Beyond this place
Page 18
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Out in the street again all he knew was that he had to keep moving, to what destination he did not care.
In the late afternoon he found himself on the tow-path of the branch canal, a dismal, inky channel flanked by factories and pottery kilns. Here a bargee hailed him, and asked him to take the rope while his craft negotiated the hand-operated lock. On the barge was a motherly-looking woman frying bacon and eggs on the open cabin stove. Perhaps she had a shrewd idea of Paul's condition. When he had pulled them clear, before the boat got under way, she handed him a thick bacon sandwich, hot from the pan.
This sign of kindness, the glance of pity that the woman gave him, shook him painfully, and he was taken by a sudden overwhelming desire to abandon everything, to go home, back to a normal life of decent human comfort. But with a trembling lip, he fought the impulse down. He would never give up, never. Rain-drenched, he made his way back to the city and the Arches.
And now there began for Paul a period of such clouded suffering that when, from time to time, the realization of his state broke through the mists into his consciousness it caused him a start of haggard disbelief. Dependent always upon the chance of a casual coin, there were days when he went entirely without food. For brief intervals his memory would fail him, he would wander in a sort of stupor. In this nightmare state in which he moved, he forgot who he was, and when he remembered he had an irrational desire to go up to strangers and explain his identity to them. At other times he saw the people in the street merely as blurred forms and, blundering into someone, would murmur an apology before moving on. Through it all he had the notion — less an illusion than a conviction — that he was being followed and it was always the face of Jupp, the police sergeant, who watched from the shadows, watched and waited, expressionless yet hostile, for the inevitable end. Vaguely, he asked himself why he was not arrested. His clothes were soiled, his boots leaking, he had not shaved for days. His hair, uncut, fell across his collar, his eyes had no expression. He wondered dizzily if it were possible to starve to death in this great and thriving city.
Of course there was charity — and at last, too broken to be
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proud — he came to this last resort. One evening as dusk approached he dragged himself to the eastside corner of the Corn Market. Here, in a small triangular space between the tramway tracks, a plain wheeled wagon stood, a sort of caravan, with a tin chimney and a flapboard, already surrounded by a waiting, destitute throng. At five o'clock exactly, the flapboard was let down, forming a counter and disclosing in the interior of the caravan, a modern kitchen unit. An attendant in a white apron stood behind the counter and as each man advanced he handed him a bowl of soup and a hunk of bread and dripping. When Paul, in his turn, received his portion, the scalding soup flowed into his veins with a reviving glow. He ate the bread and dripping hungrily, then walked silently away.
Amidst the flitting obscurity of his life, in this struggle, needless yet savage, for survival, this Free Canteen became the one fixed point, the focus, as it were, of his existence. Every night, in fair weather and in foul, he silently joined the waiting figures. The men never talked, they simply waited. And when they had been fed they slid away, back into the shadows, in equal silence.
Then, after about a week, on the night of Wednesday the white-aproned attendant was joined by a man of about fifty, tall and erect, dressed in black, almost clerical, with dark eyes and a faint, yet kindly smile. Paul recognised him at once as Enoch Oswald, became aware for the first time that he had been frequenting the Silver King Canteen. Indeed, when Mr. Oswald removed his black wide-brimmed soft hat his hair under the naphtha lights gleamed silver white, a feature so striking it had earned him the name by which he was familiarly known to the outcasts who received Ins bounty.
Bareheaded, wearing that remote, friendly smile, he came slowly down the breadline, stopping a moment at each man, not looking at him, never speaking, but pressing into his palm a newly minted shilling. As Oswald stood beside him, Paul, though his head remained bent, was throbbingly conscious of his presence. At first this emotion was purely one of gratitude. But gradually another feeling took possession of him, a deep, despairing longing, born of his own hopelessness, to enlist the aid of this
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truly good man who, in his passionate urge to extend a hand to the neediest of creatures, surely could not fail to help him. Betrayed by Castles, bogged in the quicksands of human treachery, lost and hunted, he had need, before God, of such succour and support.
The desire to speak, to reveal himself, and his predicament, became overmastering. What a chance, he thought breathlessly. More and more, through hours of painful brooding, he had come to realize that only through Burt could he pierce the mystery of the murder. Burt knew — of that he was certain. Burt was at hand, alive and real — the rest was shadowy, lost in the obscurity of the years. And here, at his side, was the single person who, beyond anyone, from his position and influence, could compel the wretched woman to speak. Surely, in the circumstances of his destitution, which had brought them face to face like this, there was something providential and predestined.
A kind of vertigo took hold of Paul. In his enfeebled and nerv-
o
ous state, the suddenness of the opportunity was too much for him. He was taken by a spasm of the larynx, words died in his throat, he failed to open his lips. When his head ceased to spin and he came to himself, his benefactor was gone. Savagely he cursed himself for his weakness. He dared not go openly to the Oswald home. But from the attendant he learned that the "boss" visited the canteen every Wednesday night, and through his disappointment, he realized that in the following week, his chance would come again. The silver coin remaining in his hand was like a talisman.
