Hangover Square

by Patrick Hamilton

  It just was that he wished to God he could remember what he had been doing and what he had been thinking.

  Chapter Four

  The train, rattling in gentle unison with his thoughts as it slid over the surface of the cold, flat, Boxing-Day bungalow-land of this portion of the coast, began to slow down, and then stopped at its first stop, Heacham.

  There was a gloomy pause. Then the handle of his door was rudely and ruthlessly seized, and a cold woman, seeming to bring with her all the pain and bleakness of the Norfolk winter outside, violated his centrally-heated thought-closet.

  She was apparently of the servant class, and as soon as she had entered she lowered the window and began talking volubly to a friend on the platform, who had come to see her off. This woman on the platform wore no hat, he noticed, in spite of the cold; but instead of that she wore a hair-net over her hair. He looked at this hair-net with dull misery in his heart. Even after the train had started, and the woman had vanished, he retained a picture of the hair-net, and wondered why it made him miserable, why he hated the woman for wearing it, why he obscurely felt she had been giving him cause for resentment.

  Net… It dawned on him. Of course, that was it. Net. Which equalled Netta… He had been quite right; the woman had been hurting him: she had been trying, all the time as she talked to her friend, to remind him of Netta.

  Oh dear – these horrible off-hand strangers, who knew nothing of Netta, who would care nothing about Netta even if they did, but who yet had the power to remind him of Netta, and obscurely torture him by wearing hair-nets!…

  Netta. Nets. Netta. A perfectly commonplace name. In fact, if it did not happen to belong to her, and if he did not happen to adore her, a dull, if not rather stupid and revolting name. Entirely unromantic – spinsterish, mean – like Ethel, or Minnie. But because it was hers look what had gone and happened to it! He could not utter it, whisper it, think of it without intoxication, without dizziness, without anguish. It was incredibly, inconceivably lovely – as incredibly and inconceivably lovely as herself. It was unthinkable that she could have been called anything else. It was loaded, overloaded with voluptuous yet subtle intimations of her personality. Netta. The tangled net of her hair – the dark net – the brunette. The net in which he was caught – netted. Nettles. The wicked poison-nettles from which had been brewed the potion which was in his blood. Stinging nettles. She stung and wounded him with words from her red mouth. Nets. Fishing-nets. Mermaid’s nets. Bewitchment. Syrens – the unearthly beauty of the sea. Nets. Nest. To nestle. To nestle against her. Rest. Breast. In her net. Netta. You could go on like that for ever – all the way back to London.

  But if you weren’t in love with her – what then? Net profit? 2s. 6d. Net? Nestlé’s Milk Chocolate? Presumably. But in that case, of course, you wouldn’t think about it at all. It was only because you were crazy about her you went on like this. So crazy that your heart sank when you saw your own shoes, or looked at a woman wearing a hair-net on Heacham station.

  Crazy. Perhaps he was really crazy – dotty. With these awful ‘dead’ moods of his – twenty-four-hour slices of life concerning which he remembered nothing – you could hardly call him normal. But he had been into all that and decided there was nothing to worry about. No. He was sane enough. If you didn’t count the ‘dead’ moods, he was sane enough. In fact he was probably too sane, too normal. If only he was a little more erratic, if only he had a little fire, a little originality or audacity, it might have been a different story. A different story with Netta and all along the line.

  He was, of course, completely without ambition. He wasn’t like Netta. He didn’t want to hang about film people and theatre people and try to make a lot of money easily. He didn’t want anything, except Netta. She, of course, would hoot with laughter if she knew what he really wanted. He wanted a cottage in the country – yes, a good old cottage in the country – and he wanted Netta as his wife. No children. Just Netta – and to live with her happily and quietly ever afterwards. He would love her, physically love her, even when she was old. He was certain of that, though sophistication condemned the idea as absurd. She was, to him, so utterly different from any other girl that the thought of tiring of her physically was unimaginable.

