Delphi Collected Works of W. Somerset Maugham (Illustrated)

by William Somerset Maugham

  ‘Wot did yer do, then?’ asked Liza.

  ‘Well, as I wos tellin’ yer, I went to the ‘orspital, an’ the doctor ‘e says to me, “My good woman,” says ‘e, “you might have been very seriously injured.” An’ me not been married eighteen months! An’ as I was tellin’ the doctor all about it, “Missus,” ‘e says ter me, lookin’ at me straight in the eyeball. “Missus,” says ‘e, “‘ave you been drinkin’?” “Drinkin’?” says I; “no! I’ve ‘ad a little drop, but as for drinkin’! Mind,” says I, “I don’t say I’m a teetotaller — I’m not, I ‘ave my glass of beer, and I like it. I couldn’t do withaht it, wot with the work I ‘ave, I must ‘ave somethin’ ter keep me tergether. But as for drinkin’ ‘eavily! Well! I can say this, there ain’t a soberer woman than myself in all London. Why, my first ‘usband never touched a drop. Ah, my first ‘usband, ‘e was a beauty, ‘e was.”’

  She stopped the repetition of her conversation and addressed herself to Liza.

  ‘‘E was thet different ter this one. ‘E was a man as ‘ad seen better days. ‘E was a gentleman!’ She mouthed the word and emphasized it with an expressive nod.

  ‘‘E was a gentleman and a Christian. ‘E’d been in good circumstances in ‘is time; an’ ‘e was a man of education and a teetotaller, for twenty-two years.’

  At that moment Liza’s mother appeared on the scene.

  ‘Good evenin’, Mrs. Stanley,’ she said, politely.

  ‘The sime ter you, Mrs. Kemp.’ replied that lady, with equal courtesy.

  ‘An’ ‘ow is your poor ‘ead?’ asked Liza’s mother, with sympathy.

  ‘Oh, it’s been achin’ cruel. I’ve hardly known wot ter do with myself.’

  ‘I’m sure ‘e ought ter be ashimed of ‘imself for treatin’ yer like thet.’

  ‘Oh, it wasn’t ‘is blows I minded so much, Mrs. Kemp,’ replied Mrs. Stanley, ‘an’ don’t you think it. It was wot ‘e said ter me. I can stand a blow as well as any woman. I don’t mind thet, an’ when ‘e don’t tike a mean advantage of me I can stand up for myself an’ give as good as I tike; an’ many’s the time I give my fust husband a black eye. But the language ‘e used, an’ the things ‘e called me! It made me blush to the roots of my ‘air; I’m not used ter bein’ spoken ter like thet. I was in good circumstances when my fust ‘usband was alive, ‘e earned between two an’ three pound a week, ‘e did. As I said to ‘im this mornin’, “‘Ow a gentleman can use sich language, I dunno.”’

  ‘‘Usbands is cautions, ‘owever good they are,’ said Mrs. Kemp, aphoristically. ‘But I mustn’t stay aht ‘ere in the night air.’

  ‘‘As yer rheumatism been troublin’ yer litely?’ asked Mrs. Stanley.

  ‘Oh, cruel. Liza rubs me with embrocation every night, but it torments me cruel.’

  Mrs. Kemp then went into the house, and Liza remained talking to Mrs. Stanley, she, too, had to go in, and Liza was left alone. Some while she spent thinking of nothing, staring vacantly in front of her, enjoying the cool and quiet of the evening. But Liza could not be left alone long, several boys came along with a bat and a ball, and fixed upon the road just in front of her for their pitch. Taking off their coats they piled them up at the two ends, and were ready to begin.

  ‘I say, old gal,’ said one of them to Liza, ‘come an’ have a gime of cricket, will yer?’

  ‘Na, Bob, I’m tired.’

  ‘Come on!’

  ‘Na, I tell you I won’t.’

  ‘She was on the booze yesterday, an’ she ain’t got over it,’ cried another boy.

  ‘I’ll swipe yer over the snitch!’ replied Liza to him, and then on being asked again, said:

  ‘Leave me alone, won’t yer?’

  ‘Liza’s got the needle ter-night, thet’s flat,’ commented a third member of the team.

  ‘I wouldn’t drink if I was you, Liza,’ added another, with mock gravity. ‘It’s a bad ‘abit ter git into,’ and he began rolling and swaying about like a drunken man.

