Then came the first blow. Mrs Molyneux-Green, hard pressed by a falling income, increased taxation and difficulties with her staff, sold her house to Garrows. ‘My dear Theresa, I simply hate doing it, but they offered such a good price. In any case, I can’t afford the repairs.’
She went, and the Bastions and the Laxtons soon followed her example. It was true that there was no immediate threat of wholesale demolition. Garrows’ plans, like those of the Periwinkle, looked to the distant future, and it was said that even the newest leases had ten years to run. But how different were the new lessees from the old landlords. Number Seven, of which Miss Tredennick had an excellent though side-long view from her bedroom windows, was the most sadly changed of all. Instead of the graceful Mrs Molyneux-Green, a slatternly Irish woman now possessed it and treated it frankly as a rooming-house. And what people she took in as lodgers,—seedy middle-aged men with attaché-cases, bedraggled matrons in moth-eaten furs, dim, shabby spinsters—succeeding one another, while taxis arrived and left, with baskets and bundles, canvas bags, tin boxes and hampers tied up with string! But these were not the worst. Since the turn of the year, Pollitt Place had been invaded by a type that was very much more deplorable. . . .
At that very moment, as if to justify the sourness of Miss Tredennick’s reflections, a car roared into the street from the further end,—a cheap, would-be sports-model that emulated the real thing in noisiness, even if it could do so in no other respect. It came in jerks, emitting waves of sound each more deafening than the last, till with a screech it stopped outside Number Seven. There was a moment of peace, then two doors slammed, feet pattered on the pavement and a man’s voice said, ‘Now can’t I come and tuck you up in your little bed?’ The thick, tipsy voice of a young woman replied, ‘Really, Archie, what would the old cats opposite think?’ Miss Tredennick’s skin quivered as if pricked by hot pins. It was she—the horror, doing it yet again, with the same utter lack of regard for other people, the same effrontery,—but was it with the same man? Miss Tredennick, who had a good memory for voices, waited eagerly for him to speak again. But the car-radio was the next to speak, and it suddenly blared out something that sounded like:
Doodle ’em, me doodle ’em, me doodle ’em, me doodle ’em,
Yip, yip! me doodle ’em: Hiya! me doodle ’em,
Doodle ’em, me doodle ’em, me doodle ’em, me doodle ’em . . .
and repeated itself in a moto perpetuo suggestive of a lunatic obsession.
The rhythm was evidently of the order known as ‘infectious’; for Miss Tredennick, with all the speed her arthritic knees allowed, was out of bed and standing by the window, where she drew the curtain aside and peeped. It was as she had suspected, the horror and the man were locked in one another’s arms. Their feet hardly moved, but their bodies swayed to the music, in the light of a street-lamp. The woman’s dark ringlets were in disarray and her ample olive-skinned shoulders were almost bursting out of her dress. It was harder to see her face, but amid its turnings and twistings, one had an impression of thick, blood-stained lips, black eyelashes, over-long, and thick black eyebrows arched above a pair of enormous black eyes. As her body wriggled and writhed, it seemed to exude a rank, animal vitality, that might well (thought Miss Tredennick) evoke a thousand odious obscenities in the mind of the average male. In every way that woman typified the enemy,—a breaker of homes, a seducer of virtuous husbands, a mocker of modesty, chastity and decorum,—the last of the three being far the most important.
Doodle ’em, me doodle ’em, me doodle ’em, me doodle ’em,
Nein, nein, me doodle ’em: Ja, ja, me doodle ’em . . .
Would the debauch never end? Shivering with heat rather than cold, Miss Tredennick stood watching and participating, as it were, in a Witches’ Sabbath. Surely the police would come and do something about it? And what of the other residents in the street? Were they so hardened to such practices that they didn’t bother to protest? Or were they too timid? Miss Tredennick wished she had a revolver so that she could send a couple of bullets whizzing through the window. The killing of creatures like that couldn’t be murder.
Then suddenly the music came to a stop. The man and the woman held one another still tighter and the man’s ugly hands pawed round her shoulders, till, after a long slobbering kiss, the farewells began.
