The Great Novels and Short Stories of Somerset Maugham

by W. Somerset Maugham

  Liza was not satisfied, but could get nothing further out of her. Then one day it came out. It was a Saturday night, the time when women in Vere Street weep. Liza went up into Sally’s room for a few minutes on her way to the Westminster Bridge Road, where she was to meet Jim. Harry had taken the top back room, and Liza, climbing up the second flight of stairs, called out as usual.

  ‘Wot ho, Sally!’

  The door remained shut, although Liza could see that there was a light in the room; but on getting to the door she stood still, for she heard the sound of sobbing. She listened for a minute and then knocked: there was a little flurry inside, and someone called out:

  ‘’Oo’s there?’

  ‘Only me,’ said Liza, opening the door. As she did so she saw Sally rapidly wipe her eyes and put her handkerchief away. Her mother was sitting by her side, evidently comforting her.

  ‘Wot’s up, Sal?’ asked Liza.

  ‘Nothin’,’ answered Sally, with a brave little gasp to stop the crying, turning her face downwards so that Liza should not see the tears in her eyes; but they were too strong for her, and, quickly taking out her handkerchief, she hid her face in it and began to sob broken-heartedly. Liza looked at the mother in interrogation.

  ‘Oh, it’s thet man again!’ said the lady, snorting and tossing her head.

  ‘Not ‘Arry?’ asked Liza, in surprise.

  ‘Not ‘Arry—’oo is it if it ain’t ‘Arry? The villin!’

  ‘Wot’s ‘e been doin’, then?’ asked Liza again.

  ‘Beatin’ ‘er, that’s wot ‘e’s been doin’! Oh, the villin, ‘e oughter be ashimed of ‘isself ‘e ought!’

  ‘I didn’t know ‘e was like that!’ said Liza.

  ‘Didn’t yer? I thought the ‘ole street knew it by now,’ said Mrs. Cooper indignantly. ‘Oh, ‘e’s a wrong ‘un, ‘e is.’

  ‘It wasn’t ‘is fault,’ put in Sally, amidst her sobs; ‘it’s only because ‘e’s ‘ad a little drop too much. ‘E’s arright when ‘e’s sober.’

  ‘A little drop too much! I should just think ‘e’d ‘ad, the beast! I’d give it ‘im if I was a man. They’re all like thet—’usbinds is all alike; they’re arright when they’re sober—sometimes—but when they’ve got the liquor in ‘em, they’re beasts, an’ no mistike. I ‘ad a ‘usbind myself for five-an’-twenty years, an’ I know ‘em.’

  ‘Well, mother,’ sobbed Sally, ‘it was all my fault. I should ‘ave come ‘ome earlier.’

  ‘Na, it wasn’t your fault at all. Just you look ‘ere, Liza: this is wot ‘e done an’ call ‘isself a man. Just because Sally’d gone aht to ‘ave a chat with Mrs. McLeod in the next ‘ouse, when she come in ‘e start bangin’ ‘er abaht. An’ me, too, wot d’yer think of that!’ Mrs. Cooper was quite purple with indignation.

  ‘Yus,’ she went on, ‘thet’s a man for yer. Of course, I wasn’t goin’ ter stand there an’ see my daughter bein’ knocked abaht; it wasn’t likely—was it? An’ ‘e rounds on me, an’ ‘e ‘its me with ‘is fist. Look ‘ere.’ She pulled up her sleeves and showed two red and brawny arms. ‘’E’s bruised my arms; I thought ‘e’d broken it at fust. If I ‘adn’t put my arm up, ‘e’d ‘ave got me on the ‘ead, an’ ‘e might ‘ave killed me. An’ I says to ‘im, “If you touch me again, I’ll go ter the police-station, thet I will!” Well, that frightened ‘im a bit, an’ then didn’t I let ‘im ‘ave it! “You call yerself a man,” says I, “an’ you ain’t fit ter clean the drains aht.” You should ‘ave ‘eard the language ‘e used. “You dirty old woman,” says ‘e, “you go away; you’re always interferin’ with me.” Well, I don’t like ter repeat wot ‘e said, and thet’s the truth. An’ I says ter ‘im, “I wish yer’d never married my daughter, an’ if I’d known you was like this I’d ‘ave died sooner than let yer.”’

  ‘Well, I didn’t know ‘e was like thet!’ said Liza.

  ‘’E was arright at fust,’ said Sally.

  ‘Yus, they’re always arright at fust! But ter think it should ‘ave come to this now, when they ain’t been married three months, an’ the first child not born yet! I think it’s disgraceful.’

  Liza stayed a little while longer, helping to comfort Sally, who kept pathetically taking to herself all the blame of the dispute; and then, bidding her good night and better luck, she slid off to meet Jim.