  And how she would jeer at him if she knew this was what he wanted – how they would all jeer at him. ‘I believe poor old George,’ he could hear Peter saying, ‘wants you to go down into the country and be a milk-maid or something.’ And yet he wouldn’t mind betting that half the men who were, or had been, in love with Netta wanted very little else – the trouble was they wouldn’t admit it.

  But they could hide it successfully – which was what, apparently, he couldn’t do. Maybe that was because they didn’t feel it as deeply, want it as badly, as he did. He couldn’t hide it. He had no illusions about himself: he knew exactly what she and all that Earl’s Court gang thought of him. They saw him as a poor, dumb, adoring, obvious, cow-like appendage to Netta – ever-present or ever-turning up. And then there were his ‘dead’ moods, which were a popular joke – a ‘scream’. Dead-from-the-neck-upwards – that was him. Somebody you could really dismiss with easy conviction as an awful fool – a b.f. It was like that at school from Mr Thome onwards: it was like that now.

  And yet he wasn’t such a fool, either. They thought him silly, but he had his own thoughts, and maybe he thought them silly too. They wouldn’t think of that, of course: it wouldn’t cross their minds. But he had his thoughts all the same. He saw much more than they thought he saw. They would get the shock of their lives if they knew how he could see through them at times – how transparent they were, for all their saloon-bar nonchalance and sophistication.

  He could see through them, and, of course, he hated them. He even hated Netta too – he had known that for a long time. He hated Netta, perhaps, most of all. The fact that he was crazy about her physically, that he worshipped the ground she trod on and the air she breathed, that he could think of nothing else in the world all day long, had nothing to do with the underlying stream of scorn he bore towards her as a character. You might say he wasn’t really ‘in love’ with her: he was ‘in hate’ with her. It was the same thing – just looking at his obsession from the other side. He was netted in hate just as he was netted in love. Netta: Netta: Netta!… God – how he loved her!

  He hated himself, too. He didn’t pretend to be any better. He hated himself for the life he led – the life in common with them. Drunken, lazy, impecunious, neurotic, arrogant, pub-crawling cheap lot of swine – that was what they all were. Including him and Netta. She was an awful little drunk, though she had a marvellous head. She never got up till half-past twelve: just chain-smoked in bed till it was time to drop over and into the nearest pub (only she had to have a man to take her over, because she didn’t want to be taken for a prostitute). And she was the daughter of a clergyman in Somerset. Now deceased!

  When you met in the morning all you talked about was last night – how ‘blind’ you were, how ‘blind’ Mickey was, my God, you bet he had a hangover. (‘Taking a little stroll round Hangover Square’ – that was Mickey’s crack.) So-and-so might have been ‘comparatively sober’, etc., etc. And when you had had a lot more to drink you felt fine again, and went crashing round to lunch upstairs at the ‘Black Hart’ (the table by the fire) where you ragged the pale waiter and called attention to yourselves. (Of course the trades people and commercial gents stared at Netta because she was so lovely and striking.)

  He hated it and was sick of it. How long had it been going on? Over a year now – he had known Netta over a year. And when would it ever stop? Never, of course. So long as Netta willed it, so long as she chose to live the life she was living now, never. In the early days he still thought of getting a job in spite of her, still hoped that something would turn up, that he would somehow get his life straight again. But he had given up all hope of that now. He wouldn’t look at a job – he couldn’t look at one. In that matter he was atrophied. What! – get
a job and not be on the spot in the mornings to take her over for her drinks? Get a job and leave her to Mickey and Peter all the day!

  And yet he wasn’t such a fool even here. He wasn’t utterly improvident like they were. He had still got a bit of his mother’s money left. He had got three hundred pounds in War Loan and seventy-eight pounds twelve and threepence above that in current account. That wasn’t much, when it was all you had against starvation, but if he could five down to four pounds a week (and he somehow did manage, or nearly manage, to do this in spite of everything) it would keep you going a long while. Keep you going until all this Netta business somehow ended, if it ever somehow did – keep you going till you somehow got a job again, if you ever somehow did. He was never going to touch that three hundred pounds if he could help it, and he was going to go on living down to four pounds a week. Two pounds a week for living, two pounds for drinks and smokes and Netta. (And ten pounds extra now, to spend all on smokes and drinks and Netta!)