  If Liza had been ‘in form’ she would have gone straight away and given the whole lot of them a sample of her strength; but she was only rather bored and vexed that they should disturb her quietness, so she let them talk. They saw she was not to be drawn, and leaving her, set to their game. She watched them for some time, but her thoughts gradually lost themselves, and insensibly her mind was filled with a burly form, and she was again thinking of Jim.

  ‘‘E is a good sort ter want ter tike me ter the ply,’ she said to herself. ‘Tom never arst me!’

  Jim had said he would come out in the evening; he ought to be here soon, she thought. Of course she wasn’t going to the theatre with him, but she didn’t mind talking to him; she rather enjoyed being asked to do a thing and refusing, and she would have liked another opportunity of doing so. But he didn’t come and he had said he would!

  ‘I say, Bill,’ she said at last to one of the boys who was fielding close beside her, ‘that there Blakeston — d’you know ‘im?’

  ‘Yes, rather; why, he works at the sime plice as me.’

  ‘Wot’s ‘e do with ‘isself in the evening; I never see ‘im abaht?’

  ‘I dunno. I see ‘im this evenin’ go into the “Red Lion”. I suppose ‘e’s there, but I dunno.’

  Then he wasn’t coming. Of course she had told him she was going to stay indoors, but he might have come all the same — just to see.

  ‘I know Tom ‘ud ‘ave come,’ she said to herself, rather sulkily.

  ‘Liza! Liza!’ she heard her mother’s voice calling her.

  ‘Arright, I’m comin’,’ said Liza.

  ‘I’ve been witin’ for you this last ‘alf-hour ter rub me.’

  ‘Why didn’t yer call?’ asked Liza.

  ‘I did call. I’ve been callin’ this last I dunno ‘ow long; it’s give me quite a sore throat.’

  ‘I never ‘eard yer.’

  ‘Na, yer didn’t want ter ‘ear me, did yer? Yer don’t mind if I dies with rheumatics, do yer? I know.’

  Liza did not answer, but took the bottle, and, pouring some of the liniment on her hand, began to rub it into Mrs. Kemp’s rheumatic joints, while the invalid kept complaining and grumbling at everything Liza did.

  ‘Don’t rub so ‘ard, Liza, you’ll rub all the skin off.’

  Then when Liza did it as gently as she could, she grumbled again.

  ‘If yer do it like thet, it won’t do no good at all. You want ter sive yerself trouble — I know yer. When I was young girls didn’t mind a little bit of ‘ard work — but, law bless yer, you don’t care abaht my rheumatics, do yer?’

  At last she finished, and Liza went to bed by her mother’s side.

  7

  Two days passed, and it was Friday morning. Liza had got up early and strolled off to her work in good time, but she did not meet her faithful Sally on the way, nor find her at the factory when she herself arrived. The bell rang and all the girls trooped in, but still Sally did not come. Liza could not make it out, and was thinking she would be shut out, when just as the man who gave out the tokens for the day’s work was pulling down the shutter in front of his window, Sally arrived, breathless and perspiring.

  ‘Whew! Go’ lumme, I am ‘ot!’ she said, wiping her face with her apron.

  ‘I thought you wasn’t comin’,’ said Liza.

  ‘Well, I only just did it; I overslep’ myself. I was aht lite last night.’

  ‘Were yer?’

  ‘Me an’ ‘Arry went ter see the ply. Oh, Liza, it’s simply spiffin’! I’ve never see sich a good ply in my life. Lor’! Why, it mikes yer blood run cold: they ‘ang a man on the stige; oh, it mide me creep all over!’

  And then she began telling Liza all about it — the blood and thunder, the shooting, the railway train, the murder, the bomb, the hero, the funny man — jumbling everything up in her excitement, repeating little scraps of dialogue — all wrong — gesticulating, getting excited and red in the face at the recollection. Liza listened rather crossly, feeling bored at
the detail into which Sally was going: the piece really didn’t much interest her.

  ‘One ‘ud think yer’d never been to a theatre in your life before,’ she said.

  ‘I never seen anything so good, I can tell yer. You tike my tip, and git Tom ter tike yer.’

  ‘I don’t want ter go; an’ if I did I’d py for myself an’ go alone.’

  ‘Cheese it! That ain’t ‘alf so good. Me an’ ‘Arry, we set together, ‘im with ‘is arm round my wiste and me oldin’ ‘is ‘and. It was jam, I can tell yer!’

