Five Windows

by D. E. Stevenson

  One of my duties was to keep Mr. Penman’s desk tidy. I filled his fountain pens every morning—one with black ink and the other with red—and I put out clean blotting-paper. The job had been Ullenwood’s before I came but apparently he had not bothered much about it. I had no idea of this of course and nothing was said openly but I happened to overhear a snatch of conversation between the two friends which showed how the land lay.

  “ All that fuss about the old man’s desk! ” exclaimed Ullenwood scornfully. “ It makes me sick to see him trying to worm his way into Penman’s good graces.”

  “ Trying! ” echoed Wrigson. “ He’s succeeding. Penman thinks he’s the cat’s whiskers … so keen! ”

  They both laughed.

  That was all I heard but it was quite enough and it upset me a good deal. In a way it was true, for I was trying very hard to please Mr. Penman and to earn his good opinion … but surely this was no more than my duty. It was what I was paid for. I thought it over as I walked back to Mrs. Hall’s and wondered if there were any way of justifying myself—but of course there was not. If I tried to explain my view to Wrigson and Ullenwood they would think me more of a prig than ever and in any case I could not attempt to explain without telling them that I had overheard their conversation.

  As I was the junior clerk it fell to my lot to do the messages; to deliver a letter and wait for a reply or to collect a parcel for Mr. Heatley. This was another grievance to Ullenwood who had enjoyed an occasional break in office work. He suggested to Mr. Penman that he should continue to be the office errand-boy.

  “ Kirke doesn’t know his way about, sir,” explained Ullenwood. “ It will take him ages to find the place.”

  “ If it takes him longer than you I shall be surprised,” replied Mr. Penman dryly. “ Kirke can ask his way, I suppose.”

  It certainly was not easy to find my way about London but the policemen were helpful. There they stood like rocks in a sea of traffic, directing it with efficiency, and at the same time they were able to give me clear and detailed instructions as to how best to reach my destination by tube or bus.

  Ned Mottram had said, “ Wait till you’ve been here a week.” Long before I had been a week in London I had begun to think I could not bear it … and yet I knew I must. This was the life I had chosen for myself so I must make the best of it. Somehow or other I managed to write home cheerfully in answer to Mother’s anxious inquiries as to how I was getting on.

  The worst of my troubles was loneliness. I had not a single friend nor any prospect of making one. The jostling crowds surged past me on the pavements (hordes of people chattering to one another) but I knew nobody and nobody knew me or cared whether I lived or died. If Miles had been here it would have been entirely different. We could have talked about our experiences and had jokes together. If Miles had been here I would not have minded what Wrigson and Ullenwood thought. If Miles had been here … but Miles had let me down and I had never been so lonely in my life.

  There was Ned Mottram of course—and I must admit that he seemed willing to be friendly—but although he talked to me a great deal he was interested only in himself and his own affairs. He did not want to hear what I had been doing; all he wanted was to tell me what he had done. I found this unsatisfactory; it was one-sided to say the least of it.

  The other boarders at Mrs. Hall’s had much the same mentality; one after another they managed to get me alone and proceeded to pour out their troubles. Mr. Owen was discontented with the World. The World had treated him badly. Why should he have to work hard, day in and day out, while other people lived at ease on money they had not earned? Mr. Owen could talk for hours on end about the Unfairness of the World and it was difficult to escape from him. Mr. Kensey was miserable because nobody wanted him. His son was married and lived at St. Albans with his wife and family; they were only a few miles away but Mr. Kensey scarcely ever saw them. They had a nice big house and Mr. Kensey had offered to go and live with them and share expenses, but they did not want him. Nobody wanted you when you were old, said Mr. Kensey. It was dreadful to be old; you were just a nuisance and better dead.

  Miss Bulwer was unhappy too. The secretary at the typewriting office where she worked had a down on her and took every opportunity of being rude and disagreeable. If anything went wrong it was Miss Bulwer who was blamed. She suffered acutely from indigestion and no doctor was able to help her. Sometimes she felt she could not carry on—but what was she to do? Miss Bulwer told me about her childhood; her parents had been well-off and had brought her up in luxury. She had never expected to have to work for her living.