‘Good night, darling. . . . Gorgeous evening. . . . Simply divine.’ The woman walked unsteadily up the two steps to the front door, fumbled with her bag, dropped it, screamed, ‘Oh, damn!’ picked it up, took out a latch-key and dropped the bag again. ‘Hell! There goes all my money down the drain!’ They grovelled about together in the gutter and kissed once more, as they hunted for the pennies. Then they straightened themselves and the woman stood still for a moment, as if she were minded to strip in the light of the street-lamp, and summon all the males in the district to covet her body in its nudity. Such, at least, was the impression she gave Miss Tredennick, who shut her eyes to blot out the visible so that she might dwell the better on unseen enormities. She looked again when the key clinked against the lock. The front door opened. ‘Night, night, you lovely man!’ ‘Night, night, girlie darling. See you again on Thursday,—no, that’s to-day, I mean Saturday—do I or don’t I?’ ‘No, darling, Sunday!’ ‘All right, all right.’ (Was the drink making him quarrelsome?) ‘I’ll give you a tinkle in the morning.’ A light flashed on in the narrow entrance-hall. Another moment of possible strip-tease. Then the front door shut with a crash. A few seconds later, a light shone in the bedroom on the top floor. Without drawing the curtains the horror tore off her clothes, letting them fall on the floor and, as the car below made its noisy start, ran naked towards the window, the lower sash of which was wide open. Covering her firm but fat breasts inadequately with her podgy left hand, she knelt down and waved through the window with her right. Toot-toot-toot went the car and turned into the Crescent. The woman got up from her knees and, presenting a view of her arched back and generous buttocks, went to the far end of the room. Then the light was turned out.
Feeling extremely unwell and rather sick, Miss Tredennick forced her stiff legs to carry her back to bed.
[2]
‘How is she, Doctor?’
Mrs Muller and Dr Jamieson, who hadn’t spoken on their way downstairs, were standing in the front hall. There was no one to overhear them. Mr Bray had gone to luncheon at his club, Mrs Fawley was looking at the shops in Parkwell Road and Robert Fawley always lunched at the works, except at week-ends. Hugo wasn’t yet back from Mr Middleton’s, and Magda was busy in the kitchen,—not that it would have mattered what she heard.
Dr Jamieson smiled teasingly. He was a fat little man with pink cheeks, blue eyes and a moustache that was even whiter than his white hair. It was rumoured in the Pollitts that he bleached his moustache.
‘Well,—she’s seventy-six.’
‘Oh, Doctor, don’t always say that! Magda told me she’d never found her quite like this before. Did she have an attack of some kind?’
‘No,—I shouldn’t say so. That car that came round between two and three in the morning,—did you hear it?’
‘No. But it was quite real. I mean, she didn’t invent it, because it woke Hugo up. As you know, he’s the only one, except Miss Tredennick, who sleeps in the front of the house.’
‘Wouldn’t this be a good opportunity of persuading her to change her rooms round and sleep at the back?’
‘She’ll never do that. She says there’s a smell from the little delicatessen shop at the end of the Mews. I can’t say I’ve noticed it, but she’s always smelling and hearing and seeing things other people can’t. Did you—I must ask you, because it’s only right I should know—did you find anything wrong with her heart? Magda said she looked really blue.’
‘Her heart is in splendid condition,—all things considered.’
As he made this ambiguous statement, he gave Mrs Muller a sidelong but searching glance. Did she want Miss Tredennick to die? It wasn�
�t impossible. Could she stand the strain of another ten years,—for, in the normal course, it might well be that? Mrs Muller’s appearance was in all ways reassuring,—a straight, almost virginal figure in a clean grey house-coat, her mouse-coloured hair gathered neatly round her long head. Her eyes were a watery blue, her nose was thin and rather long and her colourless lips framed a row of good-natured white teeth which took one’s attention from too receding a chin. She had a look of Nordic honesty about her,—as if she had suffered, but was none the worse for it and bore no malice,—a creature of dulled sensibilities, but kind and efficient,—the incarnation of a domestic treasure. Yet one never knew. A time might come when he’d have to be on the look-out for arsenic in puddings and powdered glass mixed with tea. He hoped not. He was an easy-going old man and hated any kind of melodrama.