The next few days were hard to bear. Towards the end of that week the weather turned colder. Recurrent fogs swept up from the fens and settled like a blight upon the city. In this grimy twilight the smoky air was charged with sulphur fumes. Paul developed a hacking cough. In his lucid intervals, he acknowledged to himself that he could not go on.
Then, Wednesday came again, and hope revived in him. He went early to the Corn Market and took his place amongst the first arrivals at the Canteen. Night fell swiftly. The naphtha flares were lighted, the hatch thrown down. Suddenly, as he waited in
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the breadline, he became conscious of someone standing beside him. It was not the inspiring presence of the Silver King. After a moment, he raised his head. He saw it was Lena Andersen.
CHAPTER III
YES, he was there, she was actually beside him, but the change in him was so great it moved her deeply.
"Why, Paul . . . it's you." She pretended the meeting was an accident.
Deadly pale, he averted his eyes and did not answer.
"It's quite a surprise." She stumbled on. "Why don't we walk down the street together?"
After a pause he said:
"I have to wait here."
"But why?"
He knew she would not understand if he told her. He answered flatly:
"As a matter of fact, this is where I have supper. If I lose my place I shall be out of luck."
The blankness of his manner, as he made this admission stabbed her anew. She said:
"I'm just going home. Come and have supper with me."
He turned his strained eyes towards her. There was a solicitude in her gaze which intensified the perpetual ache that lay about his heart.
"You mustn't get mixed up with me," he muttered.
Her gaze, undeterred, remained upon him.
"Come, Paul . . . please come."
He hesitated, torn between his weakness and his determination to await the Silver King. A wave of dizziness swept over him. At last he mumbled, glancing downwards at his frayed trousers and cracked boots.
"I can't walk through the streets with you like this. Leave me
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now ... I want to stay here tor half an hour. I'll come to your place later."
"You promise." She breathed quickly.
He nodded. For a moment she considered him anxiously; then, giving him a final glance, she slowly moved away.
His head drooped, he did not follow her with his eyes, yet somehow from the unexpected sight of her, in the great sea of nameless, unknown faces, hope had been renewed, as though perhaps at last things might turn for the better.
It began to rain, the slanting pitiless rain of an English winter. Instinctively Paul turned up the collar of his jacket and, as the distribution of bread and coffee had begun, edged slowly forward in the line, alert for the appearance of Enoch Oswald.
Tonight, however, the Silver King was long in coming and when Paul reached the hatch, he had not yet arrived. In acute suspense, Paul scanned the approaches to the market then, turning to the attendant he said:
"The boss is late tonight."
"Not coming till tomorrow," answered the other, slapping down a tray of fresh cups. "Next!"
A cruel disappointment struck at Paul. He was counting so much on this meeting, that now, even its postponement by so brief an interval was enough to unsettle him. The pressure of the line behind forced him forward. He did not take either his coffee or his bread. He remained motionless for a moment, then, with an indeterminate glance at the Market clock, moved off, without purport, dragging his feet along the greasy pavement.
But Lena had not gone home, she had remained in shelter across the street and, at the corner of the square, she joined him.
"Come, Paul."
"In point of principle," he began vaguely, "that is to say, in the realm of pure logic . . . well, I really don't know. . . ."
She was thoroughly alarmed now. Her hesitation vanished. She put out her hand and took his arm. He submitted while she led him away. He did not speak a word all the way to Ware Place, but she could see his lips moving, from time to time, as though he were talking to himself. Once or twice he looked behind him, over his shoulder.
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When he entered the house and climbed the stairs, she was paler than before, but her manner was firm. On the landing, outside her little living room she faced him.
"You'll have supper in a minute." Although she was trembling within, her expression was steady. "But first you must have a change."
She showed him the bathroom, turned on the hot tap, brought him soap, towels, his own shaving things, and a change of clothing. He considered the pile of clean garments with a strange fixity.
"Whose are these?"
"They're yours," she said quickly. "Now don't ask questions. Just get ready."
While he was in the bathroom she lit the fire in the living room, went into the cupboard kitchenette, placed two saucepans upon the stove, hurriedly set the table. When he came out shaved, wearing the flannel trousers and an open-necked shirt, her preparations were almost complete. In silence she placed a chair at the table, motioned him to sit down, and set a bowl of soup before him.
He held the bowl in both hands, before recognising the spoon on the table cloth before him. He dipped the spoon in the thick broth and raised it shakily to his lips. When the bowl was empty, she gave him a plate of meat stew. He ate in silence and with such abstraction, he did not see her watching him. He was painfully thin, but worse than that, was the fixity, the stiff dead-ness of his face in repose. When at last he had finished he sighed and raised his head. He spoke in a low voice.
"I haven't had a meal like that for weeks."
"Do you feel better?" she asked, getting to her feet to hide the tears that rushed, unbidden, to her eyes.
"Much better." And he got up as though to go — he seemed to be obsessed with the idea that he must move on.
Abruptly, she turned his chair to the fire. When he understood that it was for him he sat down, his hands locked together, eyes bent upon the leaping flames. Occasionally, with a kind of anxious wonder, his glance strayed round the room, absorbing the novelty and comfort of those four surrounding walls.