  “ It was the Slump,” explained Miss Bulwer. “ Father was a stockbroker, you see. He lost everything in that dreadful Slump. He was so shattered by his misfortunes that he died, and Mother died soon afterwards. When the house was sold most of the money went to pay off the debts; there was just enough left for me to take a course in shorthand and typewriting.”

  I said I was sorry. It seemed inadequate, but there was nothing else to say.

  Mrs. Hall was always complaining. She complained about “ the girl ” who helped her in the house; she complained about her “ guests ”; she complained that food was expensive. “ You’ve no idea what I have to put up with,” Mrs. Hall declared. “ If only I could give up this place and retire! I wouldn’t mind living in one room. I do my best to make my guests comfortable and what thanks do I get? There’s nothing but grumbles. There’s no gratitude for all I do. You needn’t expect gratitude in this world, Mr. Kirke. You needn’t expect kindness or consideration. It’s a ’ard world for people that ’as to make their own living—a ’ard cruel world.”

  Madame Futrelle complained about the weather. She compared London with “ Paree ” and declared that she could hardly bear her exile. The people in London were “ ’orrible.” So shabby, they were, so wanting in “ chic,” so mean and stingy. As for her assistants there was not one she could trust. Directly her back was turned they became slack and disinterested.

  I listened to them all and sympathised as best I could. I was very sorry for them. In fact I was so sorry for them that their troubles upset me. They were all unhappy but I could do nothing to help them. Nobody could help them. Perhaps the worst part of it was their unkindness to one another—yes, that was the worst. I had never before met people like this: people who were bitter and unkind and hopeless, people who had no happiness in life nor any expectation of happiness. Sometimes as I walked home from the office through the streets I looked up at the rows and rows of dingy houses and wondered if they were all full of miserable people. It became a sort of nightmare to me.

  The boarding-house was dirty and uncomfortable; the food was wretched and badly cooked. There was no privacy. If I wanted to read I had to go up to my room—and my room was cold and dreary. Mrs. Hall was inquisitive, she pried into everything. One day I found her looking through the drawers of my dressing-table (she pretended she was “ tidying up ”) and another day when I came in she was examining a letter which was waiting for me on the hall table, holding it up to the light and trying to see through the envelope.

  “ Oh! This is for you, Mr. Kirke! ” she exclaimed, handing it to me. “ It’s from your mother, isn’t it? ”

  I hated to see her pawing Mother’s letter with her dirty hands. After that I wrote and told Mother that I wanted all my letters sent to the office; it was more convenient, I said.

  One evening I got back earlier than usual and found Beryl Collingham sitting in the lounge. So far I had not had much opportunity of speaking to her except when we met on the stairs and said “ Good morning.”

  “ Hallo! ” she said, looking up from the paper she was reading. “ You’re early to-night, aren’t you? How are you getting on? ”

  “ All right, thank you,” I told her.

  “ I was wondering if you were feeling lonely.”

  “ A bit,” I replied. “ I haven’t any friends in London. I expect I shall get to know people in time.”


  “ You won’t. London is different from a small place where you bump into people and get to know all about them. I was very lonely when I came here first.”

  “ Were you? ”

  She nodded. “ I tell you what. Shall we go out and have supper together instead of having it here? It would be a change, wouldn’t it? ”

  “ Yes,” I said. “ Yes, why shouldn’t we? ”

  “ Every reason why we should! ” she cried, springing up from the chair. “ I’ll go and get my coat.”

  As I waited for her in the hall I began to be a little dubious about the expedition. Would Ned mind? But what could I have done? I could hardly have refused to take her out to supper … and I did not want to refuse. It would be a pleasant change from the dreary atmosphere of the boarding-house.

  “ This is fun! ” cried Beryl as she came running down the stairs. “ I know a nice little restaurant in Soho. We’ll go there, shall we? I think you’d like it. The food is quite good and it isn’t expensive.”

