The Furnished Room

by Laura Del-Rivo

  ‘Teresa, that’s my daughter, doesn’t look like that now. That photo was taken three years ago, and now she’s left the toddler stage and reached the child stage. She’s lost one of her front teeth and there’s a funny little gap when she smiles.’

  ‘Oh yes.’

  ‘And she’s getting on very well at school. The teacher said she’s one of the best in the class at reading.’

  ‘Oh, good.’

  When they had finished eating, Georgia said: ‘Well, I’ll just move this out of your way...’ and removed the tray and table. Then she turned on the electric fire. It was made to look like a basket of logs. The order and ease of her living bemused him. It was pleasant to have someone thoughtful enough to clear away, so that he could stretch his legs and did not have to look at dirty plates. He compared it with the messy way in which he lived. He had an unsatisfactory method of piling dirty crockery into the china bowl, carrying the bowl down to the bathroom to wash up, and afterwards poking the scraps down the plug hole with his fingers.

  He leant back in the armchair, letting comfort and whisky spread over him. He imagined having a servant, a housekeeper. It would be pleasant to have someone to look after his comfort. On the other hand, there would be the disadvantage of a woman talking when he wanted to read.

  ‘Now,’ Georgia said, ‘tell me what you’ve been doing with yourself lately.’

  ‘Oh, nothing much.’ He offered her a cigarette, leaning close to her when he lit it.

  ‘Thanks.’ She smoked as if it was a deeply satisfying sensual experience, her eyelids sexily lowered.

  He said: ‘All this is very pleasant. The room and the meal and everything.’

  ‘I’m very glad you came. I would have spent a lonely evening otherwise.’

  ‘Me, too.’

  ‘Then what about Ilsa Barnes? I heard that you two were together again.’

  ‘Where did you hear that?’

  ‘Ah-ha, the grapevine! Actually I’m delighted, I think Ilsa’s a sweet girl.’

  ‘Do you?’

  Georgia regarded the tip of her cigarette. ‘Well, she’s certainly very bright and amusing, anyway. I saw her about a week ago at a party. She was sitting on the edge of the table, and showing rather a lot of leg, and another girl made a bitchy comment about this. And Ilsa said, quick as a flash: “Well, you could hardly do it with your legs, could you, dear?”’

  He felt a quick stab of jealousy that Ilsa should exist and say things and swing her slim legs when he was not there. She had no right to exist out of his life. He said: ‘Anyway, she’s staying with her parents at present.’

  ‘For long?’

  ‘No, only a week.’

  ‘Well, anyway,’ Georgia said, ‘you’re happy with her, and that’s the main thing.’

  ‘Happy? No, she doesn’t make me happy. Another person can make you unhappy, but can’t make you happy. Happiness has nothing to do with other people. Sometimes, for instance, I know I’m a god and that everything is good. It’s a feeling of certainty and affirmation. But this feeling comes when I’m alone.’

  ‘Do you often feel like that?’

  ‘No, on the contrary, generally I feel only a paralysing despair. It settles on everything like grey dust.’

  ‘Can’t you decide which of the two is right?’

  ‘It’s not a question of one being right. They are just states which occur.’

  Georgia did not answer. Instead, she put her hand on his arm. He automatically covered her hand with his own.

  He said: ‘It annoys me when people talk of happiness, as if it was an object that could be kept. Something you get when you marry, together with vases and tea services. My definition of happiness is spiritual intensity, and it certainly can’t be kept. Most people have to grub along as best they can without happiness; it’s senseless to try and chase it and pretend that happiness is a necessity.’

  She considered this for a while, then asked: ‘But how do you feel about Ilsa?’

  ‘Oh hell, Georgia, I don’t know. My feelings for people are so contradictory. I say things I don’t mean; I even feel things I don’t mean. There are always elements of unreality and absurdity in my relationships. Sometimes I think that I don’t really feel anything for people at all, and only pretend to because it’s the expected convention.’

  ‘Don’t you think you fight yourself too much? That may be the reason you can’t genuinely feel. I may be wrong, Joe, but my intuition tells me that you should stop fighting yourself and learn to accept yourself.’

