Rosie Hogarth

by Alexander Baron

  The kiss, the unaffected warmth in his voice, the solicitude, were all new things in him, part of the relaxed happiness with which he had shone in the last few days. He had lost his fidgety tension. He seemed to move about the house with a new sense of belonging, of achievement. He would look at her with calm, unanxious eyes, and in a room full of other people he would smile at her for no apparent reason, so that she had to smile back, feeling like the sharer of some mischievous secret. She had not understood this new turn in his behaviour, but she had accepted it, for she had the gift of accepting everything as it came and treating it as natural and inevitable. Now, however, it made her go cold with grief. It clashed with all that she had just discovered, with all her seething thoughts, and made her confusion worse. She had thought she knew him: she had summed him up as a man without the wit to deceive. He had seemed so natural. He seemed so natural now. She looked at him with wide, shadowed eyes, and shivered for a moment.

  “Look, you’re shivering all over.” He rested his arm along her shoulders. “Sitting there day-dreaming, like a tit in a trance! Come on, love! Your mum’s got the supper on. Can’t you smell those onions?”

  She was completely lost. She had no idea where she was, or what to do. This was worse than a bad dream. There was the man standing over her, happy and appealing, and there was the monster in her mind. How could they be the same person? In the fog of her mind, she could not find a policy, but she stumbled on principles that she must cling to. She did not know why, for she was incapable of ordered thought, but she knew that she must cling to them to the death. She must not crumple. She must not surrender. She must not go to her mother. She must not quarrel. She asked quietly, “Aren’t you going to look at this?”

  “Oh.” His glance did not even linger on the envelope. “From the bank. What’s with the onions? Sausages?”

  “Pork sausages. Let’s look at it now.”

  “Well, come in the kitchen and get warm.”

  “No.” The sudden snapping in her voice made him look at her. She steadied herself. “In here.”

  He pulled the papers out of the envelope. “Want to count up the Agass millions, eh? All right, let’s have a look at it.”

  She must not quarrel. She did not know why, but as she fought her cold anger, she knew that she must not quarrel. She did not know what was going to happen in the next few minutes, but instinct told her that to remain calm was to cast him down. Each time he spoke to her she did not know what she was going to reply until she opened her mouth; but she gripped her anger tight and let instinct guide her. “Can you see what the balance is?”

  “Ah.” His mouth was open. He was looking at the bank sheet with puzzled but innocent eyes. She could not doubt their innocence, and this struck a sudden doubt into her anger. He had been so natural these last few days, so eager, so happy to be at her side! Was she right to strike him down? What was she destroying? Doubt, unresolved, only increased the stifling, chilled anger.

  “I thought we had more than that,” she said calmly. “A hundred and ninety-four. I thought we had twice that much.”

  “We have. Three hundred quid at least,” he said in a vague, pondering voice, looking irresolutely up and down the sheet. He folded it to put it away. “Some mistake, I reckon. They do make mistakes. The money’s all right, anyway. You can count on that. Come on inside. I’m starving.”

  “Count it up.”

  “Oh, it’ll wait. I’ll go round to the bank in the morning, they’ll put it right. What’s up with you, Joycie, sitting there like the Rock of Ages?”

  “Count up the cheques.”

  “Here!” He tried to be jovially commanding. “When I say move, move! You have got the wind up, girl! Money’s all right in the bank. It don’t melt.”

  “Doesn’t it?”

  He sighed, and began to count through the cheques. “Mistake, all right.”

  She took the slip of paper from her pocket and handed it to him. “Add this one in.”

  He looked at it for a long time. He raised his eyes and looked, brooding, at her.

  “One hundred pounds,” she said evenly. “Made out to Rose Hogarth. That brings the total out right, doesn’t it?”

  “You’ve got it all worked out, haven’t you?” he muttered. “Jury’s brought in the verdict already, eh?”

  She did not answer. The mental tension was becoming unbearable in her, but she was surprised to find that with it came a bodily lassitude that helped her to maintain her placid, threatening pose.

  “Bitch,” he muttered. “The rotten bitch!”

  The beginnings of scorn glowed in her eyes, deceptively like a smile. “Seen her often?”

  He shook his head, and spoke through a throat full of phlegm. “You don’t understand.”