  The restaurant was called The Three Lamplighters; it was quite a small place in a back street but it was comfortable and, as Beryl had said, the food was good. We ate and talked. My companion was pretty and gay, she was enjoying herself and so was I.

  “ You must call me Beryl,” she said. “ Everyone calls me Beryl. It sounds so funny when you say Miss Collingham—it sounds old and dowdy. I’m not old and dowdy, am I? ”

  “ No, Beryl,” I said. “ You’re young and pretty.”

  We laughed.

  “ You’re funny, David,” she said. “ You’re different. Why are you different, I wonder? ”

  “ Different from what? ”

  “ From the others, of course. Different from Ned and Harry and all the others. I mean of course you are. For instance if I’d said to Harry that he was different he’d have come back at me with some silly nonsense, but you just said ‘ Different from what? ’ When you say a thing you mean it.”

  “ That’s true.”

  “ Why do you? ”

  “ Because I’ve never learned to talk. It’s a thing you have to learn.”

  “ Don’t learn. You’re nice as you are,” said Beryl, smiling.

  “ I feel an awful ass sometimes.”

  “ We all do! ” she cried. “ It doesn’t matter as long as you don’t look an ass.”

  “ Well, perhaps,” I said. “ But sometimes when I’m with a lot of people and they’re all talking and making jokes I feel like an uncle.”

  “ Oh David, you are a scream! ”

  “ I do, honestly,” I told her. “ Perhaps it’s because I haven’t any brothers or sisters. I’ve always been with people a lot older than myself.”

  “ Have you got a girl friend? ” inquired Beryl.

  “ There’s Freda of course.”

  “ Tell me about Freda.”

  “ We’re just friends,” I explained. “ There’s no silly nonsense about Freda.”

  “ What on earth do you mean! ”

  “ I mean we’re not in love with each other or anything like that. Freda and I have always been friends just as if she were a boy.”

  “ Is she pretty? ”

  “ Yes—yes, she is,” I replied, thinking of Freda. “ She has dark curly hair and brown eyes. Yes, she’s very pretty, but she doesn’t bother about her looks.”

  “ She must be a queer girl! ”

  “ Not really,” I replied, smiling. “ Of course she’s quite different from you. I couldn’t imagine anybody falling in love with Freda.”

  Beryl laughed. “ Oh, David! That means you could imagine somebody falling in love with me, doesn’t it? ”

  “ Well, there’s Ned. I don’t need to imagine it, do I? ”

  “ Oh—Ned! ” said Beryl. “ Yes, of course. Poor Ned, he’s rather a nuisance sometimes. Of course he’s better than nothing; but you know, between you and me, he’s so selfish. He thinks of nobody but himself.”

  “ He thinks of you.”

  “ Not properly,” said Beryl, frowning. “ I mean he only thinks of me because I mean something to him. He doesn’t think of me as a real person. It’s difficult to explain but I know what I mean.”

  I knew what she meant, too.

  “ He never wants to know things about me,” continued Beryl. “ He always wants to tell me about himself.”

  “ Yes, he is rather like that, but he’s very fond of you.”

  She nodded. “ I know—but what’s the good? ”

  “ What’s the good? ” I echoed in surprise.

  “ He’ll never be anything. He’ll never make any money. A man like that isn’t any good to a girl.”

  I was dumb with amazement.

  “ Oh, David! ” she cried. “ Oh, David, I wish you could see your face! You’re shocked. What a funny boy you are! I suppose you’ve been brought up on romantic novels.”

  “ No,” I said. “ It’s just a new idea to me, that’s all. I’ve never been in love, but I’ve always thought if you were really in love you wouldn’t mind about anything except the other person.”

  Beryl sighed. She said, “ Perhaps you’re right. Perhaps I’ve never been in love either.”

  We talked about all sorts of things. I am afraid I did most of the talking for it was a delightful change to find somebody who was interested in what I had to say. It was a delightful change from the role of listener which I had played ever since I came to London. When I looked at Beryl she smiled and nodded. “ Yes,” she said. “ Yes, David, I feel like that too. Tell me more, David. Tell me about your home.”

