Because it was due to Mooney's portrait that his luck had changed, Harry offered Mooney the job as his assistant, and persuaded Simpson to pay Mooney five pounds a week which Harry made up to ten out of his own pocket. Mooney grudgingly accepted the offer. His job was to carry the equipment, set up the fights under Harry's directions, keep people from making a noise while Harry worked, and make himself generally useful which he seldom did. Doris processed the films, made the enlargements and mounted them. Harry paid her five pounds a week out of his own pocket Even at that, he was now earning fifteen pounds a week which was more than double what he had ever earned.
Out of what was left to him after income tax had been deducted he managed to save a few pounds a week. He remained with Mrs. Westerham, and his only extravagance was to buy the second-hand Morris from a bankrupt firm in Soho and which he got for ninety pounds, not perhaps such a bargain as it seemed for as it turned out, it was more luck than skill that kept the engine running.
However, it got Harry to the Regent Theatre when he had to work late, and somehow it had brought him all the way from Sloane Square to this country road just outside Aylesbury to bring Clair back in triumph.
She had said he would forget her, but he hadn't. His love for her had grown more solid and had taken deeper roots during her absence. He had thought about her a great deal. He had wondered about her.
She had deceived him and lied to him; she was a thief. These things he forgave. She was in love with him; of that he was sure. It was because she loved him and wanted to keep him that she had lied to him. Would she still be in love with him? That worried him more than her past. Would she be glad he was here to meet her or would she be angry and ashamed?
He had talked to Mooney about meeting her. Mooney liked her. That she was a thief didn't disturb him. That she gave herself away to the police because she wanted to keep Harry out of their hands pleased him.
"A girl who can do that's all right," he had said to Harry. "Go and meet her. If she doesn't like it now, she'll remember it later. A girl likes attention."
So here he was on a bleak, wet morning, sitting in the wheezy, broken-down Morris waiting for his love. The minutes dragged by. Eight o'clock came; the clock hands moved on slowly to five past. Then there was a sudden rattle of iron against iron and one of the big gates swung inwards. Clair came out into the wet, lonely road.
She came out as she had gone in, her head high, her mouth set. She was wearing the smart coat and skirt she had worn when she had come to sit for her portrait. She carried her smart little hat in her hand. A wardress appeared, said something to her and patted her arm. Clair paid no attention. She began to walk quickly towards Aylesbury and towards the waiting car.
Harry's heart was beating so rapidly that he felt suffocated. He couldn't move, but watched the trim figure coming towards him in a kind of emotional stupor, and it was only when she was within a few yards of the car that he pulled himself together, opened the door and scrambled out.
She stopped short at the sight of him, and they looked at each other.
"Hallo, Clair," Harry said huskily. He had an absurd feeling he was going to cry.
"Hallo, Harry," she said, her face hard and expressionless. What brings you here?"
He paused close to her, longing to take her in his arms while she looked past him down the long and empty road.
"Didn't you expect me, Clair? I've come to take you home."
"I have no home," she said in a cold, flat voice.
"Don't let's stand out in the rain; you'll get wet," Harry said, trying hard to speak normally. "Let's get in. I bet you could do with a cigarette."
Although her face remained hard, he saw her lips begin to tremble, and she put her hand to her mouth.
"I don't think I'll get in. It's all right. You don't have to bother. I — I'd just as soon walk."
He put his hand on her arm, and at his touch, her face suddenly twitched and she looked hastily away, but she allowed him to lead her to the car and help her in. He ran round to the other side, slipped under the steering wheel. "Here, have a cigarette," he said, dropping a packet of Players and a box of matches into her lap. "I'll start the car. It usually takes hours."
While he was coaxing life into the engine, he looked straight ahead, feeling her trembling against him. She ignored the carton of cigarettes that lay in her lap, and out of the corner of his eye he could see her fists clench tightly, and then suddenly she gave a harsh sob that seemed to be wrenched from her in spite of her efforts to control it.