  They, of course, would yell at this providence of his – regard it as meanly cautious, middle-class, poor-spirited, all part of his general ‘dumbness’. It was one of their greatest boasts, one of their major affectations, that they were always broke, always ‘touching’ people – that you would go out and spend your last twelve shillings on a bottle of gin rather than get in groceries. They thought this was clever, and that he was less clever than them. But actually he was one cleverer, because he could see what affectation it was on their part – he could see through them. He was one ahead of them, not one behind.

  Not that any of them knew anything in a concrete way about his money. They only knew that he tried to live down to a regular something every week, and despised him as a hoarder. But that was not going to stop him.

  It wasn’t much, but if it got too low he could live on less, spin it out till something happened, till something turned up.

  Till something turned up! What a hope. What could ever turn up now? The year was dying, dead – what had next year, 1939, in store for him? Netta, drinks and smokes – drinks, smokes, Netta. Or a war. What if there was a war? Yes – if nothing else turned up, a war might.

  A filthy idea, but what if a war was what he was waiting for? That might put a stop to it all. They might get him – he might be conscripted away from drinks, and smokes, and Netta. At times he could find it in his heart to hope for a war – bloody business as it all was.

  But now, according to them, according to Netta and Peter, there wasn’t going to be a war at all. They knew all about it, or were supposed to. But he wasn’t such a fool here, either – he could see how their minds worked, with what facility they turned their ignominious desires into beliefs. He hadn’t fallen for all this ‘I think it is peace in our time’ stuff. But they had – hadn’t they just! They went raving mad, they weren’t sober for a whole week after Munich – it was just in their line. They liked Hitler, really. They didn’t hate him, anyway. They liked Musso, too. And how they cheered old Umbrella! Oh yes, it was their cup of tea all right, was Munich.

  But it wasn’t his. He didn’t know much about politics, he didn’t know as much as them (not to talk about, anyway), but he knew that Munich was a phoney business. Fine for an Earl’s Court binge, but a phoney business, however much you talked. Shame, that was all he had felt, shame which he couldn’t analyse. He had felt it all the time they were getting drunk – in fact he had hardly been able to drink at all himself. He was so ashamed he could hardly look at the pictures… All grinning, shaking hands, frock-coats, top-hats, uniforms, car-rides, cheers – it was like a sort of super-fascist wedding or christening. (Peter, of course, was a fascist, or had been at one time – used to go about Chelsea in a uniform.) And then home again, news-reels, balconies, ‘I think it is peace in our time,’ Mrs Chamberlain the first lady of the land… He was ashamed then, and he was still ashamed.

  ‘Peace in our time’… Well, we would see. We would see a lot of things… His thoughts flowed on, stopping temporarily and looking outwards, through the window, at each station the train stopped at, then sliding inwards and onwards as the train slid on. Darkness slowly fell, and the train slid on towards London in the night of Boxing Day, 1938. Steam collected on the window, which he rubbed away with his hand, seeing nothing but a blotchy yellow reflection of himself, and the yellow compartment in which he did his thinking.

  Chapter Five

  The wheels and track clicked out the familiar and unmistakable rhythm – the sly, gentle, suggestive rhythm, unlike any of its others, of a train entering a major London terminus, and he was filled with unease and foreboding as he always was by this sound. Thought and warmth must give place to action in cold streets – reality, buses, tubes, booking-offices, life again, electric-lit London, endless terrors.

  Oh dear! – here we were – here was the platform under the huge roof – hollow, hellish echoing noises as in a swimming-bath, and the porters lined up for the attack – no getting out of it now! Foreboding gave place almost to panic. Liverpool Street. Where was he going? What was his plan of campaign? He realized he had made none. He was going along to Netta’s of course, but would she be there? She had said she would, but only in an off-hand way. She never said she’d be anywhere save in an off-hand way. Boxing Night! Of course, she wouldn’t be there! She would go out somewhere on Boxing Night, Peter would take her out! She’d be out dancing – people danced on Boxing Night – out with Peter doing God knows what. What was he to do if he found she was gone? This was terrible. He must get over there at once, and find out the worst.

