Ten Pollitt Place

by C. H. B. Kitchin

  Hugo answered grimly, ‘I’d rather starve to death than earn my living by painting and writing things to sell.’ Then, taking his mother’s red and slightly damp hand, he said coaxingly, ‘Darling Mutti, promise me you’ll burn that prospectus before Magda comes home. Or will you let me burn it? I can light it in the dust-bin, so there won’t be any mess with the ashes. Darling Mutti, please say yes.’

  She sighed in surrender and said, ‘Very well—if you want to.’

  Hugo went out all smiles into the sitting-room, where he found a candle, lit it and took the detested envelope and prospectus from a small fumed-oak bureau, and carried them into the area. He laid the lid of the dust-bin very quietly on the stone floor and then, holding the papers with his left hand inside the bin, which was less than half full, he lit each page separately, and as he did so,—invoking the Genius who pre­sided over all dust-bins,—he chanted, ‘I make this burnt-offering of my future to you!’

  XII

  THE WEEK BEFORE CHRISTMAS

  By now, the trappings of Christmas had made their way from the shops into private houses. In the Pollitts, a hundred front doors had opened to welcome bundles of holly and mistletoe, with their trails of dropped berries, soon to be squashed on carpets. Mantelpieces were decorated with calendars and cards that fluttered or fell in a draught. Drawers and odd corners were filled with gifts, gay gummed labels, coloured string, wrapping-paper, boxes of crackers and festive novelties. Store-cupboards were crammed with delicacies in cartons and tins and jars. The great orgy of spending was under way, though the great orgy of consuming was yet to come.

  Nor did this spirit of enterprise confine itself to the privacy of the home. It had a public aspect. The nice Americans who lived in the Terrace, and had given the firework party on Guy Fawkes Day, were the first to hang a big garland of holly and mistletoe, tied with red satin ribbon, to the knocker of their front-door, while if one was lucky enough to have a view of their small garden at the back of the house, one could see them decorating a well-grown Christmas-tree with fairies, gnomes, butterflies, glass ornaments and coloured lanterns, all guaranteed to stand the English climate. Mrs Muller described it minutely to Miss Tredennick, who struggled into her sitting-room to inspect it. On the floor below, Dorothy whiled away many happy moments in the same fashion. Justin, from his bedroom window, had a glimpse of its higher branches waving above the level of three garden-walls, but the sight increased his seasonable gloom. Only the Mullers in their basement-kitchen had no view of it at all.

  However, Ten Pollitt Place was not altogether eclipsed. Those who peeped down through the area railings could see, in the Mullers’ sitting-room, a miniature version of a very Protestant Crib, with the chief emphasis on the animals, and illuminated by fat Swedish candles. Mrs Muller would have liked a garland on the front door, but Miss Tredennick feared it might damage the paint.

  But it was Dorothy who gave the house its cachet. Inspired by the Americans’ example, she asked Robert to fix up a small Christmas-tree on the balcony, for the benefit of anyone passing by in the street. As always, he was only too glad to have an excuse for using his hands, and did the work well. The tree was lit up by minute electric lights which went off and on and changed colour in rotation. A disadvantage was that the carol-singers made a bee-line for the house and loitered by it long after they had exhausted their repertoire. Miss Tredennick told Mrs Muller to give five shillings—in five separate instalments—to singers who showed real talent. If they showed none, instead of getting a penny to go into the next street, they got a scolding for the inadequacy of their performance. Miss Tredennick had said, ‘I will not be blackmailed by mere cacophony,’ and Mrs Muller had to translate the dictum as best she could. Poor Justin, who was the chief sufferer from these assaults, was capricious in his reactions. Sometimes he opened his window and shouted, ‘Stop that filthy row!’ while at other times, if the singers looked really cold and miserable, he darted out with an offering of half a crown. Dorothy, who was enchanted to see their eyes turned upwards to her Christmas-tree, would throw down a sixpence from the balcony. This often led to scuffles in the gutter.

  She had now settled her programme for the five nights round Christmas. On the Friday, she was to take a married couple and a spinster to the theatre, after which the four of them were to have a light supper in the spinster’s flat. (Robert couldn’t come. He said that there was to be a party at the Research Station, and that he was more or less bound to be there. He could have got an invitation for Dorothy, of course, but he knew it wasn’t in her line. She would hate it.)

