“Gapalous says you’re young as long as you’re moist,” the other said quietly. “After that, after drying——”
“I don’t see that helps much,” she said, disappointed.
Her friend smiled. She was on her knees to her bread again. The loaves that were risen enough she pushed in the oven and moved the others nearer the warmth. “I’ve often thought that women make a mistake in being so what you might call separate,” she said. “If I had my way I’d have all the women registered—with what they could do written opposite their names, and those that were too old to do anything themselves might train the others. Perhaps there’s nothing in it, but it’s an idea.”
“What would you do yourself? “The smell of the fresh bread made her feel hungry. She would have given a shilling to break off and pop in her mouth the crust that had run over one side of a loaf, like hard curdled cream—kissing-crust, some people call it. She imagined the savour of it in her cheeks.
“Teach ‘em to make bread and enjoy their husbands,” Mrs. Gapalous said quickly.
“Why, is there a living in it?” she laughed.
“Gapalous only eats my bread, and he says if he lives to be a hundred he’ll be satisfied with what I can do for him. If you ask me, half the loving pairs that come here wanting a room for their work don’t know what to do there with themselves when they get it. I could teach them a few old things.” She put the last loaf in the oven and drew out the first. The kitchen was now almost dark, and as warm as pie. Mrs. Gapalous opened the cupboard where she kept her groceries, and other smells mingled with the smell of warm bread.
“What’s that?”
“That’s thyme,” Mrs. Gapalous said.
“Will Gapalous be long?”
“I heard him shut the front door ten minutes ago. I daresay he’s gone upstairs, seeing a tenant.” She said something about the child and went out of the room, leaving her alone.
She looked for a moment eagerly at the still-warm crust. Her mouth dribbled at the thought of it, and if it had been any other place she would have torn it off and had it. But she was afraid of offending in this house. She rubbed her legs, groaned, and sank herself as low as possible in her chair.
A familiar feeling came over her. Though she could remember nothing that had been said she was as satisfied as if someone had made her a good offer. What she doesn’t know isn’t worth knowing, she thought, with a lewd smile. She felt at one with Mrs. Gapalous in the possession of a secret unspeakable experience, and warm and rested. I could live here. It was the only place, except her own room, in which she felt at home. It reminded her of her mother’s kitchen, though the two rooms had nothing in common except an old-fashioned bread oven and a drying shelf, and both were dark.
Now another feeling took possession of her. She began to wish that she was in a man’s arms, on the floor. She moved her heavy body gently to ease it. Her thoughts—if you can call that thinking which is only the twitching of old instincts—had sunk her so completely that she did not hear the door open. Mr. Gapalous touched her on the shoulder. She jumped.
“Gow, you did give me a start,” she grumbled.
Mr. Gapalous was taller than his wife, but short for a man. He was fat. He had a round dark face, a greedy mouth, and eyes without much expression. She was a little afraid of him, and tried to cover it up with an impudent manner.
“You don’t half take your time,” she said. “I’ve run past m’self waiting for you.”
Mr. Gapalous took the bag from the table and examined its clasp. There was a gas bracket over the mantelshelf and he lit that and stood near it, turning the bag round in his hand. She wondered vaguely what the woman to whom it belonged would think, if she could see it being pulled about by those fingers. With love—1909.
“Where d’you get it?”
“A friend of mine gave me it,” she babbled. “He was killed in the War, poor fellow, and the evening before he went we had supper at Scott’s, oh I could tell you something about that. I kept it all this time in memory of him, I’m always like that, I can’t bear to get rid of anything, photos, old furs, six or seven I have, and now with the gala novelties——”
“Ten shillings.”
“It’s worth a lot more than that,” she exclaimed. “That thing’s pure gold, I tell you.”
“Take it anywhere you fancy.”
