“Do you want me to, sir?”
“I do, Albert. I do want you to.”
“I reckon I might put ’im on to something, sir.”
“Right, Albert. You do that. No hurry. Tell him you’re keeping your eyes open.”
“Keepin’ me eyes open. Yes, sir.”
“Good. Now skedaddle.”
“But, sir — Mr Merry —”
“You’ve had your money. From Harry.”
“Now look ’ere, sir —”
“I’ll tell you what, Albert. Seeing it’s Christmas, buy yourself a drink.” He spun a half-sovereign to the fat man.
“Much obliged, sir. You see me right, I’ll see you right.”
Wheezing and chuckling as if at some private joke, he lumbered out.
When Albert had gone, Weldon said, “You’re not going to take Harry in this time?”
Merry grinned. “For a few bolts of cloth? You’re thick, Weldon. Let Harry work up an appetite. When I put him away it’ll be for a long time.”
When Dido came back from the stable his mother was alone in the kitchen, crocheting under the gaslight. She said, “You were a long time.”
“Pony was ’ot after the run. Had to look after ’im.” The kettle boiled on a low light. Two thick beef sandwiches were ready for him on the table. He took one and bit deep. “Where are the boys?”
“They had a bite and went out. Will that be enough, dear? I can hot you up some soup.”
He shook his head, his cheeks bulging as he chewed. “What they gone out for?”
“Fresh air. That’s what they said.”
The street door banged and footsteps clattered past in the passage. “Well,” he said, “they didn’t go far. Reckon they ’ad enough fresh air coming back from Ada’s.”
He heard the boys go upstairs. The bedroom door banged behind them. When he had washed the sandwiches down with a mug of sweet tea, he brought a bowl of water in from the yard and put it on the range to heat. He took off his jacket, collar and tie and rolled up his sleeves. His mother said, “Going to bed already?”
“Goin’ out.”
“Out?” The vague, puzzled look came into her eyes.
“Fresh air. Same as the boys. It’s early yet.”
He took the bowl off the fire and washed his face, neck and hands. His mother looked on indulgently over her crocheting. She had stood over him when he was a small boy and he had washed as if it were a fanatic ritual, both to please her and because cleanliness was his own passion. He was the same now at thirty, scrubbing as if he were trying to rub his skin away, twisting a corner of a towel in his ear, brushing his fingernails hard, then towelling himself fiercely. He glanced at his collar, “Clean one, mother?”
“In your drawer, upstairs. You’re particular, just going for a walk.”
“Just a walk, that’s all.”
“You haven’t got a young lady hidden away by any chance?”
It was only a joke. But her heart suddenly thumped with shock at the look which Dido jerked at her, eyes wild for a moment under hunched eyebrows. He was himself again, mouth twisted in a grin. “You’ll know when I ’ave.”
“I’m sure I’ve prayed for it,” she said. “A nice respectable young lady. She’d be made welcome.”
The door closed behind him. He ran upstairs. On the landing he heard the window groaning open in the bedroom and two voices mumbling urgently. He threw open the door.”
“’Allo.”
In spite of the cold, the window was open. Shonny stood at it, waving his hands wildly until he saw Dido and froze into a statue of guilt. Chas was at the chest-of-drawers, hastily closing the drawer allotted to him. Dido said, “Shut the window, Shonny. Come here, you two.” He beckoned with his forefinger. “Come on, Chas.”
His brothers stood in front of him. He opened Shonny’s mouth with a horse-doctor’s tug and sniffed. “Been smokin’, son.” To Chas. “All right. Come on. Open.”
“I suppose I can smoke if I want to?” Chas exclaimed.
Dido sniffed. “Smoke yourself to death. It ain’t smoke you reek of. Where is it?”
Chas, in indignant appeal. “It’s Christmas.”
Dido pointed at the chest of drawers. “Come on, son.”
Chas opened the drawer. A bottle of whisky lay on top of his clothes. Sullenly he gave it to Dido. Dido said to Shonny, “You been at this as well?”
