Bob?’ she said, as they waited for their tea.
‘Me?’ said Bob, ‘I’m going to Iceland first of all.’ And he smiled at the oddity of his destination. ‘We’re sailing Wednesday.’
‘Iceland, Bob? What a funny place.’
‘Yes. I have been to most places, but I never been up there. But it’ll all be new. I was very lucky to get it.’
‘Of course I suppose I’ve never really thought of you as a sailor, Bob.’
‘No?’ said Bob, and their tea came. ‘You be mother,’ he said, and she poured it out.
‘But when did you decide, Bob?’
‘Oh, I don’t know. It’s been on my mind a long time. I wasn’t doing much good here.’
‘Weren’t you?’
‘No. It wasn’t leading anywhere. And maybe I wasn’t cut out to be a landsman.’
‘Weren’t you?’ And as she stared at him it seemed that there was some truth in this, for he seemed now, to her fond eyes, like some creature that belonged neither to land nor sea, but to some beautiful and remote plane above mortality.
‘Is that clock right?’ she said. ‘I mustn’t be late.’
‘No. It’s fast. You’ve got ten minutes or more.’
Ten more minutes, and she was never to see him again. A feeling of coldness came over her, and her hand trembled as she lifted her cup to drink. Friendly and sympathetic as he was, he had no idea of her state. How could he? She suddenly remembered how the Mrs. had once remarked that ‘the girls would all be after Bob,’ and she saw how perfectly true this was. Any girl with eyes in her head would be after him. How then had she, a plain insignificant girl without any of the resources of others, ever dared hope to that she might make an impression upon so unique and shining a being?
‘Then what are you doing with yourself at the moment, Bob?’
‘Oh. I’m making do. It’s only a few days now.’
She did not press her questions, as it was too painful. But she could not help wondering about the whereabouts and present mode of life of this unusual character wandering alone about London, and loved so dearly by her.
‘You left all your books behind.’
‘Did I? I believe I did.’
‘Don’t you want them?’
‘No – I don’t want them.’
‘Not all your wonderful History books?’
‘No. I don’t want them. You have them as a present from me.’
‘Thanks, Bob. I’m in your room now, you know.’
‘Oh – are you? I’m glad of that. You always wanted that room, didn’t you.’
‘Did I? I used to hear you moving about at night.’
‘Did you? I used to hear you sometimes.’
‘They’ve got the new man in my room, now.’
She knew she was exacerbating and tearing at her wound, but she could not stop herself. She had never had any idea that she loved him like this. As she looked at him now, in these last few moments, it seemed that he was transfigured with almost unholy attractiveness – physical attractiveness – that was the point – sheer physical attractiveness. It was at that moment, perhaps, that she made up her mind about Mr. Eccles. For she had a glimpse, forsaken as she was, of something in Bob and in the depths of her own being which put Mr. Eccles on a level of sacrilege to which she could not, with her youth still on her, descend.
‘Have they?’ said Bob. ‘What’s he like?’
‘Oh, he’s all right. Not as nice as you.’
‘Well – I’m glad of that.’
‘Nor as nice looking.’
‘Well – that’s good too.’
‘Oh, Bob, you shouldn’t have gone and done it,’ she said, her heart at last speaking.
‘I’m sorry, Ella. But there’ve got to be changes everywhere, haven’t there.’
She could stand this no longer. ‘Come on, Bob,’ she said. ‘Let’s go.’ And she rose.
It was darker and colder than ever outside, and they had to walk into Regent Street, where he was going to see her on to her bus. He took her arm as they walked along, and they had very little to say. She was only just keeping her teeth from chattering and she had an extraordinary feeling as though he was leading her along in the crowd not to her bus but to her execution, silently sympathetic with her bravery, himself moved by her ordeal. Perhaps he knew after all. And, indeed, it was a form of execution, for her farewell to him was going into the darkness for ever from the shining yet unattainable world she had glimpsed.
‘Will you write, Bob?’ she said.
‘Yes. I’ll write. If you’ll answer.’
‘Oh – I’ll answer all right,’ said Ella. ‘And talking of writing –’ she added, and opened her bag and looked for her letter to Mr. Eccles.
‘Yes?’ said Bob.
‘You might post this for me, Bob,’ she said, and she felt she formally handed him the tribute of her love.
Bob looked at the address. ‘Mr. Eccles – eh?’ he said. ‘Is he still as mad about you?’
‘Maybe he is. I don’t know.’
‘You just haven’t any use for him?’
‘No. He was too old, after all, Bob. And I am young, aren’t I?’
‘Of course you are.’
‘And he was ever so silly, too. Look, Bob, that’s my bus if I run for it.’
‘Yes, it is. Perhaps you’d better. . . .’
They began to run. ‘All right, Bob. Don’t you worry. You write. And don’t forget to post that letter.’
‘No. I won’t . . . Well, good-bye, Ella.’ The bus had stopped and the people were getting off and on.
‘Good-bye, Bob. . . You must kiss me, you know, as it’s good-bye for good.’
And with an effrontery which she marvelled at afterwards, she put up her face, and kissed him.
‘Good-bye, Ella.’
‘Good-bye, Bob.’
With these words in her ears, she was climbing the steps of the bus, which was already snarling away, and she did not look back to see him wave.
It was a rather pale, but as ever neat and spruce Ella, who came down to the bar that evening to begin her work, and no one would have suspected her of being any less cheerful than usual, as the customers came in and ordered their drinks. It was ‘Good evening, Miss’ or ‘Good evening, Ella,’ and ‘Good evening, Sir’ or ‘Good evening, Mr. Er –’ just as usual. They all came in telling her how cold it was, and she agreed, shudderingly clasping her hands and smiling.
Not that her customers ever suspected her of having any private worries – or even of any private thoughts. And not that they would have been impressed by them if they did. They would have known unconsciously that the vast total burden of life