Hangover Square

by Patrick Hamilton

  ‘No, not Brighton, Netta,’ he said. ‘I had such an awful time there last time. Besides, there’d be people there.’

  He said ‘people’ as vaguely as possible, but he meant, of course, Johnnie, Eddie Carstairs, the new show. He saw now that she had wanted to be in on the new show, that she had hoped to meet Eddie Carstairs down there with Johnnie, and that in consenting to come away with him (quite apart from any feeling she might now have towards him), she had some idea of killing two birds with one stone – that of getting her fare and hotel paid and of making this contact with the big manager. Knowing her ruthless character he did not blame her, but he was not going to have it that way. He was going to be a man.

  ‘Of course, there’d be people,’ she said. ‘That’s why I wanted to go. Don’t you like people?’

  ‘But I want you alone, Netta. Don’t you understand? Do say you’ll come away with me alone!’

  There was a pause in which he looked at her face turned sideways on the pillow.

  ‘All right,’ she said. ‘It’s your party.’

  ‘Oh, Netta, thank you,’ he said, and took her hand.

  ‘Where do you want to go then?’ she asked.

  ‘Oh, I haven’t really thought about it. I thought we might go down the river, right away from where we know. Cookham or Maidenhead, or somewhere like that. What about Maidenhead? I used to love it there a long while ago.’

  ‘Very well,’ she said, the ghost of the ghost of an incomprehensible yet somehow mocking smile on her face. ‘We’ll go to Maidenhead.’

  ‘Are you laughing at me, Netta?’ he said, referring to the ghost of the ghost of a smile.

  ‘No,’ she said, ‘I’m not laughing at you.’ But the ghost remained.

  ‘When can we go, Netta? When will you be well enough?’

  ‘Oh. Tomorrow.’

  ‘Tomorrow? But will you be well enough?’

  ‘Yes, I’m quite well. We’ll go tomorrow.’

  He looked at her. Tomorrow. He thought of all that he had suffered at her hands, and it just didn’t make sense.

  ‘You’re not fooling me, are you, Netta?’

  ‘No, I’m not fooling you,’ she said, and added softly, ‘You know, George, don’t you, that you’ll have to help me out?’

  By a pressure of her hand she seemed to invite him to draw his face nearer to her, and he did so.

  ‘Why yes, Netta. Of course I’ll help you out. I’ve always helped you out, haven’t I?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said. You’ve been very nice indeed – all along…’

  All along. Something in the way she uttered these words, something in her manner, touched and convinced him. He looked at her, and for a space believed that she had a soul: that she was sorry for him, that she appreciated all he had done and suffered, and that she meant to reward him. In fact, he was certain of it.

  Well, he wouldn’t fail her. He would go on being nice to the end. ‘What do you want, Netta?’ he said. ‘I’ll give it to you now.’

  ‘I don’t want anything, really,’ she said. ‘I’m going to pay you back anyway when I get a job. But I’ve got to have five pounds just to get out of the flat. Otherwise they simply won’t let me leave.’

  ‘Very well,’ he said, ‘I’ll give it to you now.’ He rose, went into the sitting-room, found her pen and ink, and wrote a cheque for five pounds. His hand trembled with passion and generosity. He returned to her and put the cheque by the telephone.

  ‘There you are, Netta,’ he said.

  ‘This is very sordid, I’m afraid, my dear Bone,’ she said.

  ‘What’s sordid?’

  ‘Oh – money generally.’

  Irresistibly moved he flung himself down again and kissed her. ‘Oh, it’s not sordid, Netta,’ he said, ‘it’s not sordid! Nothing’s sordid with you. You’re too beautiful. Nothing can be sordid with you!’

  ‘All right, Bone,’ she said, ‘keep calm.’ And she looked at him mockingly, yet kindly. There was a pause.

  ‘Netta,’ he said.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Now we’re going away together you’re going to be nice to me, aren’t you? You’re going to be really nice?’

  He meant, of course, ‘You’re going to give yourself fully to me, aren’t you? You’re really going to give yourself to me?’ And he looked wildly into her eyes for her assurance.

  She again put her hand on his face, and looked at him.

  ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘I’m going to be very nice.’

  He wanted no more. He believed her. She had repented. ‘Oh, Netta,’ he said, and kissed her hair and laid his head on her breast.

  After a few moments she said, ‘Listen, Bone…’

  ‘Yes’

  ‘I’m tired now, and want to go to sleep. Will you be a nice Bone, and put out the light and leave me?’

  ‘Yes… All right… Are you sure you’ll be well enough tomorrow?’

  ‘Yes. I’ll be well enough, but now I want to sleep. My eyes still hurt a bit. You can phone tomorrow.’

  ‘Right. What time?’

  ‘Oh – about eleven.’

  ‘Right you are. I’ll have fixed up where we’re going and everything by then… Good night, Netta…’

  ‘Good night, Bone.’

  He kissed her again, trying to remember her kiss – so that he could carry it on his mouth all night, so that he could savour and anticipate all the kisses to come – and rose and put out the light.

  He heard her turn in the bed in the darkness. ‘Good night,’ he whispered, and putting out the light in the sitting-room he went out of the flat.

  There was a fresh wind blowing down the Earl’s Court Road and he felt cold. He walked up towards Kensington High Street with the intention of having a drink.

  His passion cooling with his body, he looked strangely, coldly at what had just happened, and even felt for a moment dejected. Well, that was that. He had got her at last, it seemed.

  He was under no delusions as to the nature of the transaction which had taken place. It was half a money transaction and half something else. He had helped her, had given her money, he had looked after her when she was ill, and she, in return for his help and money, perhaps in gratitude for his faithfulness and perhaps (after seeing that she was going to lose him) in repentance at her long harsh treatment, had intimated that she would give herself to him. She had given herself to Peter and others. She gave herself to men. That wasn’t love. She would never love him, and it was all very sad.

  Was it sad? Was he not lying to himself? Did he, at this moment, really care a damn in his heart whether she loved him or not? No, he didn’t. Just as he didn’t mind about Peter and the others, he didn’t mind about her not loving him. It might not be love, but it was Netta! That was all he wanted. He was going to get Netta, the object of his desire, Netta whose promising kiss was on his lips, the violets and the primroses in the April rain. Whatever she did, whatever she felt about him, she could not forgo her loveliness or cease to be what she was to him, and no one else.

  He saw he could never be happy, that only disaster lay ahead. But he would have had his moment, a few days, a brief spell of bliss – the fulfilment, the justification of his long trial. He believed on the whole that it had been worth it, and he would not fail to enjoy it.

  Why should he worry? She might be ruthless, cold, cruel, a beast – but he had got her. She might be half a prostitute, but he had got her. It might be only by the wild expenditure of his little hoard of money that he was getting her, but he had got her. ‘Aren’t all places the same, my poor Bone?’ she had said, and ‘Yes, I’ll be very nice,’ and her promising kiss was on his mouth. He might only be rising to the squalid level of Peter and the others, but he had risen. (Peter wouldn’t like it at all!) He was no longer an outsider, a hanger-on, a stooge. He was a man, a man of the world at last, and he had got her. He might never get her again, he might pay in money, disaster, and misery for getting her, but he had got her, got her, got her!

  The big
, wretched man had a drink in Kensington (only one – he didn’t want to drink) and, walking back down the Earl’s Court Road to his hotel, noticed a light shining behind the curtains he had drawn in the bedroom of the unsuccessful and impecunious film actress.

  The Tenth Part

  BRIGHTON

  Much more affliction than already felt

  They cannot well impose, nor I sustain.

  J. MILTON Samson Agonistes

  Chapter One

  Though his thoughts kept him awake till three, and he was awake again at seven, he felt calm in the morning, and had his breakfast and went about his business in a methodical way.

  After breakfast he went out and bought some shirts and socks and pyjamas. As he walked along he had a funny feeling of the unreality of everything, and felt sadly the need of someone to talk to. He wanted to confide to someone that he was stronger and wiser at last, that he was going away with the girl he wanted, that he had made good, in a strange way, after all.

