Sixty-eight! Golf! How had he come to forget golf – the fact that he could play a game well – the fact that he was good at something, anyway?
Good at something. The thought brought Netta back. He hadn’t thought of her for three hours, and she was joining him tonight. What would she think of his sixty-eight? Nothing, of course. But it wasn’t nothing. He’d like to see Peter shoot a sixty-eight! Perhaps, tomorrow, she would come and play with him. Perhaps she would come and watch him play. She might… But it wasn’t the sixty-eight so much as the golf – the fresh air and sanity. What with his quiet night last night, he hadn’t felt so well for years. Why not take up golf and give up drinking? A holiday, a golfing holiday – that perhaps had been what he had wanted all the time. If he had had a holiday before he wouldn’t have got into such a mess. Now was the time to pull himself together. Yes. Now. Now or never.
And Netta joining him tonight. Alone with Netta, quietly for the first time in his life, and feeling well, on top of his form. Surely this moment had come, and everything was conspiring for his good. If only he could take the opportunity and keep calm. Like in golf, confidence and relaxation – that was all there was to it.
He wasn’t going to get drunk. She could drink if she wanted to, but he wasn’t going to – at least only a little. He was going to keep his head.
And then, if he couldn’t make any headway with her, he’d cut her out. For the first time since he had known her, he felt he could cut her out. He would play golf, and cut her out and start all over again.
But why cut her out? Hadn’t she been entirely charming to him recently, and wasn’t she joining him in the most delightful manner at a seaside resort? Why should a sane man talk of cutting her out? Wasn’t this the very moment when he might hope to get his way, to make her respect him, to make her love him?
It was all very exciting – this almost clandestine meeting in Brighton. It was like being in love when you were a boy for the first time. That was how he was going to think of it, and that was how he was going to treat her when he met her. He was going to pretend to himself that he had only met her a little while ago – forget all the past. Already he had a plan at the back of his mind. Down here he wasn’t going to be just a boozy hanger-on. He was going to spend money and do the thing properly. He was going to meet her in his best suit: his hair would be brushed: and he would just have had a bath. She would be taken aback by his appearance. Then he would take her in a taxi to the hotel: and then, when she had unpacked, they would go out in another taxi to Sweetings. Sweetings was the place, he didn’t care what it cost. There they would have dinner, and afterwards, if she liked, they would go to a theatre or the movies. Sober. Civilized. Unruffled. Sane. He would show her that he knew his way about.
He had another beer. He had done a sixty-eight and was on top of the world. His sandwiches came and he saw that it was nearly three o’clock.
He ate his sandwiches. No more beer. He was a sober man now. He lit a cigarette, left the club-house and took a tram back to the hotel.
He lay on his bed and slept, slept to sleep off his golf, and to be fresh for her at seven. The porter, on his instructions, woke him at a quarter to six, and he went and had a bath. He put on his best blue suit and brushed his hair.
No drinks. Plenty of time for that when he met her. He took a bus and was at the station at a quarter to seven.
The station was very crowded, and it made him feel a little scared – so many people and so much rolling, echoing noise, and not having had anything to drink. And then you didn’t meet Netta alone, in a seaside town, when you were feeling well and knew that your one chance had come, exactly every day of your life! But he still wouldn’t have a drink. His feeling of wellness and freshness, his sixty-eight that morning, his resolutions, his blue suit and his bath would see him through until she came.
The train was very punctual – came wobbling grimly into its hissing standstill almost before he was ready for it. The doors opened and crowds poured out and bore down upon the barrier.
It was not long before he saw Netta. Then, through the bobbing heads, he saw Peter, who was holding her arm.
Then he saw that on Peter’s other arm there was a stranger – a young man, about twenty-two, wearing his hat at an absurd angle over his eyes, and slouching along absurdly. As soon as they had reached the barrier, and Peter had hailed him, he realized that they were all three aggressively drunk – had been aggressively drunk for several hours.
Chapter Four
‘Hullo, Bone!’ cried Netta. ‘How are you!’ And she waved her hand and smiled without a flicker of guilt in her eyes. ‘Where’s the bar? We want a drink.’