Still not looking at her, Harry reached out and took her hand and she held on to it desperately. Then she began to cry.
"It's all right, darling," he said, putting his arm round her shoulders and pulling her to him. "I'm here. I love you. It's all going to be all right. Oh, Clair, my darling . . . my darling . . ."
chapter nineteen
As luck would have it Mrs. Westerham had a vacant room opposite Harry's room, and Harry had rented it for a couple of weeks. He, Mooney and Doris had spent their spare time making it "nice' as Doris called it. They had rearranged the furniture, put up new curtains, bought a coverlet for the divan and arranged flowers on the window-sill.
As Harry pushed open the door and led Clair into the room he thought at least it looked clean, comfortable and bright It couldn't compare to the luxurious room in the Long Acre flat, but it did somehow look homely and inviting even though the carpet was worn and the wallpaper was past its prime.
"This is only until we get something better," Harry said. "The bed's comfortable, anyway. I've tried it."
Clair scarcely looked at the room. She dropped her hat and bag listlessly on to the bed and wandered over to the window. All the way back to London, they had said little to each other. She had looked through the windscreen, her eyes hungry for the sight of people, traffic, the houses and streets from which she had been locked away for nine months.
Harry hadn't attempted to make conversation. He was content to sit at her side, to glance at her occasionally, and take her as quickly as the ancient Morris could go to Lannock Street "I'll leave you for a moment," he said, watching her. "You'll want to tidy up. When you're ready, will you come into my room? It's right opposite. I'll have some coffee ready."
She didn't turn.
"All right," she said.
Harry went into his room and half closed the door, took off his raincoat and hung it in the cupboard.
He lit a cigarette, moved to the. window and stared down into the rain-swept street It was now half past nine, and he felt as if he had been up for hours.
Of course she was bound to feel strange, he thought. He must be patient, but if only she had come to him, let him comfort her instead of being so hard and distant.
He waited for more than half an hour, then worried, crept over to his door and listened. There was no sound from Clair's room. He crossed the passage and looked round the half-open door. She still stood by the window as he had left her, motionless, her head resting on her arm. But there was a sag to her shoulders and a weariness about the way she stood that tugged at his heart.
He went to her, turned and pulled her to him.
"Darling Clair," he said. "It's all right now. Come and sit down. You look so tired." He sat in an armchair and pulled her on to his knees. She lay limply against him, her hands in her lap, her head against his shoulder. They sat like that for some time, neither of them saying anything, and as the minutes passed, he felt her relaxing against him.
"I thought you were certain to forget me," she said suddenly. "I couldn't believe it when I saw you get out of the car. It's the loveliest thing that's ever happened to me."
He slid his hands over hers.
"You didn't forget me, why should I forget you?"
She lifted her shoulders.
"Who else had I to think about? And there was so much to take your attention away from me."
"Well, I didn't forget," Harry said happily. "I've been counting the days. In my room there's a
calendar with every day marked off since you went away."
She pushed away from him, sat up and looked at him. Her eyes searched his face.
"Still the same old Harry. You haven't changed. You're still nice and kind and different. I worried myself sick you'd've changed, but you haven't."
He was looking at her. Well, she had changed. There was a hardness in her eyes that worried him.
She looked older, not quite so pretty, and there were lines each side of her mouth that gave her a cynical, bitter expression.
"Go on, say it," she said. "I know I've changed, but so would you if you'd been kept in a cage like an animal for nine months."
"It'll all come right, darling," he said, taking her face in his hands. "Only try not to be too bitter about it. I can guess what it must have been like, but it's over, and you've got to try to forget it. You will, won't you?"
She kissed him, and at the touch of her lips, he felt a wave of tenderness and desire run through him, and he caught her to him, kissing her, hoping to arouse in her the same urgent longing that gripped him. But she pushed him away, got off his lap and wandered over to the window.
"Not yet, Harry," she said. "Be patient with me. I feel cold and hard inside. Be patient with me."