  The whisky and her kind, womanly voice hummed in his head. He was not really listening to her.

  She said: ‘After all, proper living means accepting yourself, being adjusted to yourself.’

  He woke with a start, and energetically thumped the chair arm. ‘You’re wrong, Georgia, you’re wrong, wrong, wrong! There are thousands of people who contentedly accept their stupid, limited, mediocre selves. They’re even proud of themselves, for God’s sake! They call themselves the little man, or an ordinary man, or the man in the street, as if mediocrity was something to be proud of! Not one of them interests me in the least. The men who interest me are the ones who are dissatisfied.’

  ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to annoy you.’ Her blue eyes, staring into his, had the unfocussed look of a drunk woman’s.

  ‘You didn’t annoy me. How could you annoy me? I think you’re sweet.’

  ‘Do you?’

  He pulled her out of her chair to sit on his knee. Kissing her was an oblivion. It was any mouth, any arms.

  After a while, she said: ‘Excuse me a minute...’

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘I won’t be a minute.’

  He released her, and watched her leave the room.

  Alone, he said to himself: ‘You’re a bit drunk, boy.’ He went over and threw himself on to the divan. The embroidery on the cushions made him laugh; he picked at the flower design. Lying and laughing and picking at the embroidery silk, he felt irresponsible.

  He heard music outside and got up to look out of the window. The music came from the pub on the corner.

  He could see a man in a raincoat and brown felt hat walking very straight along the centre of the pavement, as lonely men do. Farther up the street a youth came out of a house, wheeling a bicycle. Beckett said aloud in North Country: ‘Eee lad, it’s a right rum do all right.’

  He heard Georgia’s footsteps returning, and lay down again on the divan.

  When she came in, she said: ‘I see you’ve made yourself comfortable.’

  ‘Very comfortable. Come and join me.’

  She had taken her nylons off, and he guessed that she had also removed her roll-on. When she snuggled against him, he noticed that she smelled of fresh soap.

  ‘Talk to me,’ Georgia said.

  ‘What about?’

  ‘Oh, anything. There’s something friendly and reassuring about a human voice.’

  He smiled, strumming his fingers on her bare shoulder. He could hear singing from the pub across the road: ‘Saturday Night at the Crown’. It occurred to him that they had been singing that same song all the time he and Georgia had been making love. Then he thought: no, they must have begun and ended with that song, and sung others in between. But he could not remember any of the other songs. Only ‘Saturday Night at the Crown’ to a honky-tonk piano.

  The pub music was broken by an angry voice, drunk and Irish. ‘Don’t you shove me!’ the voice yelled. ‘Don’t you shove me!’ Other voices joined in, but the Irish one rose above them, solitary as the cry of an animal. ‘Don’t you shove me, that’s all! Don’t you shove me!’

  ‘They always make a row in that pub,’ Georgia said. ‘Do you think there’ll be a fight?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ He sat up, preparing to get out of bed and go to the window.

  ‘Ah no, don’t go.’ She pulled him back. The odour of sex stirred between her thighs when she moved.

  He looked down at her, seeing her placi
d face, and the mark where her brassiere strap had cut into the soft flesh of her shoulder. The thought came coldly: I could strangle her now... He imagined his hands seizing her throat, his thumbs gouging in. And then the completed act, with the woman sprawled on the bed and the embroidered cushions fallen on the floor.

  When he examined the urge it disappeared. He knew he would not do it. His analytical mind prevented any spontaneous actions.

  ‘I’m glad you’re here,’ she said.

  That completed the disappearance of the urge. She had re-established herself as a person; as Georgia who had talked about her daughter, who had been kind enough to give him a meal and drinks, and who as a final kindness had gone to bed with him.

  He felt depressed. He wanted to be out of the warm bed and pleasant room. Already in his mind he was out walking the streets, where at every corner there might be something which would make him feel pleased inside. It might be a building with a street light shining on it, or a man eating chips from a newspaper in a doorway, or a match briefly illuminating a face. Whatever it was, he wanted to be out, seeing it. He wanted to smell the adventure in the night air.

  He got out of bed and pulled on his trousers.