  When she reached the appointed spot he was not to be found. She waited for some time, and at last saw him come out of the neighbouring pub.

  ‘Good night, Jim,’ she said as she came up to him.

  ‘So you’ve turned up, ‘ave yer?’ he answered roughly, turning round.

  ‘Wot’s the matter, Jim?’ she asked in a frightened way, for he had never spoken to her in that manner.

  ‘Nice thing ter keep me witin’ all night for yer to come aht.’

  She saw that he had been drinking, and answered humbly.

  ‘I’m very sorry, Jim, but I went in to Sally, an’ ‘er bloke ‘ad been knockin’ ‘er abaht, an’ so I sat with ‘er a bit.’

  ‘Knockin’ ‘er abaht, ‘ad ‘e? and serve ‘er damn well right too; an’ there’s many more as could do with a good ‘idin’!’

  Liza did not answer. He looked at her, and then suddenly said:

  ‘Come in an’ ‘ave a drink.’

  ‘Na, I’m not thirsty; I don’t want a drink,’ she answered.

  ‘Come on,’ he said angrily.

  ‘Na, Jim, you’ve had quite enough already.’

  ‘’Oo are you talkin’ ter?’ he said. ‘Don’t come if yer don’t want ter; I’ll go an’ ‘ave one by myself.’

  ‘Na, Jim, don’t.’ She caught hold of his arm.

  ‘Yus, I shall,’ he said, going towards the pub, while she held him back. ‘Let me go, can’t yer! Let me go!’ He roughly pulled his arm away from her. As she tried to catch hold of it again, he pushed her back, and in the little scuffle caught her a blow over the face.

  ‘Oh!’ she cried, ‘you did ‘urt!’

  He was sobered at once.

  ‘Liza,’ he said. ‘I ain’t ‘urt yer?’ She didn’t answer, and he took her in his arms. ‘Liza, I ain’t ‘urt you, ‘ave I? Say I ain’t ‘urt yer. I’m so sorry, I beg your pardon, Liza.’

  ‘Arright, old chap,’ she said, smiling charmingly on him. ‘It wasn’t the blow that ‘urt me much; it was the wy you was talkin’.’

  ‘I didn’t mean it, Liza.’ He was so contrite, he could not humble himself enough. ‘I ‘ad another bloomin’ row with the missus ter-night, an’ then when I didn’t find you ‘ere, an’ I kept witin’ an’ witin’—well, I fair downright lost my ‘air. An’ I ‘ad two or three pints of four ‘alf, an’—well, I dunno—’

  ‘Never mind, old cock. I can stand more than thet as long as yer loves me.’

  He kissed her and they were quite friends again. But the little quarrel had another effect which was worse for Liza. When she woke up next morning she noticed a slight soreness over the ridge of bone under the left eye, and on looking in the glass saw that it was black and blue and green. She bathed it, but it remained, and seemed to get more marked. She was terrified lest people should see it, and kept indoors all day; but next morning it was blacker than ever. She went to the factory with her hat over her eyes and her head bent down; she escaped observation, but on the way home she was not so lucky. The sharp eyes of some girls noticed it first.

  ‘Wot’s the matter with yer eye?’ asked one of them.

  ‘Me?’ answered Liza, putting her hand up as if in ignorance. ‘Nothin’ thet I knows of.’

  Two or three young men were standing by, and hearing the girl, looked up.

  ‘Why, yer’ve got a black eye, Liza!’

  ‘Me? I ain’t got no black eye!’

  ‘Yus you ‘ave; ‘ow d’yer get it?’

  ‘I dunno,’ said Liza. ‘I didn’t know I ‘ad one.’

  ‘Garn! tell us another!’ was the answer. ‘One doesn’t git a black eye without knowin’ ‘ow they got it.’

&nb
sp; ‘Well, I did fall against the chest of drawers yesterday; I suppose I must ‘ave got it then.’

  ‘Oh yes, we believe thet, don’t we?’

  ‘I didn’t know ‘e was so ‘andy with ‘is dukes, did you, Ted?’ asked one man of another.

  Liza felt herself grow red to the tips of her toes.

  ‘Who?’ she asked.

  ‘Never you mind; nobody you know.’

  At that moment Jim’s wife passed and looked at her with a scowl. Liza wished herself a hundred miles away, and blushed more violently than ever.

  ‘Wot are yer blushin’ abaht?’ ingenuously asked one of the girls.

  And they all looked from her to Mrs. Blakeston and back again. Someone said: ‘’Ow abaht our Sunday boots on now?’ And a titter went through them. Liza’s nerve deserted her; she could think of nothing to say, and a sob burst from her. To hide the tears which were coming from her eyes she turned away and walked homewards. Immediately a great shout of laughter broke from the group, and she heard them positively screaming till she got into her own house.