  “No?” Her voice was low, and she knew that to him it sounded amused.

  “No you don’t!”

  “Don’t shout!” She waited.

  He made a few little hunted movements about the room. “I seen her a few times. It’s all over. You don’t understand. It’s — Oh, you don’t, that’s all!”

  “If you’re going to cry, here’s my hankie.”

  “Oh, for God’s sake! Don’t come that lark with me! I know what you want to say — say it!”

  She kept herself quiet. A vengeful happiness filled her. It had no relation to her previous emotions, or to her intentions. It was simply an exultation that she — Joyce Wakerell! — was able to play this part. She could have wished for an audience. She felt supreme, imperial. She felt as if there were an audience. She was willing to throw her whole life away to enjoy the unexpected, undreamed-of ecstasy of acting this moment out. Someone — a man — was squirming before her. She was filled with wonder at herself. She was not crying! She was not raving at him! She had not run to her mother! She was not lost for words! All her hopes had collapsed, and she could behave like this! “There’s nothing for me to say. Suppose you tell me.”

  “I —” He paced away, then back to her, and smote his left fist against his thigh. “I never give her this. I don’t know how she got it. She’s done me. I never thought she’d — Oh, I should have expected it! Tart like that, she’s used to robbing fellers blind.”

  “Then we can go to the police.”

  “Police? Why?”

  “Because you never gave it to her.”

  “Police? Joycie, leave us alone. You don’t know how I’m feeling. I never knew people were like this.”

  The anguish in his face did not touch her. “You break my heart.”

  “I can’t — Look, I can’t go to the police. I give it to her. I mean, I did and I didn’t. It was a blank cheque. I forgot all about it. I — Oh, there’s nothing I can do about it. I can’t explain now. Give us an hour. I feel as if the bloody world was coming to bits. I mean, after, I’ll tell you all about it, afterwards I will.”

  She sat as if she had not heard him. She knew that her calm, stubborn appearance was not only maddening him but was shattering his entire understanding of her. She was a woman, and it was her best weapon, this bovine obduracy. “Tell me,” she said, “tell me about this other money you drew out without my knowing. All those fivers I found the stubs for in your cheque book. Did you spend them on her? Did you get your money’s-worth?”

  “Oh!” It was a cry of despair. He clenched his fists helplessly. “You don’t know! You don’t know!”

  “I suppose I’m jumping to conclusions?”

  “Yes, you are!”

  “I told you not to shout. And you didn’t get your money’s-worth?”

  “No, I didn’t!”

  “Now this —” She produced another piece of paper from her pocket. “This letter is interesting. ‘My dear Jack, I was in such a hurry to grab that taxi the other night before it got away, that I didn’t have time to thank you properly for a lovely evening. Night clubs and champagne! What a man of the world our Jackie Agass has become! Lamb Street ought to know! The dinner-dance was nice, too. Now, Jack, let’s face
it. We haven’t really had that heart-to-heart, have we? Don’t let’s put it off any more. Let’s have a nice quiet evening next time and put our cards on the table. I know where we can go, where no-one will disturb us. Ring me, and we’ll fix it. All my love, Rose.’ ”

  “Where’d you get that?”

  “Where do you think?”

  “Been in my room spying, eh?”

  She smiled. “And you tell me you didn’t get your money’s-worth? Yet you thought this was worth keeping. There must be some sweet memories attached to it. Jackie Agass, man of the world. “Night clubs and champagne... the dinner-dance was nice, too.” You never took me to any of those places. She must have something that I haven’t got. Or perhaps she’s just freer with it. Oh, well, I hope you enjoyed yourself —” her voice flamed momentarily — “on our money.”

  “Your money’s safe! Hundred quid was all you put in. You can have it any time you like.”

  “Thank you for nothing. And what about our home?”

  “Our home?”

  “The money for our home. Remember? It used to mean something to you.”

  “I’ll make it up, Joycie. Look, I can’t argue with you now. I know it looks bad, but let me get my head clear — please! — and then let me try to tell you.”

  “There’s only one thing I want you to do, and that’s to get out.”

  “Get out?”

  She was still able to speak slowly and quietly. “Mr. Echo today, aren’t you? Pack your bags and get out. As soon as you like. You’re no use to me any more.”