He held it out to her. She wanted to tell him what a mean lousy bastard he was but kept it back. The very quietness of his manner frightened her. Something was in, yes in the quietness, some rag of her fears flew out in it; she felt terror. It was nothing actual that she feared; she did not think that he would get her into trouble—or do anything to her. In a way, her fears had nothing to do with Mr. Gapalous. She felt that she was flat down, with her face in the dirt, and these safe people were treading on her. It was an animal terror—the fear without mitigation of thought that shows in the eyes of animals, no wordy veil comes between them and the menace of things— but the spasm tore her inwardly. It lasted in her only the fraction of a second and then the ordinary sense of resentment and annoyance flowed back. He had done her, mean wretch. She had expected it, and yet hoped for miracles. It’s because I’m a woman and I haven’t a man behind me protecting me, she thought bitterly. They’re all alike, I’ll say that for him, they all take advantage of us—how would they like it, I wonder, if we robbed them right and left—
“All right, give me the money,” she said.
She felt really dejected. She had almost persuaded herself that she was telling the truth about the bag. Mrs. Gapalous came back now, and the execution being over, she was very affable and less friendly. On rare occasions she would actually give her friend something, but to-day she had not been able to lay hands on anything so small and valueless that it was only fit to be given away. Instead she asked her to supper.
“Thanks, I’m meeting a friend.”
“What a pity!” Mrs. Gapalous said, in a low voice. She called her son from the back room.
Still gabbling verses under his breath, he took her to the front door, opened it, and locked it again after her. Standing outside, she put the ten-shilling note in her bag with the others. Her spirits rose. She made up her mind to celebrate, never mind that she was alone. It was after half-past eight, time if she went at once, for a seat at the Holborn. The idea excited her. The pictures were well enough in their way but they hadn’t the go of the real thing. She began to hurry.
Whether it was feeling tired, or her feet, or the asinine carryings-on of the two in front of her, but she scarcely enjoyed it until Ella Retford came on. Then it was like old times. She hummed under her breath, swaying, and helped to bawl the chorus. It’s doing me good, she thought. She forgot the turns of the day. A rich, confused world opened in her and people she had forgotten tweaked her arm. “What ho!” she said to a young man in a serge suit and to another in khaki, several in khaki. Those were the times—why can’t they have good times without their bloody wars, she thought quickly, killing all the good-looking happy young men, they ought to kill off old goats like Lloyd George. It’s them do the dirty on the world. Who wants them? Coo, that’s good, that is. How old is she, she must be getting on. My age. I daresay she’s older. Well if I could kick like that I wouldn’t be here.
The exhilaration lasted until she was in the street. She looked up and down, not willing to go home, to open the door feeling inside it with her foot for a letter—to admit then there was no letter. She strolled along Oxford Street, looking boldly into the faces of other strollers. I could do with a bite of something.
She turned into darker streets through which, looking at nothing, she hurried. It seemed that the older you got the more food and drink meant to you. She would miss anything for a good meal these days.
The Open All Night place was crowded. She saw a woman she knew slightly sitting at a table alone and went across to her. “What ho! “
“What ho! “the other said listlessly.
“Expecting anyone? Mind
if I sit here? “
“Sit where you like.”
A man at the next table was lifting a strip of red under-done beef to his mouth. Her own moistened pleasantly. An exhausted-looking waiter stopped at her table. Now what?
“Bring me a grilled chop and—lemme see—can I have a drink?”
“Up to midnight.”
“A double whiskey, then, and look sharp will you? I don’t want to choke.” She glanced at the other woman. “You having something?”
“I’ve had all I want, thanks.”
In trouble. She leaned back in her chair and gazed with easy smiles round the room. Her tongue quivered a little in anticipation. This morning I sat here, not here. She felt now different. Hours, an infinite period, lay between her and her morning self. The room itself had changed and where in the daylight it had seemed exposed, the street barely held off by frail walls, now it was as separate as light and dark. Light in here and dark outside, she murmured. She felt that she had made an important remark. Whatever it was, she was happy. She drank her whiskey.
“Can you lend me half-a-crown?”
She felt a shock of annoyance. “What’s up?”