  It was late when we rose from the table. The waiter brought the bill and to tell the truth it startled me considerably. Beryl had said The Three Lamplighters was not expensive, so I had not bothered. We had had a very good dinner and a bottle of Italian wine, Beryl had had a peach and some cigarettes. I did not grudge the money for I had enjoyed it and fortunately I had just received my week’s salary so I had enough on me to pay the bill. I comforted myself by the reflection that I could easily draw some money out of the Savings Bank to pay Mrs. Hall. It did not matter for once in a way.

  “ It’s been lovely,” said Beryl as we came out into the narrow dark street. “ You’re a pet and I’ve enjoyed it terribly. Let’s do this again often.”

  “ Yes,” I said doubtfully. “ The only thing is——”

  “ Oh, David, haven’t you enjoyed it? ”

  “ Yes, of course, but you see——”

  “ It’s good for people to enjoy themselves,” said Beryl earnestly. “ Life is a bit drab, isn’t it? Look at Miss Bulwer and Mr. Kensey and all of them! They go on day after day getting older and drearier. They give me a pain in the neck. What’s the good of being alive if you never have any fun? ”

  I had been wondering the same thing myself.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Christmas came and went. Mrs. Hall provided turkey and plum-pudding and Mr. Owen a box of crackers but in spite of these seasonable luxuries there was no jollity in the boarding-house and a singular absence of good will. To me it was a travesty of Christmas and I was thankful when it was over and normal conditions were resumed.

  Ned and I left the boarding-house at the same time every morning and as our ways lay in the same direction we had made a habit of walking together. It was his choice rather than mine for I found Ned a depressing companion and although I needed a friend badly I knew that I could never be really friendly with Ned. To be friends with a person you must be able to share his interests and he must be able to share yours. Ned’s interests were different from mine and he did not care a brass pin what my interests were. In addition, Ned was an inveterate borrower. He was always “ on the rocks.” He was constantly borrowing half a crown and rarely found it convenient to pay me back. Money was pretty tight with me and I had very little to come and go on, so half a crown meant a good deal, but somehow I could not refuse Ned. The odd thing was I could have refused quite easily if I had liked him better. I felt I ought to like Ned. He seemed
to like me and because I could not return his liking I was unable to refuse him the half-crowns.

  One morning we set out together as usual. It was a bright sunshiny morning, the sort of morning when Haines would be looking perfectly beautiful; I could not help thinking about it and wishing I were there. As a matter of fact I preferred dull rainy weather, it made me feel less homesick.

  “ I say, David,” said Ned. “ It’s Beryl’s birthday on Saturday and we’re having a beano. Would you like to come? ”

  “ It’s very kind of you, but——”

  “ But what? ”

  “ I’m not very good at parties. Besides I wouldn’t know anybody, would I? ”

  “ It isn’t a big party. There’ll be six of us, that’s all.”

  “ I don’t think I’ll come, Ned.”

  “ Nonsense, of course you must come. We’re going to a hotel near Richmond; it’s a frightfully good place. A fellow I know told me about it, he said it was absolutely tip-top.”

  “ Well, if you’re sure you really want me——”

  “ Of course we want you! ” he cried. “ You must come, old boy.”

  “ All right. It’s very kind of you,” I said. After all, it would be a change. If they really wanted me it seemed stupid and ungrateful to refuse.

  “ Good! ” exclaimed Ned. “ That’s fixed then. Beryl will be pleased; she wants you to come.”

  “ How do you get there? ” I asked.

  “ Oh, that’s all right. I can easily get the loan of a car. I’ll get one that will take us all—you don’t need to worry about that. The only thing is, I wondered if you’d mind paying something towards the dinner, would you? It’s a bit odd to ask you to come to a party and help to pay for it, but—well——” said Ned, looking at me anxiously. “ The fact is I’m a bit short of cash. I told you I’d had a run of bad luck lately, didn’t I? ”