‘Then what was it?’ she asked,—as if she had been patiently considering his last words, while he was taking stock of her. ‘Magda said she could hardly speak this morning. And vomiting her breakfast! I scarcely remember her being sick before. Besides, she ate so little.’
‘It was merely a reflex, brought on by an excessive secretion of adrenalin. That car must have annoyed her very seriously. Do you remember when you called me in to see Mr Bray? About a year ago, wasn’t it?’
Mrs Muller remembered very well indeed. She had enjoyed the episode enormously, till Mr Bray seemed really taken ill. It was a fine Sunday morning of the previous November. A cheaply smart, youngish woman was walking down the Place with a white poodle, expensively dolled up, on a silvered leash. It smelt at all the doorsteps till it came to Number Ten, where it paused to deposit its worm-ridden excreta on the newly-scrubbed threshold. The woman paused too, and waited with a smirk of contentment on her face. Mrs Muller, who had a view from the basement window, would have rushed into the area and protested, if the front door hadn’t burst open to disclose Mr Bray (who hated all dogs and all women resembling the owner of that particular poodle), white with rage and very ready to give tongue. ‘You filthy bitch!’—yes, those were his very words,—‘You ought to be made to lick up that mess from our doorstep. I’ve a good mind to rub your bloody nose in it.’ Then the woman broke into irrational volubility. ‘He’s got to do his business somewhere, hasn’t he?—same as you do—and call yourself a gentleman——’ She continued, but Mr Bray was not outdone by feminine logic and continued also. For a while, Mrs Muller was content to be the umpire, though her sympathies lay strongly with Mr Bray—for was it not Magda who had to wash that doorstep?—till, realising that Mr Bray was losing ground, she darted through the area door and up the steps. The offender, seeing herself outflanked and outnumbered, beat a hasty retreat towards the Crescent. Mr Bray gave chase, talking of the bye-laws and the police, but he soon came back looking so very ill that Mrs Muller said, ‘Oh, Mr Bray, how good of you—but it hasn’t done you any good. Do go and sit down. These things take it out of one. Magda will soon have everything clean again.’ And he went to his sitting-room and sat down, while Mrs Muller, knowing all wasn’t well, watched him round the edge of the open door. Then he put his hand to where he thought his heart was and said, ‘I wonder if you could get me the doctor.’ And Dr Jamieson had come and reassured them, and Mr Bray soon seemed all right again.
Mrs Muller nodded, and the doctor went on, ‘Well, this is much the same kind of thing. It doesn’t do, when you’re in the seventies or even the sixties, to get into tantrums. Miss Tredennick’s a tough old bird and no harm’s done. There’s no point in my coming to see her again, unless she sends for me or you think she’s worse. But that’s the last thing I anticipate.’
He took his hat and his gloves from a Regency chair and a neatly rolled umbrella from a big crackle-ware vase which served as a stand, and went through the door which Mrs Muller had opened, into the street, where he raised a finger to his hat and turned to the left. Mrs Muller watched his jaunty little back, till a shuffling footstep from the other direction made her look round. It was Hugo coming home, half an hour before the usual time. His mother’s face blanched with sudden apprehension.
‘Why, Hugo, what’s the matter?’
‘Nothing,’ he answered in a voice that was strangely deep for such a small body. Although he was over fifteen, he might have been an under-sized eleven. His back was humped and his right arm and leg were longer than the left. Seen from behind, he looked like a malevolent gnome and aroused a feeling of acute repulsion that vanished completely when he turned round and you saw his sweet little baby-face. He had deep blue eyes, which were quite unlike his mother’s, while those who remembered the late Friedrich Müller said his were dark brown, matching his almost black hair. Hugo’s hair was several shades lighter than his mother’s and verged upon flaxen. His nose was broad and snub, and his mouth, when he smiled, was as traditionally cherubic as a choir boy’s.
‘Come downstairs, dear, and tell Mutti all about it.’ Mutti was the only German word Mrs Muller ever used, though it was said that she had learnt to speak the language quite well.