  She said: ‘What’s the matter? You’re not going, are you?’

  ‘Georgia love, I can’t stay. I must get back home.’

  ‘Why bother? It’s comfy here, and the landlord doesn’t live on the premises, so there’s nobody to complain if you stay all night.’

  ‘All the same, I must get home. I’ve got things to do in the morning.’ He heard the flat tone and lack of conviction in his voice, and thought: I am a rotten bastard.

  She knew he was lying, but bowed her head in humble submission; ‘All right.’ She got out of bed and went to the fireplace, extending her hands towards the artificial coal.

  The firelight shone ruddy on her face, her breasts, her rounded belly. He noticed a varicose vein on her thigh and quickly averted his gaze before he could be sure.

  Georgia slipped on her dressing-gown, tied the sash, and wriggled her feet into fur-trimmed slippers. ‘I’ll make some tea, shall I? Sex always makes me feel thirsty; are you the same?’

  ‘Yes, thirsty as hell. It’s the whisky, too.’

  ‘Yes.’

  He quickly finished dressing, then followed her out into the kitchenette.

  She asked in a too-casual voice: ‘I suppose you haven’t seen anything of Dickie lately, have you? Dickie Dyce?’

  ‘I did see him once, briefly. In an espresso-bar.’

  ‘Oh.’ She plugged in the electric kettle. ‘Did he mention me?’

  ‘No.’ Then he added: ‘I only spoke to him for a few seconds.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Can I do anything to help? Get the cups out or anything?’

  ‘No. No, thank you.’ Pause. Then she said: ‘Dickie stayed here with me for a week.’

  ‘Did he?’

  ‘Yes.’ She busied herself with the tea-making, bustling to conceal her hurt. ‘I thought he was very nice when I met him at the party. He seemed very polite and considerate and romantic. Opened doors, and helped me on with my coat, and all that sort of thing. But as soon as he moved in here he changed completely. He got very nasty. For instance, he made a fuss when his meals weren’t ready exactly when he wanted them, yet I never knew when he was coming home. And he jumped on every little thing I said, and told me I was a damn’ fool. I felt I couldn’t do or say anything right, however hard I tried. He seemed to think I was his slave.’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell him to clear out if he was such a boor?’

  ‘I don’t know, really. I suppose he dominated me. He has a very masterful personality. But somehow or other, when he was here, I felt I was being forced to love someone whom I didn’t even like, really. He took away my will and replaced it with his own, if you know what I mean. And also, I never really trusted him. I didn’t like him being in the flat when I was out. It wasn’t exactly that I was afraid he’d steal anything ... I don’t know what it was. I just didn’t trust him.’

  Beckett said: ‘Well, anyway, you’re well out of it now.’

  ‘Yes. By the way, you don’t know where he’s living now, do you?’

  ‘No, Georgia, I don’t.’

  ‘He hit me once, and gave me a black eye. That’s the sort of brute he was.’

  Watching her bend over the teapot he felt a sort of impatience at her humbled shoulders in the dressing-gown, her disordered hair. He could understand Dyce ill-treating her. She had a masochistic element which incited violence.

  She continued: ‘And, also, he seemed to be a pathological liar. I mean, he was always telling tall stories and boasting about his adventures, and somehow I never knew whether it was truth or lies. In a way I don’t think he really knew either.’

  ‘Pathological liars are impossible to live with.’

  ‘Yes. What causes it, do you know?’

  ‘Not really. I suppose it’s the desire to make life more exciting for themselves. A liar creates exciting circumstances, rather like a backcloth for an actor. And a good liar, like a good actor, believes in his own act.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose so.’ She poured tea into marigold-patterned cups. ‘I hope I haven’t been boring you with my troubles.’

  ‘Not at all, of course not.’

  ‘I don’t really want to live like this, you know, sleeping with any man who turns up.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I really want somebody steady, somebody I can love and take care of. But whenever I meet somebody I think will fit the bill, it turns out he doesn’t really want love and care. He only wants one thing. And when he’s had that, he leaves, and despises me into the bargain.’

  Beckett felt embarrassed.