“I haven’t a penny after I’ve paid for this. What am I going to do?”
Her throat hardened. Give her any of my money? Not likely.“I haven’t anything to lend,” she said shortly.
“Oh all right,‘’ the other woman said. After a minute or two she got up and trailed out of the room, knocking against the tables.
She watched her at the desk laying down a coin. No change. A half impulse started her in her chair but she sat back again. I can’t afford it. A sour rage against the woman filled her. What right has she to ask for money, I’m not made of money am I? Lend me half-a-crown. Of all the cheek.
She ate with vexed haste. If she asks me again I’ll fettle her to rights. Here of all places. Find your own half-crowns, what d’you come here for if you haven’t any money? Let’s see, she’s the married one of them two. He went off with some woman, that’s right; he did and I don’t blame him. Well thank God it’s not my business if she can’t look after herself.
A genial warmth flowed through her. She felt excited and able to look after herself. An almost kindly contempt for the woman who had gone out filled her. Sucking her teeth, she felt mildly sorry that she had refused. A few coppers would have been better than nothing. After all, you never knew—it might break the luck. You gave a penny to a beggar and somehow it did you good, like a charm. God bless you, lady. He did.
An easy regret, the undertow of excitement, disturbed her. It vanished quickly.
She glanced up, and saw the woman standing in the doorway. She sent a vacant glance over the tables, spoke to the uniformed doorman, who bent his head to listen, and came in. The man’s uninterested face turned towards her as she blundered across the room.
What’s she coming back for? “Lost something? “
“I thought I’d left a parcel.”
“You hadn’t a parcel when I saw you,” she answered, with contempt. The excuse was too obvious.
The woman sank to a chair. “What shall I do now? “
“What’s the matter ?” Uncertain curiosity moved her. She might hear something, a fat story worth carrying off to tell again.
“I told you. I haven’t a penny,” the woman said softly. “Not a God’s penny. What can I do?”
“Where’s Alfred, then?”
“Gone. Didn’t you hear ?”
“Something I heard.”
“He went off a month Tuesday—with that Mrs. Boody she was making up to him the year we married. He said I could get something. Dear knows I’ve tried every way. You can’t get anything how can you? The times are too hard.”
“They are that,” she said warmly.
The woman looked at her. “Can you lend me a shilling? I’ll go in the river, I swear I will, if I spend another night like last.”
“I might manage a few coppers,” she was beginning. Not to break the luck. She felt, keeping it under the table, in her bag.
“I wanted a bed,” the other woman exclaimed. Her face twitched. “I know you’ve enough.” She looked meaningly at the plate with its brown meat-stains. “You’ll be where I am one day and you’ll know what it feels like.”
She felt a chill, and quick rage flowing in over it. The coins slid from her fingers to the bottom of the bag. “You take yourself off,” she said loudly. “Hop it. If you don’t I’ll complain to the management. See?”
With scarcely a change in her looks the woman got up. She stared for a moment, frowning vacantly, and passed her hand downwards over her mouth. The doorman was deep in talk : he broke off and asked her a question. Satisfied, he let her pass. She hesitated, turned blindly, went.
Of all the brazen ways. She ought to be ashamed of herself. Pestering people in cafés. Encourage her if I had. I’m thankful I didn’t, I was on the point of going to, though. She must have thought I. First go off I. Well I didn’t and that’s enough.
When she stood up, the wall nearest her chair wavered and advanced. The woman at the cash desk looked at her, and she restrained an impulse to say something cutting and final.
In the street she walked quickly and unsteadily, humming under her breath, across Shaftesbury Avenue and turned into the narrower darkened streets that would lead her familiarly to Tottenham Court Road. She was walking along Carlisle Street when she noticed a young woman leaning against the wall of the second or third house. Her head hung forward and she was either ill or tipsy. After she had walked by she halted and turned about. She was still uneasy about spoiling her luck.
“Is there anything the matter?” she asked, speaking with a refined accent.