She was quite tight, though, as usual, she did not show it, like the men, by complete silliness, but by a voice much louder, harsher and crisper than usual, a brighter eye, a manner at once inconsequent and dictatorial.
‘Hullo, George Harvey Bone,’ said the strange young man. ‘I’ve been hearing all about you. Sorry I can’t shake hands. I’m the beast of burden.’ (He was carrying Netta’s suitcase.)
‘Come on,’ said Peter, ‘park that bloody thing and let’s go and have a drink.’
‘No need to park it,’ said George, ‘I’ll take it.’ And he took it from the stranger. He presumed the two interlopers were shortly going back to London, and he felt that by taking charge of Netta’s suitcase he was making manifest the private nature of his assignation with her, and also hinting that their early departure would be desirable.
‘Good old George!’ said Netta. ‘Good old beast of burden. We’re all very fond of you, George.’ She took his arm. ‘Come on. You may now conduct us to the ale-house.’
‘The ale-house, ho!’ said the young man. He was a nasty-looking piece of work, short, virile, stocky – with a darkly tanned, scarred, pugilistic, Rugby-football face – a full mouth and the burning brown eyes of the school-bully. When they had lined up at the buffet bar he ordered double whiskies for all of them without consulting anybody.
‘Who’s this?’ said George, quietly aside to Netta, as they waited for the drinks to come.
‘Who’s what?’
‘This,’ he said signifying whom he meant by his eyes.
‘Oh, him. I don’t know,’ said Netta. ‘Here! You! Whats-your name! Who are you? George Harvey Bone wants to know!’
‘Me?’ said the young man. ‘I don’t know. Who am I? Here. You. Excuse me.’ He called to the barmaid. ‘Can you tell me who I am? There’s a gentleman here wants to know.’
‘I don’t know I’m sure,’ said the barmaid, smiling wanly as she passed.
‘But this is disgraceful. I come into a bar and ask in a perfectly reasonable way who I am and nobody can tell me. I mean to say it’s absurd. I mean…’ He started a long wrangle with the barmaid, which finally became boring even to Peter and Netta.
‘No, who is he, really, Netta?’ asked George, while this was’ going on, and she replied as she looked into her bag for some lipstick, ‘I don’t know. We just picked him up. We all got blind at lunch-time and just picked him up.’
‘I don’t like the look of him a bit,’ he was bold enough to say.
‘Don’t you?’ said Netta. ‘I rather like him.’
‘Well, George’ said Peter, ‘you don’t look very bright at seeing us.’
‘On the contrary. I’m delighted. It’s just that I haven’t had any drinks, that’s all.’
‘Really… This is most unusual. You must have some quickly nd make up.’
‘Well, I was aiming to have a meal,’ said George. ‘What’s the general idea? When are you two going back?’
‘Oh – we’re not going back,’ said Peter quickly, swaying slightly with drink, and looking at him, his glass in hand, with a look of pure malice such as George had never seen quite so vividly on his face before. ‘I rather thought you thought we were going back.’
‘No, I didn’t,’ said George. ‘I just wondered what you were going to do for luggage.’
‘Oh,
that’s all right. It’s all in Netta’s. We all dashed about collecting things and packed up at Netta’s.’
‘What’s all this?’ said the young man, to whom the barmaid would no longer listen. ‘What’s this about packing?’
‘I was just telling George how we packed,’ said Peter. ‘He thought we were going home.’
‘Going home? What do you mean? We’re staying with you, aren’t we! I understood we’re staying with you. What’s the matter with you, George Harvey Bone?’
‘Yes, of course, we’re staying with him,’ said Netta. ‘We’re at the Little Castle Hotel. He got us rooms. Shut up, Bone darling, and buy me a drink.’
They had two more rounds at the buffet, and then went to a pub a little way down Queen’s Road. Here they had three more rounds and played pin-table, and when they came out it was dark and raining again. They went back to the station and got a taxi.
‘Where to?’ said Peter, swaying about outside. The Little Castle Hotel,’ cried Netta, ‘and drive like the devil, my man!’
She was tighter than he had ever seen her. She put her arm through his and began to sing.