  After all, when all was said and done, from the world’s point of view he was going away with a pretty attractive girl – objectively attractive, that was. ‘She’s frightfully attractive, isn’t she?’ that young man had said. He wondered what the young man would have thought if he knew that he was now going away with her to the country!

  He wished he could talk to Johnnie. Johnnie, who had met the girl, and understood roughly (he fancied) the state of affairs hitherto, would be glad to know he had made good, that he was not being made a fool of any longer. He would be impressed, too, by his having established such a relationship with such an attractive and universally desirable girl. In fact, in his heart of hearts he rather wanted to swank to Johnnie, and he wished he could get into touch and tell him before he went.

  He thought he would phone Johnnie, anyway, and at least let him know he was going away. Also there had been that talk of their all going to Brighton, and he had to tell him that that was off.

  When he got back to the hotel he phoned Fitzgerald, Carstairs and Scott, and asked the girl for Mr Littlejohn, Mr Bone speaking.There was a long silence, and then the girl said that Mr Littlejohn hadn’t arrived yet. This struck him as odd, as he knew Johnnie was very punctual and usually got there at 9.30.

  He then looked out trains for Maidenhead, and phoned its leading hotel, and made sure there was plenty of accommodation. He did not book a room or rooms but just made sure there would be room.

  He then, because it was eleven o’clock, phoned Netta, who spoke in a rather off-hand way at first, and said she was half asleep. He was made slightly gloomy by her being half asleep, but he realized that this thing did not mean the same to her as it did to him.

  He asked her if he might take her out to lunch, and when she would be ready to start. She said she could not lunch with him, because she had to have her hair done, and that she couldn’t really conveniently be ready until six. She’d got a funny day, she said.

  He had somehow known that she wouldn’t meet him until late in the day and had worked out the trains for such a contingency.

  ‘Well, that’ll be fine,’ he said. ‘If I call at six and you’re ready, we can take a taxi and get the seven-five from Paddington.’

  ‘Right you are,’ she said, ‘that’ll be very nice indeed.’

  ‘Right. Six at your flat… Good-bye, Netta dear.’

  ‘Good-bye, Bone.’

  He went and packed, and then went for a walk and had a beer, and then tried to phone Johnnie again. ‘Fitzgerald, Carstairs and Scott,’ said the girl (he was getting to know her voice by now), and he said is Mr Littlejohn there please, and she said what name please, and he said Mr Bone.

  There was another long pause, and then she said, ‘I’m sorry, Mr Bone, he’s gone out; you phoned before, didn’t you. Can I leave any message?’

  ‘No,’ he said, ‘it’s nothing important – I’ll try again later – thank you very much.’ She said, ‘I’ll let him know you’ve phoned,’ and he thanked her again and rang off.

  He had another beer, and then went to the hotel for lunch. But now he was in a rather excited state, and could hardly eat anything. He thought he had better go up to his room and try and sleep.

  The white cat was of course delighted to see him, and weaved itself round his legs. ‘I’m going away today, pussy,’ he said. ‘I hope you won’t miss me.’ He did not get into bed, but took off his coat and drew the coverlet over him. The white cat insisted on coming under the coverlet. ‘You’ll spoil my suit, pussy,’ he said. ‘You’ll spoil my best suit with all your fur.’

  He dozed on and off, and at four o’clock, moved by some impulse he couldn’t quite understand, he got up and went downstairs and phoned Johnnie again.

  ‘Fitzgerald, Carstairs and Scott,’ said the girl, and he said is Mr Littlejohn there yet, Mr Bone speaking? ‘One moment, Mr Bone,’ she said, and a few moments later said, ‘No, I’m afraid he’s not in, Mr Bone, I’m sorry.’

  ‘Oh,’ he said, ‘how funny. I’ve tried him all today – but I don’t seem to get him.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘I’m afraid you’re unlucky. He’s been in, but I don’t seem to be able to catch him.’

  He thanked her, and rang off, and strolled round to the Express for some tea. He had two cups of tea, and read the newspaper until twenty-past five. He was very nervous now, but felt he would be all right when he had had a drink. It was weird not getting Johnnie.