Shonny went crimson. He mumbled, “It’s Christmas, a’n’ it?”
“I only give ’im a taste,” Chas said.
“And some fags,” Dido said.
“Five Woods. ’E’s old enough.”
“I’ll say when ’e’s old enough.” Dido’s tone was still benevolent. He held his hand out. Shonny surrendered the packet.
Shonny said, “I’m not a school kid. I work. They all smoke. Everyone but me.”
“I’ll tell you when, Shonny boy. You put on a few more inches first. Want you to be a big strong feller.”
“I’m eighteen,” Chas said. “You treat me like a bleed’n kid.”
“Mind your language.” Dido was no less gentle. “Not too old to ’ave your mouth washed out, boy. Got to bring you up decent.”
“Dide, it’s Christmas,” Chas protested. “I only went down the pub for some smokes and a drink.”
“Don’t be greedy. You ’ad ’alf-a-dozen ports at Ada’s. One more drink, you’ll be sick as a pig.”
Chas was flushed, swaying a little. He glared resentment as manfully as he could but his sudden outcry was a boy’s.
“Oo’s fault is that? Keep me in a bloody pinny, you do. Never ’ave a drink, never lay a bet, never go in for a game of billiards. ’Ave a lark with a girl, there’s ol Dido interferin’. I’m eighteen. You’re not me dad.”
“I am in a manner of speakin’. My job to keep you decent. The way mother brought us up.”
“I’m not a bloody thief or anything,” Chas cried. “I only want me rights.”
“I know your rights, boy. All I want is keep you straight. We ’ave to live among riff-raff. We don’t ’ave to be like them. Got to keep straight. All of us.”
Chas kept a sullen silence. Dido said, “Tell you what, son. I reckon it’s time you went back to work.”
“’Ow can I?”
“’Ow can you? Simple. Just get up early, get your sandwiches from mother, nice healthy walk and you’re back at the timber yard.”
“You’re away all day. Gawd only knows where. You gonna leave mother on ’er own with Shonny?”
“There won’t be no more trouble.”
“That’s what you think. What about the Murchisons?”
“They’ve ’ad their bellyful.”
“I wouldn’t bet on it. Anyway, what about you?”
“What about me?”
“Why don’t you go back to work?”
“Because I can’t, that’s why.”
“Why? If it’s so safe.”
“Because I’m here. That’s why it’s safe.” Dido fastened his clean collar and rapidly knotted his tie. He opened his drawer in the cabinet and took out a large, oblong parcel. He was frowning with thought. “All right. You’d better stay home for the time being. But behave yourself.”
“Ta, Dide.” Chas indicated the parcel. “What’s that?”
“Ask no questions.” Dido tossed the cigarette packet to him. “I’m trustin’ you two. No more fags for Shonny. The whisky’ll go in the cupboard downstairs for medicine. Into kip now, lads.”
He went out. Chas said, “Christmas night. ’Alf-past nine. What a life!”
The parcel under Dido’s arm concealed a two-pound box of chocolates. The box had a handsome pictorial top and a wide silk ribbon round it tied in a big bow. He walked rapidly, nervous as he never had been before. The business had been preying on his mind all day, while he tried to play his part in the family festivity. He had worried at the thought of her spending Christmas in a hostel. He had been savage with himself for not having approached her earlier. She
might have spent a happy Christmas Day with the family. But that would have meant bringing her home. Bringing a girl home was a fateful act. It meant inexorably one thing, marriage. Did he want that? He didn’t know what he wanted. He only knew that he was driven by strange energies that racked and burned his body; that pushed him always towards her.
As to this further step that now suggested itself, he was frightened of it. He had fought since childhood, faced brutes without knowing fear. But his heart shrank at the thought of taking a girl home. His mother said that she prayed for it. Yet he flinched from facing her with a girl at his side. He couldn’t say why.
He walked up the steps of the hostel and pushed through the swing doors into the wide entrance hall. The porter’s compartment was deserted.