  XI

  A FEW DAYS afterwards Liza was talking with Sally, who did not seem very much happier than when Liza had last seen her.

  ‘’E ain’t wot I thought ‘e wos,’ she said. ‘I don’t mind sayin’ thet; but ‘e ‘as a lot ter put up with; I expect I’m rather tryin’ sometimes, an’ ‘e means well. P’raps ‘e’ll be kinder like when the biby’s born.’

  ‘Cheer up, old gal,’ answered Liza, who had seen something of the lives of many married couples; ‘it won’t seem so bad after yer gets used to it; it’s a bit disappointin’ at fust, but yer gits not ter mind it.’

  After a little Sally said she must go and see about her husband’s tea. She said good-bye, and then rather awkwardly:

  ‘Say, Liza, tike care of yerself!’

  ‘Tike care of meself—why?’ asked Liza, in surprise.

  ‘Yer know wot I mean.’

  ‘Na, I’m darned if I do.’

  ‘Thet there Mrs. Blakeston, she’s lookin’ aht for you.’

  ‘Mrs. Blakeston!’ Liza was startled.

  ‘Yus; she says she’s goin’ ter give you somethin’ if she can git ‘old on yer. I should advise yer ter tike care.’

  ‘Me?’ said Liza.

  Sally looked away, so as not to see the other’s face.

  ‘She says as ‘ow yer’ve been messin’ abaht with ‘er old man.’

  Liza didn’t say anything, and Sally, repeating her good-bye, slid off.

  Liza felt a chill run through her. She had several times noticed a scowl and a look of anger on Mrs. Blakeston’s face, and she had avoided her as much as possible; but she had no idea that the woman meant to do anything to her. She was very frightened, a cold sweat broke out over her face. If Mrs. Blakeston got hold of her she would be helpless, she was so small and weak, while the other was strong and muscular. Liza wondered what she would do if she did catch her.

  That night she told Jim, and tried to make a joke of it.

  ‘I say, Jim, your missus—she says she’s goin’ ter give me socks if she catches me.’

  ‘My missus! ‘Ow d’yer know?’

  ‘She’s been tellin’ people in the street.’

  ‘Go’ lumme,’ said Jim, furious, ‘if she dares ter touch a ‘air of your ‘ead, swop me dicky I’ll give ‘er sich a ‘idin’ as she never ‘ad before! By God, give me the chanst, an’ I would let ‘er ‘ave it; I’m bloomin’ well sick of ‘er sulks!’ He clenched his fist as he spoke.

  Liza was a coward. She could not help thinking of her enemy’s threat; it got on her nerves, and she hardly dared go out for fear of meeting her; she would look nervously in front of her, quickly turning round if she saw in the distance anyone resembling Mrs. Blakeston. She dreamed of her at night; she saw the big, powerful form, the heavy, frowning face, and the curiously braided brown hair; and she would wake up with a cry and find herself bathed in sweat.

  It was the Saturday afternoon following this, a chill November day, with the roads sloshy, and a grey, comfortless sky that made one’s spirits sink. It was about three o’clock, and Liza was coming home from work; she got into Vere Street, and was walking quickly towards her house when she saw Mrs. Blakeston coming towards her. Her heart gave a great jump. Turning, she walked rapidly in the direction she had come; with a screw round of her eyes she saw that she was being followed, and therefore went straight out of Vere Street. She went right round, meaning to get into the street from the other end and, unobserved, slip into her house, which was then quite close; but she dared not risk it immediately for fear Mrs. Blakeston should still be there; so she waited about for half an hour. It seemed an age. Finally, taking her courage in both hands, she turned the corner and entered Vere Street. She nearly ran into the arms of Mrs. Blakeston, who was standing close to the public-house door.

  Liza gave a little cry, and the woman said, with a sneer:

  ‘Yer didn’t expect ter see me, did yer?’

  Liza did not answer, but tried to walk past her. Mrs. Blakeston stepped forward and blocked her way.

  ‘Yer seem ter be in a mighty fine ‘urry,’ she said.

  ‘Yus, I’ve got ter git ‘ome,’ said Liza, again trying to pass.

  ‘But supposin’ I don’t let yer?’ remarked Mrs. Blakeston, preventing her from moving.

  ‘Why don’t yer leave me alone?’ Liza said. ‘I ain’t interferin’ with you!’

  ‘Not interferin’ with me, aren’t yer? I like thet!’

  ‘Let me go by,’ said Liza. ‘I don’t want ter talk ter you.’

  ‘Na, I know thet,’ said the other; ‘but I want ter talk ter you, an’ I shan’t let yer go until I’ve said wot I wants ter sy.’

