The Angel in the Corner

by Monica Dickens

  *

  It was going to be a hot summer. Already by the end of June, London was losing her spring freshness. Pavements roasted the feet, and the fumes from buses and cars shimmered like oil above the sticky roads.

  The open windows in the office let in more grime than air. The atmosphere was oppressive with fretful, perspiring women.

  Thinking of holidays, the girls began to lose the lively interest in their work that Jane Stuart demanded. Virginia was not thinking of holidays. She and Joe could not afford to go away. She had not lost interest even in the routine seasonal work of telling readers how to tan without peeling, and how to get sea water out of their hair. She was still intrigued by every fact of the process that brought a glossy magazine from the conference room to the bookstalls; but she was tired, and she was losing weight.

  Jane Stuart was as enthusiastic as ever, and the vitality with which she attacked each new problem challenged Virginia’s store of nervous energy, and spurred her to a hectic activity, which carried her on wires through the day’s work, and left her unable to relax and recuperate at the end of it.

  It was impossible to relax with Joe, in any case. When he worked on his book, which was more often than Virginia expected, his alternating author’s moods of exuberance and despair demanded a correspondingly exaggerated reaction from her. They lived at high pitch, arguing, laughing, making love. The bones of Virginia’s face grew more clearly defined, her eyes were more brilliant, her movements quicker, yet more controlled. She thought that at last she looked entirely grown up, with no dreamy trace of adolescence.

  Adelaide Small sent for her. ‘What’s the matter?’ she asked, without beating about the bush.

  ‘Nothing,’ Virginia said in surprise. ‘Everything is wonderful.’

  ‘You’re too thin,’ Miss Small objected, although she herself was like a rail. ‘You didn’t look like that when I took over from your mother. Jane is working you too hard. However, I’m going to work you harder. Stick the beauty page for another two weeks, and you can come back to editorial. I feel like economizing. You can do two people’s work. No, don’t thank me. I’m not being nice; I need you there. Joan’s had a better offer from Fleet Street, and Sonia is leaving to get married. She’s got more sense than you. She’s not going to try and live two lives. It isn’t easy, I know. I’ve seen plenty of girls before you wear themselves out trying to run a home and a job.’

  ‘I’m not tired, Miss Small.’

  ‘Yes, you are. Don’t argue with me.’ She looked at Virginia as if she knew about the unmade bed and the untidy room and the dirty dishes in the sink, all waiting to be dealt with when Virginia came home from the office. As if she knew about having to run out again before the grocer in the King’s Road closed, because Joe had forgotten the things he had promised to buy. As if she knew about having to be gay and lively for him and always ready to listen when he wanted to talk, and being sometimes kept up half the night if he felt like a party, or being kept awake half the night when he felt like making love.

  ‘If I move you up,’ Miss Small said, ‘you’ll have to get in on time. I gather you’ve been late too often. That’s bad.’

  ‘I know. The buses are frightful,’ Virginia said hopefully. ‘The traffic gets worse every day.’

  ‘Leave home earlier then.’

  It was not as simple as that. Often, Joe would not let her get away in time to be punctual for work. He would think of everything to detain her. He would demand bacon and eggs at the last minute. He would ask her to iron a shirt. Sometimes, when she was almost dressed, he would pull her back to bed and undress her.

  Afterwards, he would lie in bed smoking, and laugh at her worrying and hurrying, and tell her that she was an idiot to fuss about giving her employers their money’s worth.

  He was beginning to resent her job on the magazine. Although they were both dependent on it, it irked him that she should stay away from him every day in this other world that meant so much to her and so little to him. When she wanted to talk about her work, he would change the subject, or at best listen condescendingly, as if she were a child telling of school excitements. He began to ask questions about Derek. He would not believe that Derek had been no more than a casual office friend when Virginia came with him to the spaghetti supper.

  ‘I don’t trust that rat,’ he said one morning. ‘I don’t like you working with him.’

  ‘I’m not. I’ve told you hundreds of times, I’m in a different department.’

  ‘But you see him all the time.’

  ‘Of course he has to come into our office.’