They sped through the bright lights of the gleaming town, and as they passed the Regent – ‘What’s the matter with you, George?’ said Peter. ‘You’re still looking very dumb.’
‘Yes, he is,’ said the stranger. ‘I don’t think I like your friend. What’s the matter with him? Doesn’t he like us? You told me he was dumb, but I didn’t know he was this dumb.’
‘Why,’ said George, ‘have you been discussing me?’
‘Yes, darling,’ said Netta. ‘We discussed you in the train.’
‘Well, I’m sorry if I’m dumb, but I didn’t know it was going to be a binge. I thought I was meeting Netta alone.’
‘My God,’ said Netta. ‘You didn’t think I could stand you alone, my sweet Bone, did you?’ And at this they all laughed, and a few moments later they drew up in front of the little hotel.
Chapter Five
The staff looked askance, hesitated, and then decided good-naturedly to treat it as a joke. ‘No, do shut up!’ whispered George. ‘Shut up!’ And Netta actually joined him with, ‘Yes, shut up or we’ll be hoofed out.’
‘I don’t want to register,’ said Peter. ‘I want the bathroom. Where’s the bathroom?’ But he signed, and went off in search of the bathroom, and the other two signed more or less quietly. They had only one room left in the hotel itself, but the odd man could sleep in the annexe. ‘All right, that’s not me,’ said the young man, and he bagged the key for the room in the hotel, which was found to be next door to Netta’s.
They asked how late they could have dinner, were told they had half an hour, and went through into the bar. George sneaked out to the office and said he was sorry. The woman was nice about it, and the porter, his trusty friend, said, ‘Don’t you worry sir. They’ll settle down when they’ve had something to eat.’
He got them in by a quarter to ten. He had now had quite a few himself, and could stand up to it better. There were, unfortunately, two other diners still in the room, who stared but took it in good humour, and soon enough they went out. The waiter was good-humoured, too, and the porter hung about, as though willing to come to the rescue if things got too tough.
Netta was the toughest to begin with, taking it out of the waiter. ‘Waiter, I want some household bread!’ Then, when it didn’t come at once, ‘WAITER! – I want some household bread – I want some household bread – I want some household bread – I want some household BREAD’ – chanting rhythmically and banging her hands on the table. He had never seen her, had never expected to see her as bad as this, and yet he was seeing nothing new, making no fresh discovery about her character. He was seeing only what he always saw beneath her normal composure – the harsh, cruel, beastly, tyrannical little girl he knew she must have been as a child and which she had never ceased being. To see this while she was wild and raucous was hardly more painful than to see it when she was calm and collected, and, anyway, he was really beyond pain at the moment.
Soon enough Peter began throwing whole rolls of bread about the room, as he always did when he was really lit up, and this the new member of the circle enjoyed enormously. They threw catches to each other the whole length of the room, and Netta cheered.
Then they began to play football, Peter lying down and holding the roll, while the newcomer took a flying kick to convert a try, and then the latter lying down and Peter taking the kick. And every now and again Netta cheered, and her bright eyes rained influence and judged the prize. Then the waiter came in and said excuse me, but would they be a little more quiet, as some of the guests had already gone to bed. And Peter said Blast him and Damn him, he would not excuse him, but all right if he would bring some more beer they would see what they could do. And actually they were quieter for a little, and the waiter brought them some more beer, and they went on with their dinner.
Then all at once Peter was demanding an evening paper, and sending the porter out for one, because he wanted to see what Em Molotov was up to Blast him. There was a lot of dirt going on, and he wanted an evening paper. And soon enough they were talking about Em Molotov and En Chamberlain, and were getting quarrelsome.
‘Excuse me, En Chamberlain is nothing of the sort,’ said Peter, and ‘Excuse me, En Chamberlain is everything of the sort,’ said his opponent, and Netta cried, ‘Good old En Chamberlain! I say he’s a bloody hero.’
