by Jean Rhys
Christine laughed softly.
‘That’s what my friend told me,’ Lotus said, ignoring her hostess. ‘“Whatever you do, don’t be gloomy,” he said, “because that gets on people’s nerves. And don’t write about anything you know, for then you get excited and say too much, and that gets under their skins too. Make it up; use your imagination.” And what about my book? That isn’t sad, is it! I’m using my imagination. All the same, I wish I could write down some of the things that have happened to me, just write them down straight, sad or not sad. I’ve had my bit of fun too; I’ll say I have.’
Ronnie looked at Christine, but instead of responding she looked away and pushed the decanter across the table.
‘Have another drink before you tell us any more. Do, please. That’s what the whisky’s here for. Make the most of it, because I’m sorry to say there isn’t any more in the kitchen and the pub is shut now.’
‘She thinks I’m drinking too much of your Scotch,’ Lotus said to Ronnie.
‘No, I’m sure she doesn’t think that.’
‘Well, don’t think that, dear – what’s your name? – Christine. I’ve got a bottle of port downstairs and I’ll go and get it in a minute.’
‘Do,’ Christine said. ‘Let’s be really matey.’
‘That’s right, dear. Well, as I was saying to Mr Miles, the best thing I ever wrote was poetry. I don’t give a damn about the novel, just between you and me. Only to make some money, the novel is. Poetry’s what I really like. All the same, the memory I’ve got, you wouldn’t believe. Do you know, I can remember things people have said to me ever so long ago? If I try, I can hear the words and I can remember the voice saying them. It’s wonderful, the memory I’ve got. Of course, I can’t do it as well now as I used to, but there you are, nobody stays young for ever.’
‘No, isn’t it distressing?’ Christine remarked to no one in particular. ‘Most people go on living long after they ought to be dead, don’t they? Especially women.’
‘Sarcastic, isn’t she? A dainty little thing, but sarcastic.’ Lotus got up, swayed and held on to the mantelpiece. ‘Are you a mother, dear?’
‘Do you mean me?’
‘No, I can see you’re not – and never will be if you can help it. You’re too fly, aren’t you? Well, anyway, I’ve just finished a poem. I wrote it with the tears running down my face and it’s the best thing I ever wrote. It was as if somebody was saying into my ears all the time, “Write it, write it.” Just like that. It’s about a woman and she’s in court and she hears the judge condemning her son to death. “You must die,” he says. “No, no, no,” the woman says, “he’s too young.” But the old judge keeps on. “Till you die,” he says. And, you see –’ her voice rose – ‘he’s not real. He’s a dummy, like one of those things ventriloquists have, he’s not real. And nobody knows it. But she knows it. And so she says – wait, I’ll recite it to you.’
She walked into the middle of the room and stood very straight with her head thrown back and her feet together. Then she clasped her hands loosely behind her back and announced in a high, artificial voice, ‘The Convict’s Mother’.
Christine began to laugh. ‘This is too funny. You mustn’t think me rude, I can’t help it. Recitations always make me behave badly.’ She went to the gramophone and turned over the records. ‘Dance for us instead. I’m sure you dance beautifully. Here’s the very thing – “Just One More Chance”. That’ll do, won’t it?’
‘Don’t take any notice of her,’ Ronnie said. ‘You go on with the poem.’
‘Not much I won’t. What’s the good, if your wife doesn’t like poetry?’
‘Oh, she’s only a silly kid.’
‘Tell me what you laugh at, and I’ll tell you what you are,’ Lotus said. ‘Most people laugh when you’re unhappy, that’s when they laugh. I’ve lived long enough to know that – and maybe I’ll live long enough to see them laugh the other side of their faces, too.’
‘Don’t you take any notice of her,’ Ronnie repeated. ‘She’s like that.’ He nodded at Christine’s back, speaking in a proud and tender voice. ‘She was telling me only this morning that she doesn’t believe in being sentimental about other people. Weren’t you, Christine?’
‘I didn’t tell you anything of the sort.’ Christine turned round, her face scarlet. ‘I said I was tired of slop – that’s what I said. And I said I was sick of being asked to pity people who are only getting what they deserve. When people have a rotten time you can bet it’s their own fault.’