Hugo looked at her thoughtfully, with his mouth half open. Then, as if he realised that she was anxious about him and that he must allay her fears, he said, ‘There’s nothing to tell. I felt rather tired. And Mr Middleton has a very bad cold. I thought I might catch it if I stayed any longer. Besides, it’s such a beautiful day.’
Mrs Muller as a rule took little heed of the weather. She knew when it rained—for that affected the washing hung up in the backyard, and she knew when it was too hot—for heat made her ill and fretful—but she was almost indifferent to the colour of the sky. She looked up at it now and saw that Hugo was right. It was a lovely day, with a hint of autumn to temper the strong sunshine. The poor boy was pale and ought to have more fresh air. Had she been at fault in not making sure he got it? But she was too tied to the house to take him for walks and he didn’t seem very fond of taking them by himself. Next year she must see to it at whatever cost that he had a real long holiday by the sea.
She patted his arm and said, ‘Yes, indeed it is a very beautiful day—and you must enjoy it. Why not go and watch the birds by the Serpentine? I’ll give you something to feed them with, if you like. There’s still an hour before dinner-time.’
Hugo wriggled away from her touch and said, ‘I went to the Serpentine on Tuesday. I should like to go and sit quietly by myself. I want to think about something important.’
He walked down the basement stairs to his little bed-sitting-room, which was a narrow slit cut off the Mullers’ communal sitting-room and opened out of it. Already he had somehow contrived to invest it with such an air of privacy that his mother and Magda knocked before coming in.
At twenty to one, the dust-van stopped outside Number Ten, and Bert, the burly red-headed dustman, came down the area steps that partly hid the window of Hugo’s room. The lower sash was wide open and the boy gave a cry of welcome.
‘Hello, sonny!’ The dustman smiled and braced his shoulders to take the weight of the bin.
Then Hugo said, ‘Aren’t you rather late to-day?’
‘No, we’re not late, but we’re working the street from the other end.’
‘Will you always do that?’
‘I think so. At least for a time. Why?’
Hugo didn’t answer, but put his hand in his pocket and pulled out a flat tin box labelled ‘cough lozenges’, though when he opened it, it contained seven cigarettes. ‘Do have one,’ he said, as shyly as a young girl, who for the first time offers a rose to her lover. The dustman hesitated.
‘You know, it isn’t right for lads of your age to smoke.’
‘I don’t smoke. I got these for you. I thought I’d give you one every time you came.’
His face lost its smile and seemed on the verge of tears.
‘All right—all right—and it’s very nice of you.’ Bert put his enormous bare arm through the window and brushed it lightly against Hugo’s cheek, so that the boy felt the tickle of red hair and smelt the mingled odour of swe
at and garbage. Then, after Bert had patted the little round head and given an affectionate tug to the flaxen hair, he took one cigarette from the proffered box, withdrew his arm and put the cigarette in his pocket.
‘Bye-bye for now. But mind you don’t start smoking. I’ll bring you a few sweets when I’m next this way. That’ll be Monday—so you watch out for me.’
He gave a grin of farewell and carried his burdens to pavement-level.
When the dust-van moved on, beyond any possible glimpse, Hugo went to the back of his room, took off his coat and rolled up the right sleeve of his shirt as far as the elbow. Then he drew his white, skinny, hairless forearm across his cheek time and time again. But there was nothing either to feel or smell.
[3]
‘Oh, Magda, if Hugo isn’t doing anything, would you ask him to come up and see me? I’ve kept two little cakes I think he might like.’
Miss Tredennick was still in bed, where she had just finished her afternoon tea.
‘Certainly, Madam. I expect he is in his room.’ The words were obsequious enough, but there was a touch of disapproval about the tone in which Magda spoke them.
Miss Tredennick thought, ‘Surely she can’t be so silly as to suppose that it’s improper for Hugo to come into my bedroom. Besides, she’s getting too pretty to be a prude. It must be jealousy, because she knows I prefer Hugo to her. She does the work and he gets the little plums.’
Ten Pollitt Place Page 2