‘Bloody hero? He’s a bloody weakling,’ said the newcomer, and, ‘Please don’t talk rot, both of you,’ said Peter. ‘Neither of you know what you’re talking about. Listen. Mister Chamberlain…’ And he went off into a lecture, to which the other two did not listen, but to which they gave an appearance of listening by remaining silent in a dazed, glassy way for a few moments before interrupting simultaneously. Mister Chamberlain… Mister Chamberlain… Mister Chamberlain… Adolf… Munich… Mister Chamberlain! Excuse me!… On the contrary!… On it went and they ordered a fresh round of drinks. Mister Chamberlain… Munich… Good old Adolf… ‘Well, he did something for his country, anyway,’ said the newcomer, and ‘Hooray!’ said Netta. ‘That’s what I say. I’m all for my Adolf…! ‘Listen – you don’t understand,’ said Peter wearily, ‘you’re children politically – children.’
‘Well, you’re a bloody fascist, anyway,’ said Netta… ‘You don’t understand,’ said Peter, and, ‘Well, there’s a lot in this fascist business if it comes to that,’ said the newcomer, and the reconciliation slowly set in.
He sat there, smoking and drinking with them, and not saying a word. He knew they would be reconciled. He knew they all loved Chamberlain and fascism and Hitler, and that they would be reconciled. Finally they became maudlin.
‘You’re right, old chap, you’re right,’ said the newcomer. ‘You’re perfectly right. You’ve shown me something. No, I’m not flattering you – I don’t flatter – you’ve shown me something. You’re right.’
‘Well, I think I’m right,’ said Peter. ‘I’ve been in jail for it, anyway!’ And he laughed in his nasty, moustachy way.
‘Jail?’ said the newcomer, politely, his head lurching over his pint can of beer. ‘Really?’
‘Oh, God, yes,’ said Netta. ‘Poor old Peter’s been in jail twice. Come on, Peter, tell us how you’ve been in jail!’
‘I have been in jail twice, to be precise,’ said Peter, lighting another cigarette, and suddenly employing a large, pompous professorial tone. ‘On one occasion for socking a certain left-winger a precise and well-deserved sock in the middle of his solar plexus, and on the other for a minor spot of homicide with a motor-car…’
He sat there, smoking and drinking with them, and saying not a word. He was frozen inside. So it was all coming out now – it was all coming out! Jail-birds and proud of it. No doubt it would soon transpire that Netta was a shop-lifter. Never mind. He could take it. He was frozen inside.
He wondered whether Peter would remember having made these revelations w
hen he woke tomorrow morning. It was amazing how this secret had been kept from him all this time. And Netta in on it, too – they were very close, these two, closer than he had imagined. You’d have thought it would have come out before: they’d both been tight in front of him often enough. But of course tonight Peter was raving tight.
The little virile, pugilistic newcomer was delighted, inspired, humbled by these revelations – the sudden distinction accruing to his drinking companion – and with Netta’s assistance egged him on to talk. Mr Chamberlain was forgotten and Peter held the stage.
‘Jail?… Yes… Jail is a curious thing…’ He sat back, he leaned forward, he made large gestures. He was absolutely blind. Finally he called the waiter for some more drink, but the porter came up instead and said he was sorry but it was after twelve and they couldn’t serve any more.
‘What the hell are you talking about?’ said Peter. ‘We’re staying at the hotel, aren’t we?’
And then, as the argument rose, a curious thing happened. Instead of supporting Peter, and arguing, quite correctly, that as residents they had the right to order drinks at any time, Netta all at once said, ‘Oh, well, if we can’t we can’t – let’s go to bed.’ And as she said this, stabbing out her cigarette on a plate, she gave a funny little sidelong glance in the direction of the newcomer, who glanced at her in the same sidelong way, and then said, ‘Yes. Let’s call it a day. I’ve had enough, anyway.’ And George saw both glances and believed he understood them.
No! No! No! Please God, No!
Chapter Six
He lay on his bed and tried to relax. He was fully dressed, but he had turned out the light. He faced the bed and held his head in his arms. He would be able to think soon – if he relaxed for a little.
The last door had closed. Peter was over in the annexe. They had sorted out their belongings from Netta’s suitcase in the hall and the porter had taken Peter over. They had all said ‘Good night’. ‘Good night, Bone,’ she had said. The last door had closed. The lights were out. He relaxed. Outside it was beginning to rain.
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