  “You’re daft!”

  “Thank you. Now get out.”

  “Joycie, you can’t do this! You’re not in your right mind. Not now, you can’t. Joyce, I’ve been through a lot. You don’t know a thing about it. But it’s all right now. I’ve never felt so good as I did these last few days. Everything had started to be all right between us. I felt it. You must have felt it, too. We were just starting —” He looked down at her heavy, indifferent face, and his voice died away.

  She remained silent.

  “Are you prepared to make a fool of yourself?” His voice was harsh and loud with bitterness. “In front of all the neighbours? In front of all your friends? Breaking it off at this time of day? You’ll have some explaining to do, won’t you? And another thing, you might have to wait a bit, you know, before you get another chance. If you get another chance!”

  She lifted up her head as if it were very heavy, and looked at him with unfamiliar, glittering eyes. “That’s my business. I’ve made a fool of myself already. Grovelling to you. ‘Yes, dear. No, dear. Don’t you like this hat, dear? Then I won’t wear it.’ I’ll tell you something you didn’t know, Jack Agass. I’ve got pride. You didn’t know that. As far as I can see, no-one has ever known it. But I have, and I’d rather keep it than keep you.” She lowered her head. “Now go away.”

  “Not likely! Wild horses wouldn’t get me out of this house. I’m fed up with it! I’ve never had a life of my own, not a proper one. All these years, wandering about like some old moggy in the back-yards. I’m not having any more of that. There’s only four weeks between me and a home of my own, and I’m not letting that go down the pan now, not for you or no-one.” She did not speak. He made a last attempt to strike a response from her. “You see what your mum says. Go on! You ask your Mum. See what she tells you to do.”

  “Ha!” For a moment she thought her hysteria was going to burst out of her; then she was under control again. She said, in an even, grating voice, “I know her advice. A girl should marry any man that’ll have her. She’d marry me off to a hunchbacked pansy with a glass eye, she would, and expect me to thank her. You’re leavings,” she said vengefully, “you’re somebody’s leavings, and I don’t want you. Go away.”

  There was a long pause.

  “Well, I don’t know,”Jack sighed. “I feel too done up to carry on with this kind of a shindy. It’s a waste of breath arguing with you now. You’ll change your mind. We’ll talk later.”

  “Do me a favour and don’t try.”

  “I’ve got a lot more to say to you, my girl. You’re all wet if you think I’m giving up that easy.”

  She made a pout of indifference. “Suit yourself. I can’t throw you out. But you’ll find me deaf, dumb and blind from now on.”

  “You’re daft,” Jack said despondently. “I’m going to wash now. I’ll talk to you when you’re in your right mind.”

  She maintained her attitude of disdainful serenity until he had gone. When the door closed, there was a last mad flare of triumph in her. Then, in a flash, the illusion of victory vanished, and the unseeing anger died. Her mood had turned instantaneously into its opposite, a crushing sense of defeat and loneliness. She relaxed. Her body had been slack and tired all the time, yet it was aching with strain. She went out quietly into the hall, fearful that her mother might be lying in wait to find out what had been happening. She had managed to carry off her scene with Jack, but she knew that it was beyond her to face another minute of coherent conversation. All that had happened was beyond her understanding, and now she was lost. She ran up to her room, locked herself in, collapsed on to the bed and went off into a quiet fit of hysterics.

  Part Five

  Chapter One

  It was Saturday afternoon, and Lamb Street was quiet. A couple of hours earlier all its menfolk had departed, accompanied by some of the younger women and a horde of small boys who, even though it was November the Fifth — Guy Fawkes’ Day — had abandoned the heap of timber they were assembling on the building site for the evening’s bonfire and had joined in the pilgrimage. From every street in the borough contingents had set forth at the same time, every side turning contributing its trickle to the flow of people that streamed along Upper Street, thickened into black tides as it poured through Highbury and, reinforced by thousands of men and women coming from other directions, surged in a great crowd at the approaches to the Arsenal Football Stadium.