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Observing him, while she cleared the table, Lena's lips set determinedly. The situation, in the absence of her landlady, was painfully difficult, yet she did not shrink from it. When she had finished washing up, she unrolled her sleeves and quietly went out. Ten minutes later she returned, and came over to where he still sat staring at the flames.
Suddenly aware of her presence he started, and got to his feet.
"Well . . . it's about time I went."
"Where?"
"Back to my hotel."
"And where is that?"
He tried to force a smile, but something went wrong with the muscles of his face. His shoulders drooped, he hung his head.
"Under the Arches, if you want to know. If you're not there on time you don't get under cover." A short laugh shook him. "It's damp when the rain gets down your neck."
"No," Lena said. "You're not going."
"But I must." He spoke with sudden agitation. "Don't you understand? I can't keep walking the streets all night. Give me my coat. If I don't get my place there, where am I to sleep?"
"Here," said Lena. "This is where you'll sleep. You can have Mrs. Hanley's spare room. And the sooner you're in bed the better."
She swung round and led the way to the half landing where she threw open the door of the room she had already prepared for him. The red curtains were drawn, the lamp was lit, the gas fire glowed, the covers of the comfortable bed had been turned down.
He rubbed his eyes slowly with the back of his hand as though unable fully to apprehend this cheerful warmth.
"Really," he said in a stilted, dazed fashion, "supper . . . and a bed. How can one adequately express . . ."
"Oh, Paul," Lena murmured, in a breaking voice, "don't try to say any more . . . just go to bed and rest."
"Yes," he agreed. "That's it . . . rest."
As they stood there, a sudden gust outside blew a spatter of rain against the window panes. Instinctively Paul shivered and, at the thought of that cold wet outer darkness, a childish sob
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rose in his throat. Holding his face averted so that she should not see the twitching < the door behind him.
not see the twitching of his cheek, he entered the room and closed
o
CHAPTER IV
THE daylight was glinting into the room when Paul awoke. He lay quite still for a few minutes, getting his bearings; then, hearing sounds next door he got up, dressed quickly, and went into the kitchen. Lena was there, placing breakfast upon the table. As he entered she flushed suddenly, a deep wave of colour that flooded her face and neck. She had scarcely slept all night, thinking of Paul, so near to her at last, yet at the same time reproaching herself for the liberty she had taken in her landlady's absence. Nevertheless, despite the difficulty of her position her instinct was to keep him here, away from the streets, at all costs, at least until Mrs. Hanley returned. She poured out coffee, gave him a boiled egg and toast, watched him begin to eat. He did not talk much and she judged it wisest to restrain her own remarks. Finally, having finished her breakfast, and without any further comment, as though taking his presence for granted, she went off to the Bonanza.
When Lena had gone Paul returned to his room and he remained there, overcome by a profound lassitude, most of the forenoon. After all that he had endured, this sense of shelter, of transitory safety, gave him an opportunity to think. And, freed of the misery of the Arches, properly clad and fed, he felt his courage return, his brain began to function more lucidly, he decided he must, after all, make an effort to see Mr. Oswald at his house.
Just on four o'clock he left the flat. It was a long way to Porlock Hill and he was forced several times to sit down on a bench, when crossing the Park. But in about an hour's time he reached that neighbourhood which he had avoided for so long.
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Suddenly,
as he made to cross to Porlock Drive, he encountered a man at the corner of the street who stared at him curiously in the fading light as he passed, then stopped, turned, and came back. It was Jack, the waiter at the Royal Oak.
"It's you," Jack exclaimed in some surprise. Then: "I have something for you."
The words penetrated Paul's apathy. He stood passive, as the other pulled out a battered wallet, and began to search through it.
"Ah, here we are," Jack said. "I've had it on me for the last two weeks. Louisa Burt asked me to give it to you."
Paul's haunted gaze rested on the dirty envelope which the waiter extended towards him, and imperceptibly the current of his blood moved faster. He stretched out his hand and accepted it. Jack was looking at him with a sharper curiosity.
"We don't see you around much lately."
"No," Paul answered. "Not much."
"Down on your luck, eh?"
"I'm all right." Paul spoke in an automatic tone, his eyes still resting on the envelope, a queer, unformed premonition stirring within him.
There was a silence. The waiter shifted his feet.
"Well," he said at last, "I have to be going. All the best."
He shot a final inquisitive glance at Paul then he shrugged his shoulders, turned and made off down the street.
As the waiter disappeared from sight Paul was still standing in the dreary twilight, motionless. He passed his tongue over his pale lips. With the soiled paper tightly in his hand he hurried towards the nearest lamp-post and tore open the envelope. Holding up the letter to the flickering light he read:
Dear Mr. Smarty,
Seeing as how you thought you'd make a monkey out of me, as I've since been tipped off, I'd like fer you to know for your own information that I am going to be married, proper, in church, and don't need your attentions nor promises no more, fine sir. Arrangements has been made by Mr. Oswald fer me and my husbant to sail to
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New Zealand next month just like he done fer my friend Ed Collins what was here before me, who I expects to renew my acquaintance with when I arrives. So you can think on me in comfort and lucksury in a new land and I wish it makes you choke.