  ‘To see you, no doubt. If he ever makes a pass at you, I’ll wring his neck.’

  The idea of Derek making a serious pass at anyone made Virginia grin. ‘I shan’t tell you then,’ she said, ‘if he does.’

  ‘You won’t have to. I’ll know it. I know everything about you, whether you like it or not.’

  ‘I do like it.’ She smiled at her reflection in the mirror on the wall.

  ‘Come here, then.’

  ‘Not now. I daren’t be late again after what Miss Small said.’

  ‘— Miss Small. Come here, I said. Who comes first, the job or me?’

  Virginia did not go to him that time. She finished combing her hair quickly, and left the room without kissing him good-bye.

  He was still cross when she came home that night. He was typing, and he would not do more than grunt at her and go on working for another hour, while she made the bed and cleaned the room and began to cook something for their supper.

  When she told him that the food was ready, he went on writing, although she knew from the way he stared for long intervals into space and pecked half-heartedly at the typewriter that he was only fiddling with the book, and had long ago lost interest in it for the day. When he finally gathered up his papers and locked them in the table drawer and put the key in his pocket, the lamb chops were dried up, and the cabbage was a sodden waste.

  ‘Throw it away,’ he said. ‘Let’s go out and get something to eat.’

  ‘How can you be so extravagant? Anyone would think you’d been brought up on millions.’

  ‘I’ve been brought up to know what I want to eat and what I don’t,’ he said. ‘I’m not hungry, anyway. Forget supper. Let’s go out and get a drink.’

  ‘You go if you want to. I’m tired. I’d rather stay here and eat the chops.’ As a novice cook, she had an uncritical regard for anything she had achieved on the small, rusty stove.

  ‘You’re tired! What do you think I am?’ he asked petulantly. ‘You never tried to write a book. You can’t imagine the torture.

  You’re always shoving it down my throat that you’re the one with the job, but it’s not so wonderful. I’m working far harder than you.’

  ‘I know, darling. I know. I’ll come out with you, if you like.’

  ‘No.’ He often gave in to her, if she gave in to him first. ‘Give me some cash, and I’ll nip out and get a bottle.’

  When he came back, Virginia was reading a sheet of his typescript that she had found on the floor under the table.

  ‘Give that to me.’ He snatched it away. ‘I told you you couldn’t read it until it’s finished. The whole thing stinks. I’m going to rewrite it.’

  ‘Don’t. It’s very good. This bit, anyway. It’s alive. I wish you’d let me read some more.’

  ‘Shut up about it.’ He turned to get the corkscrew.

  ‘How do you know about that – the warders listening to the prisoner talking to his girl through the glass screen?’

  ‘How do you think I know?’ He pulled the cork and banged the bottle on to the table. ‘I spent nine months in jail. That’s what the book’s about.’

  They stood and looked at each other. His fists were clenched. She wondered whether, when she opened her mouth, any sound would come.

  ‘What for?’ she whispered.

  ‘Attempted armed robbery.’ He laughed without smiling. ‘I came out of the army with a gun
and no job. No one wanted me. All right – what did they expect me to do? I used the gun.’

  ‘You shot someone?’

  ‘I’d still be in jail if I had. No, the gun wasn’t loaded. I wasn’t fool enough for that. That can get you life. I just used it to scare the old man, but he was too quick for me. He got out the back door of the shop, and ran slap into a rozzer.’

  Virginia did not say anything. Joe fetched a glass and poured himself a drink. ‘All right,’ he said, raising the glass with a small swagger. ‘So now you know. What are you going to do about it?’

  ‘What should I do? It doesn’t make any difference.’ He drank the neat whisky and shuddered. ‘Funny girl,’ he said, not coming closer to her. ‘Aren’t you afraid of me?’ She shook her head.

  ‘Most women would scream and run – women of your kind, I mean. What was all that stuff you told me once? About having an angel looking out for you. Is that what makes you so damn cocksure?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ It was a shock to hear him talk of angels with that set, rebellious face. ‘I haven’t thought about that for ages. Perhaps you’re right.’