The young woman raised her head with awkward slowness. “I feel bad,” she whispered. With a glance taking in the other woman’s face and clothes, she added : “Help us home, will you? It’s only three doors off, but I can’t—“a spasm drew her mouth gaping sideways. She lowered her head.
“Come on then. Three doors is it?” She put her arm under the young woman’s, gripping her with her free hand, and took short swaying steps. They reached the house. The young woman slid down on the step with a cry.
“Here. Buck up, you’re there. Got your key?”
“In here.”
She felt quickly in the pocket, drew a key from among coins, and fitted it in the door. It swung open, creaking, on darkness. The young woman staggered up and staggered into the unlit passage. “Lights off at eleven,” she said, with a groaning laugh. “Did you ever? I can’t get up those stairs, though.”
The two of them stood in the passage, their arms touching, in silence. They were both out of breath. The house, too, was dead quiet. She listened and heard nothing, neither up nor down. Standing beside the other woman in the darkness she was oppressed against her sense by a feeling that something important was taking place. She was quite sober again.
She moved, trying to shift the weight on her feet. “I can’t stand here all night,” she said in growing impatience. “Where d’you want to be? Come on, I’ll help you up the stairs.”
A sigh from the girl scarcely gave notice of her second collapse. She sagged over on her knees, arms stretched out over the floor. At the same moment a door at the far end of the passage opened quietly, letting down a shaft of yellow feeble light.
“Who’s there?” a soft scraping voice asked—nervous, an old man’s voice, like a thin key turning loosely in the lock. She moved towards it, exasperated by the turn things were taking. Serve me right for interfering, she thought. None of my damned business.
“Do you know who this is?” she snapped. “I brought her in. My God, I am tired, too.”
The old man came along the passage, peering. He held the front of his shirt together with one had, the other scratched the back of his neck absently, to reassure himself. He looked down at the young woman.
“Yes,” he said, with a quick half-laugh. “I know her. She lives upstairs. I don’t
know her name, though.”
The girl opened her eyes and said :“Hullo, Uncle,” in a friendly voice.
“Hullo,” Uncle said shyly.
What’s all this? Time to finish off. Sleep. I must, I need. She yawned noisily. “What’s the matter with you? “she demanded. “I can’t stop here all night. Come on now for pity’s sake until I can get off home. I didn’t bargain for this.”
The grip of the young woman’s hands on her arm was again an extraordinary sensation. They dragged her down. She was so tired and vexed that she did not try to save her anything, pulling her from stair to stair until they reached the room. Here she tumbled her across the bed and turned on the light. As she did so she saw that the girl was smiling. It gave her a very unpleasant turn. She helped her to straighten herself on the bed, drawing off her shoes, high-heeled, thin-soled, the doubles of her own, and pulling the hat with more care but not with much over the cropped head.
Uncle waited to be given the money before he went out to fetch a doctor. He took it for certain that the doctor would decline to turn out at this time of night without the money. She obeyed the girl’s pointing finger and pulling her skirt up sought and found the folded notes, a one and a ten, inside her stocking. She gave the old man the ten.
Left alone with the young woman she sat down and stretched her feet out, toes pointing upwards—that was to draw the blood away from them. The room was like enough her own to answer any questions she might have asked if the girl on the bed had been in a state to talk. As it was she lay there in silence, and when the old man’s footsteps died away in the street the silence covered everywhere.
She had made up her mind to push off before the doctor came—if he came, they didn’t always—but once down she felt the full weight of her body. She was dragged, fastened by her hips, into the chair. She wondered for a moment about spending the night there, but immediately the other thought jumped into her mind. He might have written, the letter might at this moment be lying half underneath the rug, pushed under the door. Once she had found a letter weeks after it came—it had slid well beneath the rug and it was when she lifted the rug to find something else that she saw the letter, a white square webbed with dust. The white square blotted out everything in her mind. She saw it flat, then tilted, then sliding jerkily from sight. Her mind was blank for a moment. The edge of a square white envelope showed again at one side, under a door.
A Day Off Page 10