‘Go on,’ said Lotus. ‘You’re talking like a bloody fool, dear. You’ve never felt anything in your life, or you wouldn’t be able to say that. Rudimentary heart, that’s your trouble. Your father may be a clergyman, but you’ve got a rudimentary heart all the same.’ She was still standing in the middle of the room, with her hands behind her back. ‘You tell her, Mr What’s-your-name? Tell the truth and shame the devil. Go on, tell your little friend she’s talking like a bloody fool.’
‘Now, now, now, what’s all this about?’ Ronnie shifted uncomfortably. He reached out for the decanter and tilted it upside down into his glass. ‘It’s always when you want a drink really badly that there isn’t any more. Have you ever noticed it? What about that port?’
The two women were glaring at each other. Neither answered him.
‘What about that port, Mrs Heath? Let’s have a look at that port you promised us.’
‘Oh yes, the port,’ Lotus said, ‘the port. All right, I’ll get it.’
As soon as she had gone Christine began to walk up and down the room furiously. ‘What’s the idea? Why are you encouraging that horrible woman? “Your little friend”, did your hear that? Does she think I’m your concubine or something? Do you like her to insult me?’
‘Oh, don’t be silly, she didn’t mean to insult you,’ Ronnie argued. ‘She’s tight – that’s what’s the matter with her. I think she’s damned comic. She’s the funniest old relic of the past I’ve struck for a long time.’
Christine went on as if she had not heard him. ‘This hellish, filthy slum and my hellish life in it! And now you must produce this creature, who stinks of whisky and all the rest better left unsaid, to talk to me. To talk to me! There are limits, as you said yourself, there are limits . . . Seduced on a haystack, my God! . . . She oughtn’t to be touched with a barge-pole.’
‘I say, look out,’ Ronnie said. ‘She’s coming back. She’ll hear you.’
‘Let her hear me,’ said Christine.
She went on to the landing and stood there. When she saw the top of Lotus’ head she said in a clear, high voice, ‘I really can’t stay any longer in the same room as that woman. The mixture of whisky and mustiness is too awful.’
She went into the bedroom, sat down on the bed and began to laugh. Soon she was laughing so heartily that she had to put the back of her hand over her mouth to stop the noise.
‘Hullo,’ Ronnie said, ‘so here you are.’
‘I couldn’t find the port.’
‘That’s all right. Don’t you worry about that.’
‘I did have some.’
‘That’s quite all right . . . My wife’s not very well. She’s had to go to bed.’
‘I know when I’ve had the bird, Mr Miles,’ Lotus said. ‘Only give us another drink. I bet you’ve got some put away somewhere.’
There was some sherry in the cupboard.
‘Thanks muchly.’
‘Won’t you sit down?’
‘No, I’m going. But see me downstairs. It’s so dark, and I don’t know where the lights are.’
‘Certainly, certainly.’
He went ahead, turning on the lights at each landing, and she followed him, holding on to the banisters.
Outside the rain had stopped but the wind was still blowing strong and very cold.
‘Help me down these damned steps, will you? I don’t feel too good.’
He put his hand under her arm and they went down the area steps. She got her ke
y out of her bag and opened the door of the basement flat.
‘Come on in for a minute. I’ve got a lovely fire going.’
The room was small and crowded with furniture. Four straight-backed chairs with rococo legs, armchairs with the stuffing coming out, piles of old magazines, photographs of Lotus herself, always in elaborate evening dress, smiling and lifeless.
Ronnie stood rocking himself from heel to toe. He liked the photographs. ‘Must have been a good-looking girl twenty years ago,’ he thought, and as if in answer Lotus said in a tearful voice, ‘I had everything; my God, I had. Eyes, hair, teeth, figure, the whole damned thing. And what was the good of it?’
The window was shut and a brown curtain was drawn across it. The room was full of the sour smell of the three dustbins that stood in the area outside.
‘What d’you pay for this place?’ Ronnie said, stroking his chin.
‘Thirty bob a week, unfurnished.’