  ‘Do you think angels are bullet proof? I’ve got another gun, you know. I’d never be without one, after I saw the look on that old man’s face.’

  ‘What are you trying to do, Joe?’ She walked towards him, smiling. ‘I don’t care what you’ve done. I told you that long ago. You can’t frighten me. I love you.’

  ‘You’ve never said that.’ He did not touch her. She put her arms round him, feeling suddenly stronger than him, and strangely elated.

  ‘Oh God, Jin.’ He buried his face in her neck. ‘I’ll never hurt you. I swear I’ll never hurt you.’

  Chapter 10

  Things were going quite well for Joe and Virginia. Joe met a man called Peter Sykes, whom he had known in the army, and Peter was now working in a publisher’s office. Encouraged by a few drinks at Peter’s expense, Joe told him that he was writing a book.

  Peter sighed, as if too many acquaintances had told him that they were writing a book, or had written a book, or were going to write a book, but he asked politely what it was about.

  ‘Prison,’ Joe said morosely, wishing that he had not mentioned it.

  ‘A novel, is it? My God, of course. I remember. You’ve been in yourself, haven’t you?’ Peter was debonair enough to be neither shocked nor sympathetic. ‘I saw the story in the papers at the time, with a picture of you. Not very flattering. Is the book about your own time in prison?’

  Joe nodded. ‘We thought the army was tough, but it was paradise compared to that place where they put me away. I saw things there, Pete, that a nice boy like you wouldn’t believe. I’m writing it all down. Nobody knows what it’s like. It’s time someone told them.’

  Peter was interested. He told the publisher, who read the few chapters that Joe had written, and promised to consider it when it was finished. Joe was so elated that he did no more work on the book for several weeks. He was an author. His stuff was going to be printed. People would know his name. Joe Colonna, they would say, and everyone would know who they were talking about. Plenty of time to finish the book. Peter and his lot could wait, since they thought that much of it.

  Virginia was moved into the editorial office, and was given a small increase in salary. It was not much, but it came in time to meet Mrs Mortimer’s unexpected demand for higher rent. The rates had gone up, Mollie said, and in her opinion it was only fair that Joe and Virginia should help, considering her kindness in not even charging them what the flat was worth.

  She always called it a flat, although it was no more than one room and a hole in the wall to cook and wash in.

  Virginia did not believe the story about the rates, nor did she believe that the rent could be raised without a court order, but it was better to agree than to risk trouble by having a battle with Mollie.

  Mollie was leaving them alone. She seldom came yoo-hooing down the stairs, but Virginia occasionally felt obliged to go up and pay her a visit. Mollie did not seem to like her very much, but it was ridiculous to be living in the same house with someone you never saw.

  Once or twice when Mollie was out, Mr Mortimer shuffled down to the basement to see if Joe had any whisky, but Virginia could never persuade Joe to go upstairs for a visit with her. She did not blame him. The ground floor of the house smelled so badly of cats, and Mollie’s conversation was so boring, and so spiked with thinly veiled contumely that Virginia always regretted her neighbourly impulse, and told Joe that she was not going upstairs again, except to take a bath, which was permitted to her and Joe three times a week under the terms of their rent.

  One Saturday, however, Joe heard through some local source that Paul Mortimer had been on a three-day drunk, and had been brought home by a policeman and put to bed, whence, according to Joe’s version, it was doubtful whether he would ever rise again. Virginia had never seen Joe completely drunk, but she had seen him near enough to it to make her feel sorry for Mollie.

  ‘I’m going up to see her,’ she said.

  ‘Stay away, if you know what’s good for you. She’ll only think you’re spying.’

  ‘No she won’t. She must feel dreadful, alone up there with that soaked log. I don’t think she has any friends. She’s talked them all away, except that sanctimonious sister of hers, and she wouldn’t want her at a time like this. She’d start quoting the Old Testament. I’m going up.’

  She knocked on the door which led to the hall outside the Mortimers’ kitchen. Nobody heard, so she went through into the house. At the sound of her feet on the clotted linoleum of the hall, Mollie came flying down the stairs, her nose bright red, and her creased cotton housecoat buttoned up wrong down the front.