  On Saturday, Christmas Eve, she was to lunch with Susan, who was coming up for the day, at Garrows, who were remain­ing open till three o’clock that afternoon. In the evening, nothing—in other words, she would be spending it alone with Robert. Perhaps he would take her out to the West End to see the decorations. (Justin, who had thought of asking her and Robert to his cocktail-party that night, had decided against it. It might involve him in too many smiles and chats when he met the Fawleys in the hall.)

  Sunday, Christmas Day. A tedious journey and a still more tedious luncheon—or ‘dinner’, as she knew the meal would be called—with some friends at Hackfield. They were really Robert’s friends, not hers. He would talk to the husband about motor-car engines and probably retire with him to the built-on garage, to lend a hand at some messy repair, while she would have to sit and listen to her hostess explaining how she made her atrocious cakes. In the evening, another blank.

  Monday, the first Boxing Day. A little party at Number Ten in the late afternoon. She had scraped up seven rather incom­patible acquaintances, one of whom was nearly deaf and re­fused to wear an appliance, but any guests were better than none. It would have been intolerable to let the festive season go by without giving some sort of entertainment at home. Besides, it provided a good excuse for titivating the drawing­-room.

  Tuesday, the second Boxing Day. The married couple whom she was taking to the theatre on the Friday were giving a theatre-party in their turn. The show began early, and the treat included supper afterwards. Robert, who had been asked, refused to go with them to the theatre, but after great pressure from Dorothy (herself greatly pressed by her hostess who had an unrequited fondness for Robert), he agreed to come on to the supper. Yet even this concession was qualified. They mustn’t wait for him if he was late, and so on. ‘But, darling, why should you be late?’ Oh, there was a film about a sub­marine he’d thought of going to see, and it didn’t begin till nine-thirty. But surely he could go to the film any night? They might go to it together. No, it was technical. She would be bored by it. Had it not been for her new policy of appeasement, they might have had a little row over this.

  She sighed, with the lukewarm satisfaction of a general, who hopes he has deployed to best advantage the somewhat second-rate troops at his command.

  XIII

  THE NIGHT OF THE TWENTY-THIRD OF DECEMBER

  (pianissimo)

  Doodle ’em, me doodle ’em, me doodle ’em, me doodle ’em.

  Non, non! me doodle ’em. Oui, oui! me doodle ’em.

  Doodle ’em, me doodle ’em, me doodle ’em, me doodle ’em.

  Yip, yip! me doodle ’em. Hiya! me doodle ’em.

  Miss Tredennick stirred in her light sleep. Her dreams were accompanied by the same outrageous lilt which had disturbed the silence of Pollitt Place on that memorable night of mid-September. But now the music was more than merely audible; it had the visible form of a panorama of a thousand night-clubs, a thousand band-leaders dispensing sexual aperitifs as they tapped the polished floor with their glossy patent-leather toes, wriggled their slender black thighs and smirked like sophisti­cated monkeys. Round each one were concentric circles of naked female shoulders and bosoms indecently revealed. Oh for a thousand barrels of vitriol to pour down upon them! St Thomas Aquinas said that one of the pleasures of the blessed would be to watch the torments of the damned writhing in Hell. Well, it would be fun to watch the fat
flesh of those women sizzling! With this thought, Miss Tredennick awoke.

  (più forte)

  Doodle ’em, me doodle ’em, me doodle ’em, me doodle ’em.

  Nein, nein! me doodle ’em; Ja, ja! me doodle ’em . . .

  The refrain still throbbed in her ears, and try as she would, she couldn’t banish it. It was so real, so insistent, though soft and muffled, like music heard through the chink at the top of a window. Then, in a flash, the truth became clear to her. How­ever unreal her vision of band-leaders and naked shoulders might have been, the music was real, and it was coming through the chink at the top of her window. Quivering with excitement, she bundled herself out of bed and into the chair from which she kept her daily watch. Then, drawing a corner of the curtain aside, she peeped out.

  There was a mist in the street, but she could see a car in front of the door of Number Seven. It looked like the very car which had been the first offender. There was no light inside. Had the driver gone indoors with his companion and forgotten to switch off the radio in the car? It was far too cold a night to loiter in the street—too cold even to dance there. But there was a chance they hadn’t yet got out. The car might have a heater—Miss Tredennick had heard that some cars had them nowadays—to keep them warm during their love-making. If only she could hear what they were saying, or better still, see what they were doing! Her imagination rose to great heights—or perhaps one should say, sank to great depths—as she pic­tured lively scenes enacted within that small area of snug darkness. Yes, they were still there! A cigarette-lighter, flaring for a moment behind the off-side window, revealed a male hand and a pair of female lips.