He had not counted on this. He had meant to ask for her. She would come into the hall, and there would be words exchanged, the present given, she would flush with surprised gratitude, she would go and put her outdoor things on, they would walk in the streets, and then — And then? What to do and say would come to him, one thing at a time. He wanted to do the right thing. He was a respectable chap. He wanted to take her home. Yes, when it came to the push he would.
Of course he had realised that she might be out. Then he would leave the gift with the porter, with the Christmas card inside the parcel and his own name written in it. He wished he had given it to her before Christmas. He had meant to but he had kept putting it off. Well, all for the best. She would have time to think about him during the rest of the holiday. It would be a lovely surprise for a girl on her own to know that someone outside the hostel had been thinking of her. She would be grateful, he would feel it and speak easier. Then he would ask her to go out with him of an evening, and she would be his young lady.
For each eventuality he had forms of words ready. He had silently rehearsed them all day, sitting by the fire at Ada’s. The exact words. He was a passionate man. His feelings were an enclosed violence. But he was not a readily articulate man. He thought and spoke deliberately; he had to get his words ready beforehand.
Here he was now, with his mind clinging to the alternative forms of words, fearful of losing or muddling them, and there was no porter.
He could hear the faint sound of a piano, a high-pitched voice singing. He walked towards it along a corridor. The white ceiling was vaulted. His footsteps echoed and made him feel alone. He stopped at swing doors through which he could see into a hall. The hall was decorated for Christmas. Girls sat in rows. A parson was in the front row. A big stout lady in a long spangly gown stood on the stage. She was singing something high-class accompanied by the piano. She kept putting out her arms in gestures. He couldn’t see Grace.
Everyone started clapping. The woman went and consulted the pianist. Two girls from the back row took the chance to hurry out.
The doors swung back with a whoof. The girls came into the corridor and looked at Dido. He felt like stone. It all depended on them. If they would only ask him politely if they could be of help, he could ask if Grace was in there. One of them could go in and tell her.
For a long and wrenching moment the girls hesitated, staring at him then exchanging glances with each other. They walked away. One slipped her arm through the other’s and leaned close and whispered and the other looked quickly back and there was a sudden explosion of laughter from both of them. He saw himself as they must have seen him, a man hanging about in the corridor with a big parcel, a foolish face with a trilby hat perched on top of it and a winged collar underneath.
They vanished round a corner but their laughter echoed in his ears and his pride suffered agonies. He could not go into the hall; not with all those women and the parson. Besides, the stout lady was singing again. If only those two girls had shown a little politeness.
He hurried out down the steps, and into City Road, walking towards Old Street. He walked faster and faster like a fugitive. He was running away from the thought of his own cowardice and he raged against it. He made excuses; he had been caught unprepared, he had not thought quickly enough. The rage still choked. Of course he was a coward, otherwise he would go back now. But he could not go back to stand in that corridor while a crowd of women swept round him. He could not risk the peeps and the whispers and the giggles. Suppose she came out arm-in-arm with her friends and they giggled to her about him? She would be ashamed or she would even laugh at him.
Rage became shame and shame became a greater rage, sometimes against the cause of it all, the girl. He was in Commercial Street and he turned left into the maze of dirty alleys that led to Brick Lane and Rabbit Marsh. Light and discordant song came from the pubs. Outside the doors clusters of children waited in silence for their parents; pallid, ragged creatures.
“’Ere.” He stopped outside a pub. A boy of perhaps eleven, in a torn jacket without buttons, muffler, broken-peaked cap, long trousers tied at the ankles above black, bare feet, stared at him.
“’Ere.” Dido tore off the wrapping and held out the box of chocolates. The boy just stared. Other children moved in closer. Dido pulled the lid off the box.
“’Ere, for God’s sake, it’s Christmas.”
He put the box down on the pavement and hurried on. After a dozen rapid paces he heard yelping and he looked back. A scrum of shouting, struggling children surged where he had put the box.