‘Do you know that woman owns four houses along this street? And every floor let, basements and all. But there you are – money makes money, and if you haven’t any you can whistle for it. Yes, money makes money.’
‘Let it,’ said Lotus. ‘I don’t care a damn.’
‘Now then, don’t talk so wildly.’
‘I don’t care a damn. Tell the world I said it. Not a damn. That was never what I wanted. I don’t care about the things you care about.’
‘Cracked, poor old soul,’ he thought, and said: ‘Well, I’ll be getting along if you’re all right.’
‘You know – that port. I really had some. I wouldn’t have told you I had some if I hadn’t. I’m not that sort of person at all. You believe me, don’t you?’
‘Of course I do.’ He patted her shoulder. ‘Don’t you worry about a little thing like that.’
‘When I came down it had gone. And I don’t need anybody to tell me where it went, either.’
‘Ah?’
‘Some people are blighters; some people are proper blighters. He takes everything he can lay his hands on. Never comes to see me except it’s to grab something.’ She put her elbows on her knees and her head in her hands and began to cry. ‘I’ve had enough. I’ve had enough, I can tell you. The things people say! My Christ, the things they say . . .’
‘Oh, don’t let them get you down,’ Ronnie said. ‘That’ll never do. Better luck next time.’
She did not answer or look at him. He fidgeted. ‘Well, I must be running along, I’m afraid. Cheerio. Remember – better luck next time.’
As soon as he got upstairs Christine called out from the bedroom, and when he went in she told him that they must get away, that it wasn’t any good saying he couldn’t afford a better flat, he must afford a better flat.
Ronnie thought that on the whole she was right, but she talked and talked and after a while it got on his nerves. So he went back into the sitting-room and read a list of second-hand gramophone records for sale at a shop near by, underlining the titles that attracted him. ‘I’m a Dreamer, Aren’t We All?’ ‘I’ve Got You under My Skin’ – that one certainly; he underlined it twice. Then he collected the glasses and took them into the kitchen for the charwoman to wash up the next morning.
He opened the window and looked out at the wet street. ‘I’ve got you under my skin,’ he hummed softly.
The street was dark as a country lane, bordered with lopped trees. It glistened – rather wickedly, he thought.
‘Deep in the heart of me,’ he hummed. Then he shivered – a very cold wind for the time of year – turned away from the window and wrote a note to the charwoman: ‘Mrs Bryan. Please call me as soon as you get here.’ He underlined ‘soon’ and propped the envelope up against one of the dirty dishes. As he did so he heard an odd, squeaking noise. He looked out of the window again. A white figure was rushing up the street, looking very small and strange in the darkness.
‘But she’s got nothing on,’ he said aloud, and craned out eagerly.
A police whistle sounded. The squeaking continued, and the Garlands’ window above him went up.
Two policemen half-supported, half-dragged Lotus along. One of them had wrapped her in his cape, which hung down to her knees. Her legs were moving unsteadily below it. The trio went down the area steps.
Christine had come into the kitchen and was looking over his shoulder. ‘Good Lord,’ she said. ‘Well, that’s one way of attracting attention if all else fails.’
The bell rang.
‘It’s one of the policemen,’ said Ronnie.
‘What’s he want to ring our bell for? We don’t know anything about her. Why doesn’t he ring somebody else’s bell?’
The bell rang again.
‘I’d better go down,’ Ronnie said.
‘Do you know anything about Mrs Heath, Mrs Lotus Heath, who lives in the basement flat?’ the policeman asked.
‘I know her by sight,’ Ronnie answered cautiously.
‘She’s a bit of a mess,’ said the policeman.
‘Oh, dear!’
‘She’s passed out stone cold,’ the policeman went on confidentially. ‘And she looks as if there’s something more than drink the matter, if you ask me.’
Ronnie said in a shocked voice – he did not know why – ‘Is she dying?’
‘Dying? No!’ said the policeman, and when he said ‘No!’ death became unthinkable, the invention of hysteria, something that simply didn’t happen. Not to ordinary people. ‘She’ll be all right. There’ll be an ambulance here in a minute. Do you know anything about the person?’
‘Nothing,’ Ronnie said, ‘nothing.’