  He let the other people get out of the compartment and then rose and stretched his arms up to put The Bar 20 Rides Again back into his suitcase on the rack. ‘Porter, sir?’ – ‘No, thanks. I can manage, thanks.’ The man went off in a hurt silence. Unpleasant. He stepped on to the platform.

  What now? It was half past six. Underground? Central London, and then change at Nothing Hill? Unthinkable! In his present state of suspense he couldn’t bear it. It must be a taxi. That was what the ten pounds was for, wasn’t it? But where to? Straight to Netta’s, or back to his hotel first, to leave his bag? Yes, he’d better go to his hotel first. He could have a wash there, and then stroll round to Netta’s, fairly composed and clean.

  He walked out of the station, and got a floating taxi outside the Great Eastern Hotel. ‘I want to go to Earl’s Court. Do you know Fauconberg Square?’ ‘Yessir!’ – ‘Well, it’s the Fauconberg Hotel – you’ll find it.’ – ‘Yessir – rightsir!’ The man bent down his meter with cheerful briskness, and by his delighted, amiable demeanour, cancelled the unpleasantness of the hurt porter on the platform. The toilers were on his side again.

  The City was mauve, misty, empty, cold. Boxing Day. In less than a minute, it seemed, they were jogging and rattling past the Bank. They wouldn’t be long at this rate. The lights were going nicely with them to – shining out with brilliant friendliness like bottles in a chemist’s shop.

  He was an awful fool to be taking a taxi like this. It was all very well to say he had that ten pounds, but he wouldn’t have it if he went on like this. This would be six bob at least – probably seven with the tip. Nearly half of one of your ten pounds gone already!

  Why had he taken a taxi! Why did he get into ‘states’ like this? He had suddenly got into a state of panic because he had thought Netta might not be in her flat, and he couldn’t wait to find out, couldn’t stand a train with a change. But what did it matter if Netta wasn’t in her flat? There was tomorrow, there was the day after, there was all next year. Why should he want to see Netta tonight? He wasn’t sure that he did want to see her: he would almost certainly go to bed happier if he didn’t. But he had got into a state and was rushing to her in a taxi. He was an awful fool.

  How empty and bleak the streets were, and how he loathed this shut, shuttered, super-Sunday – the Christmas Holiday. He supposed it was all right for people who had to work all the year: but it made him feel terrible. Thank God it would all be over tomo
rrow. And Boxing Day wasn’t quite as ghastly and Sundayish as Christmas Day. The pubs were open normally – none of that awful seven to ten business. In fact the pubs were open already. That was a good thought. As soon as he got inside a pub tonight, it would be all right. After that he had only to get home and to bed, and then wake up to a normal world again tomorrow.

  The fare came to six shillings and sixpence, and he gave a shilling to the man, who seemed to like it all right: he was obviously a cheerful man by nature. He went up the steps, and into the Fauconberg. He had to pass through the lounge on his way upstairs. It was all decorated for Christmas (he had forgotten that, although he had seen it decorated before he went away), and the only people about were some children who were trying to play blow-football (evidently a Christmas present) on one of the green baize tables normally used for bridge. He knew nobody in the little hotel – the large glorified boarding-house – and he did not mean to. He just slept in a small room at the top, and came down to breakfast when everyone else had gone. For the rest he slunk in and out,only exchanging the time of day with the gloomy porter.

  He did a bit of unpacking, and washed in the bathroom along the passage – there was only a jug and basin in his room. He came back and brushed his hair, peering into the wardrobe mirror in the pink light of the fly-blown bulb. He had some gin left in a quarter bottle, and poured a double into his tooth glass, adding water from the glass bottle. He polished his shoes with a light-brown, polish-smeared pad he had got from Woolworth’s.