  She said: ‘So you’re with Ilsa Barnes?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Her face was veiled by her chestnut hair. She looked down at the fur trimming of her slippers. ‘My trouble is that I’m too old.’

  ‘You’re not old, honey.’

  ‘Old enough to husband-want, to want a father for my little girl.’

  ‘There’s no reason why you shouldn’t get one.’

  ‘There is. It’s a fault in myself. I’m too eager, and that puts men off. But don’t worry about me, Joe. I’m like a cork, you know, that keeps bobbing up. Life just can’t keep me down.’

  Chapter 10

  It was a timeless Sunday. The thousands who lived alone in bedsitters had nothing to do. Some read the papers, others strolled round the block, more sat in pubs or coffee-bars. Beckett went for a walk. He heard a gramophone from an attic window; a woman blues singer. The woman had an adult, disillusioned voice. He imagined her, a Negress, sitting on a barstool facing a desert of empty glasses, singing the blues to the disillusioned dawn. She sang straight and honestly, without gimmicks.

  The music hung like the summer sky over Tewkesbury Road.

  The combination of the sunshine, a tree against a house, and the music, touched Beckett, making him feel happy. It was as if the music formed a centre, and everything fell into place around it. He was suddenly rested and at peace, giving his consent.

  He became aware that a red sports car was kerbcrawling beside him. He recognized Dick Dyce at the wheel.

  Dyce asked: ‘Where are you headed for?’

  ‘Home. I’ve just been to get the Sunday papers.’

  ‘Feel like a drink? I think we can just beat the closing time.’

  ‘Okay.’ Beckett got in the car and they drove off.

  Dyce said: ‘Well, what do you think of her?’

  ‘The car? Smashing. Is it new?’

  ‘Almost. It’s this year’s model. How much do you think I gave for her?’

  ‘No?’

  ‘Three hundred quid.’

  ‘You’re joking. You must have paid more than that.’

  ‘Not a penny more.’ Dyce’s manic laugh was hoisted like a triumphal banner. ‘It’s a stolen car. Man I met in a club gets these stolen cars, al
ters the numbers on the engines, chassis, etc., gives them new number-plates, paints them up, and provides faked log books. He sold me this one for three hundred, but I could have had a cheaper car for only one hundred.’ There was a bursting exuberance in Dyce’s voice, as if he delighted in challenging fate by not only buying stolen cars, but by boasting about it.

  Beckett said: ‘Well, it’s all right if you can get away with it.’

  Dyce laughed again.

  ‘There’s a pub round this next corner.’

  The pub windows were frosted glass with a pattern of cherubs in plain glass. They went inside. Green plastic-covered benches lined the walls and a tray advertising Guinness screened the fireplace. The place was full of Irishmen, out from Mass in the nearby church, with royal-blue best suits, Brylcreemed hair, and fresh, ruddy complexions. The two young women with them were stately swans in babyish dresses and angora cardigans, holding gin-and-oranges between gloved genteel fingers. Cigarette smoke and fumes of slopped beer swirled round the full-moon globes which lit the saloon. There was a thud of darts from the partitioned public, and the banshee voice of an Irishman howled the Rose of Tralee into a microphone.

  ‘I saw Georgia the other day.’

  ‘She’s a very silly girl,’ Dyce said. ‘What are you having?’

  ‘No, I’ll get them.’

  ‘Nonsense, old boy, I invited you.’

  ‘Well, thanks then. I’ll have a brown ale.’

  ‘Have a short.’

  ‘No, I’m all right with beer.’

  ‘One brown, one whisky-and-soda,’ Dyce ordered, batting his newspaper on the counter.

  Sitting at the corner table, Dyce continued: ‘A very silly girl. Man-crazy. Wants stability, of course — cheers — but can’t get it. Anyway, she provided me with somewhere to stay temporarily, which is all I was concerned with. I’ve got a flat now, bloody good place, costs me a packet.’ He took a card from his pocket. ‘Come round and see the place sometime.’

  ‘Thanks, I will.’ Beckett read the address: Flat 34, Grosvenor Court Gardens, SW1. He put it between the pages of his notebook.