For a few seconds he sat trembling, disappointed, then he got to his feet "Sorry, Clair, of course. There's lots of time."
She swung round on her heels to look at him.
"I don't know what I should have done without my thoughts of you," she said. "Later, Harry, I promise. Just give me time to get over all this."
"Of course, Clair . . . Let me make you some coffee. Come into my room. It's bigger than this, and there's a better view. I was wondering if you would like it instead of this one. Come in and see it."
She linked her arm through his, looked up at him and for a moment he caught a glimpse of the old Clair.
They went into his room, and while he heated coffee she wandered around looking at his things.
"Who's that?" she asked suddenly, standing before a photograph. "He looks nice."
"Ron — Ron Fisher," Harry said, pouring the coffee into cups.
"Oh." She turned away, her face hardening. After a moment's silence, she went on, "What happened to him?"
"He's in a home in Brighton," Harry said. "The newspaper he worked for is looking after him."
"A home?" She looked at Harry, then away. "Isn't he all right now?"
"He won't ever be quite well," Harry said quietly. "Here, sit down and try this. You do have sugar?"
"They didn't catch the man who did it?" She took the cup of coffee and sat down. There was a cold, impersonal look on her white face.
"No."
"I suppose you want to know if I had anything to do with him?"
"No, I don't. I don't want to know anything about the past, Clair."
She stirred the coffee, her mouth pursed, a frown creasing her forehead.
"Tell me about yourself, Harry," she said promptly. "What have you been doing?"
So he told her about Alf Mooney's portrait and how Allan Simpson had seen it and had given him a contract.
"Of course it's unbelievable," he said, smiling at her. "I'm now earning fifteen pounds a week, and I've been saving like mad for the day when we'd meet again. Simpson is pleased with my work, and I think when my contract runs out I'll get better terms. I want to break the monopoly clause. At the moment I can't work for anyone else, nor can I do private work. If I can get him to agree to dropping that clause I should make a lot more money."
"The wheel turns," she said with a bitter little smile. "You're now making more than I. It's your turn, isn't it, Harry?"
"But you mustn't mind," Harry said, taking her hand. "You remember you once persuaded me to share with you? You were right when you said it didn't matter who had the money so long as one of us had it. Clair, darling, ever since you've been away I have been planning to do things for you. The past doesn't matter; nothing matters except we love each other. I want you to marry me. Will you? Will you marry me and help me and share with me whatever I have?"
"I don't want to get married. I'll live with you, Harry, but not marriage."
"But why? We're only asking for trouble if we don't marry, Clair. Why are you scared of marriage?"
"What's going to happen to me?" she asked, avoiding his question. "There's nothing I can do. I can't run a home, and yet you ask me to marry you. I don't know enough about anything to earn a living. All I'm good at is picking pockets. Who wants a wife like that?"
"I do, Clair," Harry said. "We'll take a service flat somewhere and you can help me in my work.
I'll teach you. Mooney's no good at lighting. You'll find it interesting. You'll meet all the stars. It'll be fun darling."
"Fun for them to meet an old lag?" she asked, raising her eyebrows.
"You must stop being bitter, Clair. No one will know about your past You can trust Mooney. He's the only one who knows, and he likes you. He won't talk."
She shifted her shoulders in a hopeless gesture.
"How can I help you?"
"After a couple of weeks you'll know all about lighting. It's simple enough and interesting too. Seriously Clair, will you marry me? It's the only answer. I won't expect you to do a thing in the flat. All I want is to have you with me for always. Say yes, darling."
"But Harry, this is ridiculous. You don't know anything about me. How can you want to marry me?"
"I know all I want to know. We'll make a fresh start. It'll be all right. So long as you love me, nothing matters."
"I love you enough to want to keep you happy, and marrying will only bring you unhappiness, Harry." She got up and moved restlessly about the room. "I'm no good. You may as well know it now because you'll find out before long for yourself. I was never any good, and I never will be any good. It's the way I'm made."