‘Ah?’ The policeman wrote in his notebook. ‘Is there anybody else in the house, do you think, who’d give us some information?’ He shone a light on the brass plates on the door post. ‘Mr Garland?’
‘Not Mr Garland,’ Ronnie answered hurriedly. ‘I’m sure not. She’s not at all friendly with the Garlands, I know that for a fact. She didn’t have much to do with anybody.’
‘Thank you very much,’ the policeman said. Was his voice ironical?
He pressed Miss Reid’s bell and when no answer came looked upwards darkly. But he didn’t get any change out of Number Six, Albion Crescent. Everybody had put their lights out and shut their windows.
‘You see –’ Ronnie began.
‘Yes, I see,’ the policeman said.
When Ronnie got upstairs again Christine was in bed.
‘Well, what was it all about?’
‘She seems to have conked out. They’re getting an ambulance.’
‘Really? Poor devil.’ (‘Poor devil’ she said, but it did not mean anything.) ‘I thought she looked awful, didn’t you? That dead-white face, and her lips such a funny colour after her lipstick got rubbed off. Did you notice?’
A car stopped outside and Ronnie saw the procession coming up the area steps, everybody looking very solemn and important. And it was pretty slick, too – the way they put the stretcher into the ambulance. He knew that the Garlands were watching from the top floor and Mrs Spencer from the floor below. Miss Reid’s floor was in darkness because she was away for a few days.
‘Funny how this street gives me goose-flesh tonight,’ he thought. ‘Somebody walking over my grave, as they say.’
He could not help admiring the way Christine ignored the whole sordid affair, lying there with her eyes shut and the elderdown pulled up under her chin, smiling a little. She looked very pretty, warm and happy like a child when you have given it a sweet to suck. And peaceful.
A lovely child. So lovely that he had to tell her how lovely she was, and start kissing her.
A Solid House
‘What’s happening now?’ Miss Spearman said loudly. She was very deaf.
‘A bit quieter,’ Teresa shouted.
Miss Spearman put her hands to her ears and shook her head. She hadn’t heard.
‘There, love,’ she said. Her arms were thin as drumsticks, her chest bony, her hair soft as a cat’s fur. ‘It’s all over
. There, love.’
‘Cigarette?’ Teresa said.
But when she opened her cigarette case it was empty. That was because the tobacconist on the corner had refused to sell her any the evening before. He always refused women customers when there was a shortage – and very pleased he was to be able to do it. She wondered what the old beast would say if he knew that she rather liked him. His open hatred and contempt were a relief from the secret hatreds that hissed from between the lines of newspapers or the covers of books, or peeped from sly smiling eyes. A woman? Yes, a woman. A woman must, a woman shall or a woman will.
Miss Spearman was fussing about something, too.
‘I’ve left my earphone upstairs. Stupid! D’you think it’s worthwhile going to get it?’
‘No, don’t. Better not,’ Teresa said. Certainly better not, she thought, as the silence and emptiness gradually filled with fragments of sentences, columns of figures which she was compelled to add up, subtract and multiply – and with the sound of that first scream and crash. The top of her head, which felt very thin anyway, began to rattle and shake.
Miss Spearman said, whispering this time, ‘Right overhead now, aren’t they? Perhaps they’re ours.’
Ours? Perhaps, maybe . . .
Pressed flat against the cellar wall, they listened to the inexorable throbbing of the planes. And above them the house waited, its long, gloomy passages full of echoes, shadows, creakings – rats, perhaps. But the square outside was calm and indifferent, the trees cleaner than in a London square, not smelling the same, either.
‘Anything?’ Miss Spearman asked.
‘Gone, I think,’ Teresa said, and made signs.
She remembered playing hide-and-seek in a cellar very like this one long ago. Curious, that hide-and-seek. It started well. You picked your side (I pick you, I pick you), then suddenly, in the middle, something happened. Everything changed and became horrible and meaningless. But still it went on. You hid, or you ran with a red face, pretending you knew what it was all about. The boys showed off, became brutal; the girls trotted along, imitating, trying to keep up, but with sidelong looks, sudden fits of giggling, which often ended in tears.