  He went back to the hotel and tidied himself up under the pink bulb. Then he saw that it was twenty to six, and decided to walk round to Netta’s at once. He would pick up his suitcase in the taxi they took to Paddington.

  As he climbed up her cold, dark, stone steps, he knew there would be something wrong. Those steps had always been too cold and dark and wrong. And when he saw, pinned to her door, a blue envelope, with ‘G. Bone Esq.’ scribbled on it in pencil, he knew his instinct had been right.

  He opened the envelope and read:

  Dear Bone,

  Tried to phone you all day. Sorry but our jaunt seems to be off. Have had frantic messages from Chudleigh where they all seem to be dying, and have had to go down at short notice. All well, will be back Sunday.

  Gt. haste. Just time catch train. Sorry. Hope later,

  Yr.

  N. L.

  Her mother and aunt lived in Chudleigh, Devon. She went down there for a fortnight every year.

  He tore this note fiercely into small shreds, as though tearing her and all her blatant lies into small shreds, and he put the pieces into his pocket.

  Then he found in his pocket the key which she had given him while she was ill, and he walked into her flat.

  He might have known. She had said she wanted to go to Brighton.

  And Netta was used to having her way.

  He went straight over to the phone (beside which he had put her cheque last night) and dialled the number of Fitzgerald, Carstairs and Scott. The line went ‘brr-brr… brr-brr… brr-brr…’ for a long time (it was after six and perhaps they were closed), but at last there was an answering click.

  ‘Fitzgerald, Carstairs and Scott,’ said the amiable girl, his old friend, in a rather tired voice.

  ‘Hullo,’ he said; ‘I suppose Mr Littlejohn isn’t there yet, is he?…’

  ‘Oh, hullo, Mr Bone… No, I’m afraid he’s gone.’

  ‘I suppose you can’t tell me where I might find him, can you? It’s rather urgent now. I suppose you can’t tell me where I might get him?’

  ‘Well, yes,’ she said. ‘He’s gone to Brighton, I think. In fact I know he has.’

  ‘Oh… Brighton… Are you sure?’

  ‘Yes. I heard him talking to Mr Carstairs.’ All at once she became more chatty. ‘It seems everybody in the firm’s gone down to Brighton tonight. They’ve just deserted us.’

  ‘Oh – have they?’

  ‘Yes. They’re celebrating Mr Drexel’s birthday, and making a big night of it so far as I can see!’

  Mr Drexel, he realized, was Albe
rt Drexel, the famous comedian appearing in the new farce.

  ‘Oh, I see,’ he said… ‘Well… Thank you very much… Good night’

  ‘Good night, Mr Bone. Sorry I couldn’t help you.’

  ‘No – not at all. Thank you very much… Good night.’

  ‘Good night.’

  He put down the receiver, and sat on her bed, and looked around her bedroom in the dusk of the rainy evening of the late summer of 1939.

  ‘Making a night of it.’ No doubt they were making a night of it down there already, while he sat here.

  He saw everything. She preferred to go to Brighton. She had said as much. He was not to have her after all. Instead of that she had got his best friend, to whom he had introduced her. She had got Johnnie.

  Chapter Two

  Oh, Johnnie, Johnnie, Johnnie! How could you!

  He gulped down his double whisky and asked for another, and understood – or nearly understood. In regard to her the matter was simple enough. She had made up her mind to go down to Brighton, because, in the vicinity of this new farce, there were famous stars, managers, and general proceedings in ‘which she desired to participate. She had not had the money to go without his help. She had therefore played him up, allowed him a few kisses and hinted at possible favours, in order to get the money out of him. She had given him a chance, perhaps, of going to Brighton with her (in a crowd and on a purely ‘innocent’ basis, of course), but directly he had demurred she had decided to deceive him instead. In fact she had almost certainly meant to deceive him from the beginning, because in order to further her schemes in Brighton she would certainly want him out of the way – she wouldn’t want an oaf and nonentity hanging around and cramping her style with distinguished people. And so she had invented this fiction about going away with him purely in order to let him down by a trick at the last moment and keep him in London while she went to Brighton unhampered. It was in some ways very clever, in some ways very crude, in all ways cold and merciless, and in all ways characteristic.