"That's nonsense," Harry said. "If you know what's right and what's wrong, and obviously you do, you can get yourself straightened out'
She shook her head.
"You're such an old-fashioned darling." She came over and sat on the floor at his feet "It's not as easy as that I don't want to get straightened out as you call it. I have a kink. Ever since I can remember I've been in trouble. You wouldn't think to look at me that my father was a labourer on the railway, would you? Well, he was. We lived in a council house. My mother wasn't quite all there. She couldn't read or write; and she scarcely ever did anything to the house. It was a pigsty of a place. I was allowed to run wild, play in the streets, do what I liked. When I was fifteen, my father got drunk one night and came to my room. My mother caught us, and there was a fight. She was thrown downstairs. She broke her back. They gave my father five years, and he got another five years for nearly killing another convict They put me in a home, but I didn't stay long. I ran away and got a job in a laundry. That cured me of working for a living." She reached for a cigarette, lit it and tossed the match angrily into the fireplace. "I'm sorry to be so sordid, Harry, but you must know what you think you want to marry. I and another girl palled up. We worked the big stores, shop lifting.
“It was a good racket while it lasted. She was caught and given a year. That scared me and I gave it up. Then the war came, and I made friends with an American officer. I lived with him until he went overseas. He introduced me to a pal of his, and I lived with him. If he didn't give me money — and he was mean sometimes — I stole from him. He had so much he never missed it. He was a ghastly little squirt, but I put up with him because of his money. I hoped he would take me back to America with him. I wanted to go to America. But he went without telling me, and I was left high and dry. For a week or so I had a bad time. I was broke and hadn't anywhere to live. I spent my nights in air raid shelters and walked the streets for money." She didn't look at Harry. "Sorry, darling, but there it is. You've got to know the truth. I ran into another man. He was a crook. He taught me to pick pockets. He had three other girls working for him. It was a marvellous racket while it l
asted. I've never made so much money. Then I met you, Harry. You didn't realise it, but you saved my neck that evening. That was the first and only time I had a pang of conscience. I hated myself for making you my stooge. I still hate myself." She stubbed out the cigarette, frowning. "It was my luck to slip up over the cigarette case. I should have given it to Rob . . . to the man I was working for, but it was such a beauty I couldn't resist making you a present of it. It was a mad, stupid thing to have done. But then most things I do are mad and stupid." She made an angry, impatient gesture. "I'm not trying to excuse myself. I'm bad, and until I met you, I didn't give a damn what I was. Well, that's the story. Pretty, isn't it? And don't think I'm a poor little girl who hasn't had a chance. I've had dozens of chances. I was offered a job once in a hat shop. I could have earned four pounds a week, but picking pockets brought me in thirty to fifty pounds, and I preferred to pick pockets. It was much more exciting and much more profitable, and I was my own mistress. The court missionary wanted me to get a job in a factory. That was sweet, wasn't it? From eight to five, at five pounds a week. No, thank you! I told her to go to hell. Then some old lady took a fancy to me and wanted me to be her companion. Can you imagine me as a companion to an old lady? Oh, I've had lots of chances, but I preferred the easy way. That's the way I'm made. Well, now you know. So don't let's talk about getting married. It's hopeless."
Harry had listened to all this in silence.
"I really don't care what you've been, Clair," he said when she had finished. "What I want to be sure of is you really love me. I think you do. You have said so, but I'd like you to say it once more."
"Yes, I love you," she said, looking up at him. "And there are moments, Harry, when I wish I didn't I've never loved anyone but you. Why I should have to pick on you I don't know. Why couldn't I have fallen in love with one of my own kind? Someone as worthless and as rotten as I am."
Harry took her in his arms.
"Please, Clair, don't talk like that. If you really want to make me happy, marry me. I know you and I will make a go of it. The past doesn't matter."
1951 - But a Short Time to Live Page 12