  It was more than a mere desire for diversion that brought these masses of people together. They were bound by a fervour, a spirit of community almost religious in its intensity; it showed in their faces as they smiled at each other, stranger to stranger, and in their voices as they exchanged comments; as it must have shown itself in the faces and voices of ancient Greeks thronging to their festive Games or to the ritual performances at their vast theatres. These people lived in little groups, some recognizing no constant loyalty outside the household, few having any ties outside the street. The outside world meant nothing to them except when, on some occasion, a wider allegiance stirred them; the General Strike, when their class called to them and they responded, whether they agreed with the strike or not, and regardless of the cost to themselves; or the war when, with invasion threatening, they became aware of their country and rose nobly to its defence. At all other times they distrusted and feared everyone in the world but their own personal friends. They hated no-one in particular, but they were prepared, with a little persuasion, to hate Irishmen, Welshmen, Jews, Germans, Russians, Americans, people who talked in any other accent than their own, people who lived in more prosperous districts and people who lived in poorer districts. Their need for a larger unity, but one not too large to understand, was fulfilled by their football team. A common interest in it bound together a hundred thousand people. Within the borough, a man could strike up a conversation about it with any passer-by; their faces would light up, their voices would become eager, and in a few minutes they would be like old friends. There was an excitement in the clatter of feet all walking in the same direction, in the sight of the vast, packed stadium, in feeling the surge of all these thousands of friends against one’s shoulders, in the appearance of the eleven splendid young men — the sons and champions of the whole community — and in joining in the inspiring, unifying roar that greeted their feats. Every man in Islington felt bigger and better when the Arsenal won a game.

  Mr. Wakerell and Jack had gone to the match. Mrs. Wakerell,
in the meantime, was preparing for a weekly ritual that was almost as important as the game: Saturday afternoon tea. She banked up the kitchen fire, laid a clean tablecloth, put fresh flowers in the vase and set out a large cream cake and a plate of pastries. Kippers lay in the pan on the gas stove, to be fried as soon as the men came in.

  Joyce helped her, but she did not speak to her mother, pushing to and fro past her with face averted. Joyce’s whole appearance had changed in the last three days. Throughout that time she had been ill with rage and misery; violently, physically ill. Her head throbbed incessantly with pain and confusion. She had fits of dizziness, and there were times when she could not see clearly. She vomited after meals, felt tired all the time, and when people spoke to her their voices seemed to come from far away. Grief had made her ugly. Her eyes were red, her skin, turned dark and muddy in hue, was blotched and greasy. The lustre had gone from her hair, which looked coarse and obviously bleached, with dark streaks at the roots. She wore her glasses, blinking malignantly through them at everyone who approached her, and she moved about with a neglectful, self-pitying lassitude that made her look clumsy and gross.

  She had not been to work since her quarrel with Jack. Maureen had called and had been sent packing with a few muttered and false excuses. Joyce had spent most of the time in her room, lying across her bed. When she came downstairs she behaved like an animal at bay, snarling and shrinking back whenever anyone spoke to her. Jack had tried repeatedly to approach her. Each time she had shut her eyes, pressed her lips together and turned her back on him. He had pleaded across the table, told her a long story about himself and Rose, begged her to think of the future, pointed out that the money she had entrusted to him was still in the bank for her to draw if she wanted it, urged her to ‘be a sport’, followed her up to her room and even pushed a letter (which she had torn up) under her door. He had put his case to her parents and Mrs. Wakerell, after reviling him, had promised him her support. This had taken the form of following Joyce about the house with such arguments as, “If you play your cards right, my girl, you’ll never have any more trouble with him. Break his spirit, that’s what I say. Now’s the time to do it,” or, “What about all that stuff in your cupboard? It’s worth a fortune. As long as you’ve got it, you’ve got him where you want him,” or, “Don’t be a little fool! What right have you got to be so particular?” Joyce had faced each verbal assault in a rigid posture of defiance, her head tilted back, her face pinched and unmoving, with only an occasional flash of dissent in her eyes to show that her mother’s words were reaching her. Mr. Wakerell had tried, in a quiet, shamefaced way, to talk to her. Joyce liked him, but she had never been able to penetrate his shyness nor he to break out of it to her. She would listen, her expression patient, and sometimes she would glance up quickly as if about to speak; but the moment would pass unfulfilled; she would turn away and her father would break off, abashed, and retire behind his seed catalogue.