  ‘How dare you come in here as if you owned the place?’ she called out in her high, grating voice. ‘What do you want? I can’t see anyone now.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Mollie. I heard that Paul wasn’t well, and I wondered if there was anything I could do to help.’

  ‘Thank you, Virgie,’ Mollie said more calmly, descending the stairs. ‘Yes, Paul is ill, very ill indeed.’ She glanced upwards. ‘But he’ll pull out of it. He has these spells, you know. He’s never been strong.’ She paused with her hand on the banister post, and looked at Virginia with her unblinking, birdlike eyes, to see if she would accept this.

  Virginia could not help admiring her for keeping up the pretence. The whole neighbourhood knew that Paul was an alcoholic, and Mollie must know that Virginia knew. Virginia felt sure that if Joe were in a drunken stupor, and somebody came to try to be nice to her, she would break down and confide all her misery.

  Mollie kicked away a cat which came to rub itself against her white drumstick legs. She did not like the cats, which overran the house like cockroaches, and yet she never got rid of any of them.

  ‘You don’t look very well yourself, Virgie,’ she said, taking the attack. ‘You’re losing weight. You’d better be careful. In my opinion, this craze for slimming is most unbecoming.’

  Virginia wished that she had brushed her hair and renewed her lipstick before coming up here. Mollie never lost an opportunity to tell you when you were not looking your best. ‘I’m not slimming,’ she said, and then less curtly: ‘Look, Mollie. Are you sure there’s nothing I can do to help?’

  ‘You can’t do anything for Paul, if that’s what you mean. You can’t go upstairs.’ Mollie moved quickly between Virginia and the staircase. ‘He’s much too ill. Nobody but me can nurse him. I’m the only person he will have near him. It’s a fact, Virgie, I don’t know what he would do without me when he has these spells. Why, I can’t even go out of the house in case he calls for me.’

  Virginia could understand that she dared not leave the house for fear of what Paul might do. Although Joe had assured her that he was harmless, he had later told her that Paul had once become violent enough to be put into a strait-waistcoat. The doctor had sent a male nurse, but Mollie had been so nasty to the nurse that he had pa
cked up his white coats and his soft shoes and his paper-backed thrillers and walked out of the house, leaving only the strait-waistcoat.

  ‘If you can’t go out, perhaps I could do your shopping for you,’ Virginia suggested.

  ‘You can if you like,’ Mollie said, as if she were conferring a favour. ‘I’ll give you a list. There isn’t much I need.’ Kicking aside the cats, she went to the kitchen table, and wrote out a shopping list as long as her arm. She searched in a tooled-leather handbag, and gave Virginia two pound notes. ‘Keep it separate from your own money,’ she said sharply. ‘Then you won’t get muddled with the change.’

  Virginia felt sure that she knew exactly the price of everything on the list, and would count the change to the last halfpenny when she returned.

  She went out of the front door. It seemed strange to walk down the shallow chequered steps to the street instead of up the steep stone steps from the basement. The whole street looked different from this angle, as it would look if Virginia were a lady with a houseful of rooms of her own, and no need to go below pavement level unless she wanted to scold the cook.

  The items on Mollie’s list were not large, but they involved going to several different shops. Some of them, like the box of chocolates and the lavender bath salts, seemed unnecessary at a time of crisis, as if Mollie had deliberately added them to the list to give Virginia as much trouble as possible. It was late in the afternoon when she got back to the house and handed over the shopping bags and the handful of change, which Mollie spread on the kitchen table to count.

  As Virginia went towards the door which led to the basement, she heard a bellow from one of the rooms upstairs. It was a weird sound, neither human nor animal. It seemed to hang on the air like a balloon, having its own substance. Mollie looked at Virginia sharply. Virginia pretended that she had not heard and opened the door quickly as another tormented cry from upstairs set the hair bristling on the back of the scared tortoise-shell cat, and its tail flicking straight up in the air.

  ‘Joe, it’s awful. He’s making a terrible noise. I never knew drunk people sounded like that.’ Virginia was into the room and talking before she realized that Joe was not alone.