Chapter Seven
Mrs Peach was busy at the boiler in the yard when Shonny rapped at the kitchen window from inside to let her know he was home. He had gone out with his first barrow-load of deliveries at eight o’clock. It was ten now. She said to Chas, who was working the mangle, “I’ll make some tea.”
When she entered the kitchen Shonny had gone out again to load the barrow. As he came into the shop she called out that she was making tea, but he shouted back, “Won’t wait, mum. They gimme tea at Dinsdale’s.” The shop bell jangled as the door closed and he was gone. She heard the barrow clattering away.
She turned back towards the cupboard to get down crockery for herself and Chas; and only then she saw the flowers, a penny bunch of snowdrops in a teacup on the table. She felt wetness in her eyes. The boys never saw her in tears. On her own, however, she often had thoughts that brought tears to her eyes. Bless him! (She was busy at the gas stove). Flowers in January! Shonny was the only one of them who would think of such a thing. The others were good boys. They would do anything for her. Everything she had she owed to Dido. But he would never think of flowers. Only Shonny, her baby; would do that. He was so gentle and thoughtful and tender, although he was a sturdy boy, bless him, and he worked away all day long like a little hero. No wonder the headmaster gave him a lovely character last year when he left school and called him a manly little fellow.
She was proud of his character, which she kept in an envelope on the mantelpiece. “A smart, intelligent lad. Learns quickly. Honest, can be completely trusted. Comes from a good, religious home.” The last bit gave her the most pride. It was a character for her as well.
But —
She called Chas in for his tea. After tea she went back to her work. In the yard Chas spoke to her and she answered but she could not have said what it was all about. She was thinking about Shonny. She dreamed, rather; for her attempts to think usually became dreams.
Like many timid people she lived withdrawn into a secret world of her own, which made her even more timid and vague. She was often absent-minded when people spoke to her because she was a long way away, in her imaginary life, which was more real to her than “real” life.
She lived this other life as if it were a “real” one, from day to day, dragged from it again and again by practical interruptions but always flitting back to it. She had no grand fantasies. In this imaginary life she lived in her present surroundings, much as she did now. It was beyond her even to envisage life outside Rabbit Marsh. She detested the street, but the effort of keeping herself and her family apart had given her a pride that she would not willingly lose. Only here could she feel above other
s. In a more genteel environment she would have felt inferior, crushed, afraid even to step out into the street for fear of her neighbours’ scorn. Here it was she who could feel scornful. So in her wish-world she asked for nothing to be different — except that certain things in her family fell out otherwise than as they really were.
In this dream world Dido was married. One of the top-floor tenants had moved out and Dido occupied the room with his wife. This wife was very young, and had no clear face in the pictures in Mrs Peach’s mind, but she was hardworking, obedient to her husband, and a nice respectful little thing to talk to. She stayed at home all day and was a real companion. Mrs Peach herself, in real life a tireless drudge, was not working and the two of them were always sitting in the kitchen having a good old chat. It was like being in service again and having a nice, well-brought-up under-maid for company and help.
Outside her dream, Mrs Peach did not admit that she was lonely. She had her three boys. Yet she had been lonely since the day of her marriage. Her girlhood in service was the last time she knew when life was happy. One by one the boys, when they had been small, had given her something that blotted out loneliness. That was when they were tiny, demanding creatures who depended entirely on her, warm little things she could press against her. But they had all grown big and separate and she dared not hug them. Shonny hadn’t quite gone yet. He still had that lovely childhood bloom upon him.
Not that she believed in favourites. Chas was in her dreams, too. She dreamed that his employers saw what a bright boy he was, from a good home, and he did not have to unload the barges any more. In the dream he went to work every day in a suit with a collar and tie, a bowler on his head, and he stood apart from the common workmen with a board in his hand with sheets of paper clipped to it and a pencil stuck behind his ear. He could go into the warm office whenever he liked and in there he would one day meet a nice girl, one of those young ladies in neat blouses who worked typewriters and telephones and such things.
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