  ‘Well, I don’t want anyone sprawlin’ me abaht, thet ain’t my mark!’

  ‘But I do like ‘Arry; you dunno the little ways ‘e ‘as; an’ we’re goin’ ter be married in three weeks now. ‘Arry said, well, ‘e says, “I’ll git a licence.” “Na,” says I, “‘ave the banns read aht in church: it seems more reg’lar like to ‘ave banns; so they’re goin’ ter be read aht next Sunday. You’ll come with me ‘an ‘ear them, won’t yer, Liza?”’

  ‘Yus, I don’t mind.’

  On the way home Sally insisted on stopping in front of the poster and explaining to Liza all about the scene represented.

  ‘Oh, you give me the sick with your “Fital Card”, you do! I’m goin’ ‘ome.’ And she left Sally in the midst of her explanation.

  ‘I dunno wot’s up with Liza,’ remarked Sally to a mutual friend. ‘She’s always got the needle, some’ow.’

  ‘Oh, she’s barmy,’ answered the friend.

  ‘Well, I do think she’s a bit dotty sometimes — I do really,’ rejoined Sally.

  Liza walked homewards, thinking of the play; at length she tossed her head impatiently.

  ‘I don’t want ter see the blasted thing; an’ if I see that there Jim I’ll tell ‘im so; swop me bob, I will.’

  She did see him; he was leaning with his back against the wall of his house, smoking. Liza knew he had seen her, and as she walked by pretended not to have noticed him. To her disgust, he let her pass, and she was thinking he hadn’t seen her after all, when she heard him call her name.

  ‘Liza!’

  She turned round and started with surprise very well imitated. ‘I didn’t see you was there!’ she said.

  ‘Why did yer pretend not ter notice me, as yer went past — eh, Liza?’

  ‘Why, I didn’t see yer.’

  ‘Garn! But you ain’t shirty with me?’

  ‘Wot ‘ave I got to be shirty abaht?’

  He tried to take her hand, but she drew it away quickly. She was getting used to the movement. They went on talking, but Jim did not mention the theatre; Liza was surprised, and wondered whether he had forgotten.

  ‘Er — Sally went to the ply last night,’ she said, at last.

  ‘Oh!’ he said, and that was all.

  She got impatient.

  ‘Well, I’m off!’ she said.

  ‘Na, don’t go yet; I want ter talk ter yer,’ he replied.

  ‘Wot abaht? anythin’ in partickler?’ She would drag it out of him if she possibly could.

  ‘Not thet I knows on,’ he said, smiling.

  ‘Good night!’ she said, abruptly, turning away from him.

  ‘Well, I’m damned if ‘e ain’t forgotten!’ she said to herself, sulkily, as she marched home.

  The following evening about six o’clock, it suddenly struck her that it was the last night of the ‘New and Sensational Drama’.

  ‘I do like thet Jim Blakeston,’ she said to herself; ‘fancy treatin’ me like thet! You wouldn’t catch Tom doin’ sich a thing. Bli’me if I speak to ‘im again, the —— . Now I shan’t see it at all. I’ve a good mind ter go on my own ‘ook. Fancy ‘is forgettin’ all abaht it, like thet!’

  She was really quite indignant; though, as she had distinctly refused Jim’s offer, it was rather hard to see why.

  ‘‘E said ‘e’d wite for me ahtside the doors; I wonder if ‘e’s there. I’ll go an’ see if ‘e is, see if I don’t — an’ then if ‘e’s there, I’ll go in on my own ‘ook, jist ter spite ‘im!’

  She dressed herself in her best, and, so that the neighbours shouldn’t see her, went up a passage between some model lodging-house buildings, and in this roundabout way got into the Westminster Bridge Road, and soon found herself in front of the theatre.

  ‘I’ve been witin’ for yer this ‘alf-hour.’

  She turned round and saw Jim standing just behind her.

  ‘‘Oo are you talkin’ to? I’m not goin’ to the ply with you. Wot d’yer tike me for, eh?’

  ‘‘Oo are yer goin’ with, then?’

  ‘I’m goin’ alone.’

  ‘Garn! don’t be a bloomin’ jackass!’

  Liza was feeling very injured.

  ‘Thet’s ‘ow you treat me! I shall go ‘ome. Why didn’t you come aht the other night?’