  Liza looked round for help. At the beginning of the altercation the loafers about the public-house had looked up with interest, and gradually gathered round in a little circle. Passers-by had joined in, and a number of other people in the street, seeing the crowd, added themselves to it to see what was going on. Liza saw that all eyes were fixed on her, the men amused and excited, the women unsympathetic, rather virtuously indignant. Liza wanted to ask for help, but there were so many people, and they all seemed so much against her, that she had not the courage to. So, having surveyed the crowd, she turned her eyes to Mrs. Blakeston, and stood in front of her, trembling a little, and very white.

  ‘Na, ‘e ain’t there,’ said Mrs. Blakeston, sneeringly, ‘so yer needn’t look for ‘im.’

  ‘I dunno wot yer mean,’ answered Liza, ‘an’ I want ter go awy. I ain’t done nothin’ ter you.’

  ‘Not done nothin’ ter me?’ furiously repeated the woman. ‘I’ll tell yer wot yer’ve done ter me—you’ve robbed me of my ‘usbind, you ‘ave. I never ‘ad a word with my ‘usbind until you took ‘im from me. An’ now it’s all you with ‘im. ‘E’s got no time for ‘is wife an’ family—it’s all you. An’ ‘is money, too. I never git a penny of it; if it weren’t for the little bit I ‘ad saved up in the siving-bank, me an’ my children ‘ud be starvin’ now! An’ all through you!’ She shook her fist at her.

  ‘I never ‘ad any money from anyone.’

  ‘Don’ talk ter me; I know yer did. Yer dirty bitch! You oughter be ishimed of yourself tikin’ a married man from ‘is family, an’ ‘im old enough ter be yer father.’

  ‘She’s right there!’ said one or two of the onlooking women. ‘There can’t be no good in ‘er if she tikes somebody else’s ‘usbind.’

  ‘I’ll give it yer!’ proceeded Mrs. Blakeston, getting more hot and excited, brandishing her fist, and speaking in a loud voice, hoarse with rage. ‘Oh, I’ve been tryin’ ter git ‘old on yer this four weeks. Why, you’re a prostitute—that’s wot you are!’

  ‘I’m not!’ answered Liza indignantly.

  ‘Yus, you are,’ repeated Mrs. Blakeston, advancing menacingly, so that Liza shrank back. ‘An’ wot’s more, ‘e treats yer like one. I know ‘oo give yer thet black eye; thet shows what ‘e thinks of ye
r! An’ serve yer bloomin’ well right if ‘e’d give yer one in both eyes!’

  Mrs. Blakeston stood close in front of her, her heavy jaw protruded and the frown of her eyebrows dark and stern. For a moment she stood silent, contemplating Liza, while the surrounders looked on in breathless interest.

  ‘Yer dirty little bitch, you!’ she said at last. ‘Tike that!’ and with her open hand she gave her a sharp smack on the cheek.

  Liza started back with a cry and put her hand up to her face.

  ‘An’ tike thet!’ added Mrs. Blakeston, repeating the blow. Then, gathering up the spittle in her mouth, she spat in Liza’s face.

  Liza sprang on her, and with her hands spread out like claws buried her nails in the woman’s face and drew them down her cheeks. Mrs. Blakeston caught hold of her hair with both hands and tugged at it as hard as she could. But they were immediately separated.

  ‘’Ere, ‘old ‘ard!’ said some of the men. ‘Fight it aht fair and square. Don’t go scratchin’ and maulin’ like thet.’

  ‘I’ll fight ‘er, I don’t mind!’ shouted Mrs. Blakeston, tucking up her sleeves and savagely glaring at her opponent.

  Liza stood in front of her, pale and trembling; as she looked at her enemy, and saw the long red marks of her nails, with blood coming from one or two of them, she shrank back.

  ‘I don’t want ter fight,’ she said hoarsely.

  ‘Na, I don’t suppose yer do,’ hissed the other, ‘but yer’ll damn well ‘ave ter!’

  ‘She’s ever so much bigger than me; I’ve got no chanst,’ added Liza tearfully.

  ‘You should ‘ave thought of thet before. Come on!’ and with these words Mrs. Blakeston rushed upon her. She hit her with both fists one after the other. Liza did not try to guard herself, but imitating the woman’s motion, hit out with her own fists; and for a minute or two they continued thus, raining blows on one another with the same windmill motion of the arms. But Liza could not stand against the other woman’s weight; the blows came down heavy and rapid all over her face and head. She put up her hands to cover her face and turned her head away, while Mrs. Blakeston kept on hitting mercilessly.

  ‘Time!’ shouted some of the men—’Time!’ and Mrs. Blakeston stopped to rest herself.