  Doodle ’em, me doodle ’em, me doodle ’em, me doodle ’em . . .

  It seemed as if the car itself was vibrating to the muted rhythm,—and not only the car, but the street-lamp, the area-railings, the street itself. The throbbing had reached Number Ten, the floor of Miss Tredennick’s own bedroom, her own legs, her own body, which rose to fever-heat, while a sudden tremendous buzzing in her head drowned the music. At all costs, she must fight it, keep her ears and eyes at the extremest tension they could bear. She began to count, as people some­times do when the dentist takes a grip of a tooth and begins to tug. One—two—three—four—then something seemed to snap—it might have been a tooth coming out inside her brain—and she shouted, ‘Help! Help! Quick! Come and help me! I’m dying!’

  The cry was so loud and desperate that Dorothy heard it, although it had to reach her bedroom obliquely. She had been awake for about half an hour, regretting that she hadn’t taken her sleeping tablets, but she had gone to bed feeling so calm after the little theatre-party, that she hadn’t thought she would need them.

  She listened intently, and the cry was repeated, but more faintly. In the bed opposite, Robert was snoring gently, in that healthy sleep which is the aftermath of satisfied desire. Dorothy got up and shook his shoulder. He turned his face towards her with a smile and said, ‘Yes, darling—what is it?’ Then, opening his eyes he gave her a look of alarm. ‘Why, what’s the matter?’

  ‘It’s Miss Tredennick. She was shouting for help. Oh, Robert, what ought we to do?’

  ‘Shouting for help?’

  ‘Yes, it sounded like that. Could it be a burglar?’

  ‘Are you sure, Dorothy?’

  ‘Oh yes. I was wide awake when I heard the scream.’

  ‘Then I’d better go up.’

  He jumped out of bed and reached for his thick dressing-gown, which was hanging from a hook on the door. As he did so, his wife thought how young and almost beautiful he looked, with his boyishly tousled hair, his smooth chest re­vealed by his unbuttoned pyjama-jacket, his slender hips and long straight legs. Yet even in that moment of urgency, she wished he would wear the silk dressing-gown which she had given him as a Christmas present, instead of the drab woollen one he was putting on.

  ‘You ought to take something, in case it is a burglar.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t suppose it’s anything more than a nightmare. Still, I might as well take a hammer.’

  He darted into the workshop, came back armed, and opened the door on to the landing.

  ‘Just a minute, while I slip something on, and I’ll come with you.’

  But he was already upstairs and knocking on the door of Miss Tredennick’s bedroom. There was no reply. He knocked again, opened the door, and finding the room in darkness, switched on the light. Miss Tredennick wasn’t in her bed, and at first glance he thought the room was empty. Then, going into the middle of the room, he saw her body on the floor, not prone, but propped up, almost comfortably, against the far side of the bed. She was breathing heavily.

  ‘Who’s that?’

  The words came slowly, but distinctly enough.

  ‘It’s Robert Fawley. Aren’t you well, Miss Tredennick?’

  ‘No. I’m—I’m very ill. I think I must have—had a kind of—stroke. My father had one. Will you put me—on the bed—and send for the doctor?’

  As she spoke, her speech gained in fluency. He turned down the bedding, picked her up in his arms and laid her on the mattress, then quickly covered her with sheet, blankets, and eiderdown.

  She said, ‘You know, I can’t see you. I’ve gone blind. My father didn’t—at least, not till just before he died—but they say it happens like that sometimes. Will you get the doctor—Dr Jamieson, I mean—at once? There’s a telephone by the bed—on the pedestal-cupboard. You’ll find the number in the little green leather book. Who’s that?’

  It was Dorothy, who had ‘slipped something on’ and had made her way, with timorous curiosity, upstairs.

  ‘Oh, Robert, what is it?’

  Miss Tredennick said fiercely, ‘Don’t interrupt Mr Fawley. Ring up the doctor.’

  Robert dialled the number, and after a very long pause, a sleepy voice answered, ‘Who on earth are you?’ Dr Jamieson’s practice was largely confined to well-to-do private patients, most of them suffering from senile decay, and he wasn’t used to emergency calls in the small hours.