  ‘Yer told me not ter.’

  She snorted at the ridiculous ineptitude of the reply.

  ‘Why didn’t you say nothin’ abaht it yesterday?’

  ‘Why, I thought you’d come if I didn’t talk on it.’

  ‘Well, I think you’re a —— brute!’ She felt very much inclined to cry.

  ‘Come on, Liza, don’t tike on; I didn’t mean no offence.’ And be put his arm round her waist and led her to take their places at the gallery door. Two tears escaped from the corners of her eyes and ran down her nose, but she felt very relieved and happy, and let him lead her where he would.

  There was a long string of people waiting at the door, and Liza was delighted to see a couple of niggers who were helping them to while away the time of waiting. The niggers sang and danced, and made faces, while the people looked on with appreciative gravity, like royalty listening to de Reské, and they were very generous of applause and halfpence at the end of the performance. Then, when the niggers moved to the pit doors, paper boys came along offering Tit-Bits and ‘extra specials’; after that three little girls came round and sang sentimental songs and collected more halfpence. At last a movement ran through the serpent-like string of people, sounds were heard behind the door, everyone closed up, the men told the women to keep close and hold tight; there was a great unbarring and unbolting, the doors were thrown open, and, like a bursting river, the people surged in.

  Half an hour more and the curtain went up. The play was indeed thrilling. Liza quite forgot her companion, and was intent on the scene; she watched the incidents breathlessly, trembling with excitement, almost beside herself at the celebrated hanging incident. When the curtain fell on the first act she sighed and mopped her face.

  ‘See ‘ow ‘ot I am.’ she said to Jim, giving him her hand.

  ‘Yus, you are!’ he remarked, taking it.

  ‘Leave go!’ she said, trying to withdraw it from him.

  ‘Not much,’ he answered, quite boldly.

  ‘Garn! Leave go!’ But he didn’t, and she really did not struggle very violently.

  The second act came, and she shrieked over the comic man; and her laughter rang higher than anyone else’s, so that people turned to look at her, and said:

  ‘She is enjoyin’ ‘erself.’

  Then when the murder came she bit her nails and the sweat stood on her forehead in great drops; in her excitement she even called out as loud as she could to the victim, ‘Look aht!’ It caused a laugh and slackened the tension, for the whole house was holding its breath as it looked at the villains listening at the door, creeping silently forward, crawling like tigers to their prey.

  Liza trembling all over, and in her terror threw herself against Jim, who put both his arms round her, and said:

  ‘Don’t be afride, Liza; it’s all right.’

  At last the men sprang, there was a scuffle, and the wretch was killed, then came the scene depicted on the posters — the victim’s son knocking at the door, on the inside of which were the murderers and the murdered man. At last the curtain came down, and the house in relief burst forth into cheers and cheers; the handsome hero in his top hat was greeted thunderously; the murde
red man, with his clothes still all disarranged, was hailed with sympathy; and the villains — the house yelled and hissed and booed, while the poor brutes bowed and tried to look as if they liked it.

  ‘I am enjoyin’ myself,’ said Liza, pressing herself quite close to Jim; ‘you are a good sort ter tike me — Jim.’

  He gave her a little hug, and it struck her that she was sitting just as Sally had done, and, like Sally, she found it ‘jam’.

  The entr’actes were short and the curtain was soon up again, and the comic man raised customary laughter by undressing and exposing his nether garments to the public view; then more tragedy, and the final act with its darkened room, its casting lots, and its explosion.

  When it was all over and they had got outside Jim smacked his lips and said:

  ‘I could do with a gargle; let’s go onto thet pub there.’

  ‘I’m as dry as bone,’ said Liza; and so they went.

  When they got in they discovered they were hungry, and seeing some appetising sausage-rolls, ate of them, and washed them down with a couple of pots of beer; then Jim lit his pipe and they strolled off. They had got quite near the Westminster Bridge Road when Jim suggested that they should go and have one more drink before closing time.

  ‘I shall be tight,’ said Liza.

  ‘Thet don’t matter,’ answered Jim, laughing. ‘You ain’t got ter go ter work in the mornin’ an’ you can sleep it aht.’

  ‘Arright, I don’t mind if I do then, in for a penny, in for a pound.’

  At the pub door she drew back.

  ‘I say, guv’ner,’ she said, ‘there’ll be some of the coves from dahn our street, and they’ll see us.’