  Robert said quietly, ‘I’m speaking from Ten Pollitt Place. Will you please come round at once? Miss Tredennick has suddenly been taken very unwell.’

  ‘Oh dear, I am sorry. Could you describe the symptoms at all—so that I shall know what I need to bring with me?’

  Robert turned to Miss Tredennick and said, ‘Dr Jamieson has asked me to describe the symptoms. Do you think you could——?’

  ‘Yes, give me the telephone. . . . Thank you. Dr Jamieson, this is Miss Tredennick speaking. I’ve gone blind. I suppose it’s a kind of stroke.’

  ‘My dear, dear lady, I’ll be round in ten minutes.’

  Robert took the telephone and put it back on the pedestal-cupboard. Then Dorothy said, ‘Oh, dear Miss Tredennick, can’t I do anything?’

  ‘Mr Fawley, would you now be kind enough to go down­stairs and fetch Mrs Muller? I don’t like to use the bell, in case it wakes Mr Bray.’ Miss Tredennick put sufficient emphasis on Mr Fawley to make it quite clear that the best thing Mrs could do was to go back to bed at once. Robert said, ‘Cer­tainly,’ and ran downstairs, and Dorothy, lacking the courage to make another offer of help, went back to her bedroom, where she did her hair and put on a boudoir-gown.

  Robert had only twice been down to the basement—each time to do some urgent repairs in the kitchen. He knew that the mother and daughter slept in two tiny rooms adjoining it, but didn’t know which had which, and as it happened, it was on Magda’s door that he tapped. She, like Dorothy, though full of very different thoughts, had been lying awake and heard the quick footsteps on the stairs, though it didn’t occur to her that they could be Robert’s. When she opened the door and saw him, she gave a gasp of pleasure, that was immediately followed by one of dismay. She whispered, ‘But this is mad—my mother’s next door!’ Then, noticing the hammer which he was carrying absent-mindedly in his hand, she shrank back in horror. Had he really gone mad? Had he repented and come down to kill her?


  Robert at once stepped back into the passage and said rather loudly, ‘Oh, I’m most terribly sorry. I thought this was your mother’s room. Will you wake her? Miss Tredennick is ill. My wife heard her shouting for help, and we thought it might be burglars. Dr Jamieson will be round very soon. I’ll let him in when he comes. In the meantime, Miss Treden­nick would like your mother to go up to her.’

  Magda sighed with relief, pulled herself together and said, ‘Of course, Mr Fawley. I’ll call Mother at once.’

  Robert watched her with rekindled desires, as she came out of her room and went to the adjoining door. Then, at a sound from the sitting-room behind him, he looked round and saw Hugo bare-footed and in white pyjamas, peeping out at him slyly. Robert thought, ‘What a prurient-minded little brat he is!’ Aloud, he said firmly, ‘Hugo, get back to bed, or you’ll catch a cold.’ Instead of obeying, Hugo stood looking at him with a smile that was both derisive and sweet. Robert shrugged his shoulders angrily, walked up to Mrs Muller’s door, behind which he could hear the sound of voices, tapped on it and said, ‘I’ll let Dr Jamieson in, Mrs Muller. Don’t worry too much. I can’t think Miss Tredennick is very ill. And by the way, before you go up, if I were you I should order Hugo to get back to bed. He’ll only catch a cold or make a nuisance of him­self. Good night, in case I don’t see you again.’ He walked down the passage to the foot of the stairs. As he passed the sitting-room door, Hugo, who was still standing defiantly there, said, ‘Good night, Mr Fawley,’ but Robert didn’t answer or look round.

  But when he reached the foot of the stairs in the hall, he paused and, deciding to wait where he was for the doctor, sat down in a chair. His memory of the earlier part of that night was still tormentingly vivid. Never before had his and Magda’s love-making been so ardent on both sides, so inevitable, so satisfying, so timeless. What a come-down it would be to exchange the ecstacies of Twickenham for the flood of inquisi­tive small-talk which his wife would pour out as soon as she got him alone. (He hadn’t seen her that evening till she awoke him, as he had reached home half an hour before her and by good luck was asleep when she arrived.) He could picture her, sitting on the edge of her bed,—or had she perhaps gone to the sitting-room?—her eyes protruding with excitement and a ghoulish half-smile playing round her thin lips. Any moment, she might call over the banisters to know what he was doing. If she did, he would say he was waiting in the hall to open the door for Dr Jamieson before the bell rang, so that Mr Bray shouldn’t be disturbed.