The Doll

by Daphne Du Maurier

  ‘I don’t know, I’m sure.’ Mazie began to shuffle away.

  ‘Couldn’t you see your way to helping me at all, duckie? This business took everythink I put by.’

  ‘Oh! Give over nagging, Norah. Maybe I can lend you something, but I’m in a hurry now. Stop blubbing, do. People’ll start takin’ notice of us. Here – take this – and come and see me tomorrow mornin’. You know my place.’ Mazie fumbled in her bag, and gave something to Norah. Then she turned and ran down the stairs of the subway beneath Piccadilly Circus.

  ‘I hate people who whine,’ she grumbled, to herself. Try as she could, she found it impossible to push Norah out of her thoughts.

  She came out of the subway. She walked along the streets, in any direction. It didn’t matter.

  ‘What did she want to start frightening me for, anyway,’ thought Mazie. ‘You don’t get caught if you’re careful – no, you don’t.’

  Sullenly she glared at the passers-by. Half-unconsciously she pulled her cheap little fur closer to her throat. It seemed colder somehow. Hullo! What was going on here – for the love of Mike. What was all the crowd about? She dug her elbow into the back of a fat woman. ‘D’you want the street to yourself?’

  Why – it was a wedding. A wedding at St Martin’s. Did you ever? What a lark!

  She pushed her way to the front of the crowd gathered at the bottom of the steps.

  The wide doors were open, but there was a chap at the top there, who wouldn’t let you through. She strained her ears to catch the sound of the organ. Yes, there it was, sounding quiet, soft – as if it was afraid to be heard. People were singing. It was getting louder now, and the voices rose with it. Mazie knew this hymn. She had sung it in school as a kid. Strewth! It took you back a bit. Why didn’t that chap open the doors wide, she wanted to go right inside the church, and sit in one of those pews at the back.

  She’d snatch hold of a hymn-book and sing louder than any of them. She pictured the church, dark and cool, and the pews filled with the guests – the gents in black, and the women dressed like a dream, smart as paint.

  She leant forward slightly, and, through the crack of the door, she saw the long aisle, and there were candles somewhere, and flowers – masses of flowers. Seemed as if they filled the air, like scent – rich scent that cost a pound for a tiny bottle. Amen . . . Soft and low. It was beautiful, you know. Made you feel like crying – made you feel, well – queer.

  Now there was silence for a moment. Somebody spoke in a high funny voice. Must be the clergyman, giving a blessing, perhaps. Oh! why wasn’t she allowed to stand there, quite quiet in a corner. Not so as anyone would notice, but just to hear, just to see.

  ‘Here – who are you pushing – mind out, can’t you?’ She turned furiously to a man who was prodding her in the back. ‘Some people have no manners.’

  Now, listen – wait. The organ was striking up the Wedding March. Oh! what a swing there was to it, and the great bells began to peal, breaking out on the air – and the big doors opened wide. ‘Here they come – here they come,’ shouted the crowd.

  ‘Thank Gawd, the sun’s shining for them,’ said Mazie, in feverish excitement, to her neighbour. The bride and bridegroom came out upon the steps. They hesitated a second, shy, smiling, dazzled by the light, and then passed quickly down into the cars that waited below.

  Just a sudden vision of white, and a veil pushed back from a laughing face – a boy with a white carnation in his button-hole. Bridesmaids in silver, carrying yellow flowers. People shouted, people pressed together – a great cloud of confetti fell upon the bride. Mazie dashed to the edge of the pavement, her eyes shining, her face scarlet. ‘Hooray! Hooray!’ she shouted, waving her hand.

  There were patches of colour on the water, splintered crimson and gold, that danced and twisted beneath Westminster Bridge. The sun was setting, and the orange sky flung golden patterns on to the windows of the Houses of Parliament.

  There seemed to be a mist over things. A mist that was part of the pale smoke, curling from the tall chimneys of the factories, and part of the river itself, a white breath rising from the mud banks beneath the swift-flowing tide. Mazie leant against the wall of the Embankment, gazing into the water. She dragged off her hat, and the wind blew her hair behind her ears.

  Her feet ached in her tight black shoes, she was tired, dead beat. On the go all day, and doing nothing at that! Just moving about from place to place, you know how it is, when you meant in the morning to spend a quiet day. But what with one thing and another, the wedding, a bite of lunch, a bit of shopping and then, before you knew where you were – evening again.

  Oh! but it was nice here by the water, peaceful somehow. Look at that cloud of birds by the bridge there, fat little grey fellows, they didn’t go hungry at any rate.

  What were they, pigeons? She was blowed if she knew one bird from another.

  My! And that boat there, that long barge affair in the middle of the river.

  It was a picture, really. She’d like to be on it, sitting by the funny steering thing, and just floating off anywhere – past all the warehouses and the wharves, past the dirty smelly docks, to the sea – the sea. She gave a gasp at the thought. Yes, it was true. At the end, right at the end of this long brown twisting river, the sea waited. No mud there, no filth – no musty old smoke. Just a whole lot of blue water going on for ever – and white waves splashing in your face. It wouldn’t matter a scrap where you went – you’d lean your head on the side of the barge, and dangle your hand in the water. No more trudging along pavements, no more blasted waiting about – hanging about. Just rest, your heart beating softly, evenly, and sleep – sleep a long long time.

  ‘I say, you’re not going to fall in, are you?’ Mazie almost jumped out of her skin.

  ‘Strewth, you didn’t give me half a start, did you?’ she said angrily, glaring at the young man who had spoken to her. And then, because he smiled in such a kind friendly way, she couldn’t help smiling back.

  ‘I was looking at that silly old barge, you know, and there I was thinking to myself how I’d like to be there, swinging along, as happy as you please – no more worries, no more nothink. Guess I’m soft in the head, eh.’

  The young man lit a cigarette and leant against the wall beside her.

  ‘I’ve felt like that, too,’ he told her. ‘It’s strange, isn’t it, how it comes over you suddenly, that longing to break right away, to clear out. I’ve been down by the Docks after midnight, sometimes, when the night is black, and you can’t see anything but the dark boiling water, and the lights of the ships at anchor. Then there’ll come the long queer wail of a siren out of the darkness, and you’ll see a red light move, and you’ll hear the churning throb of a propeller – and the faint outline of a big ship passes you – right in the centre of the river – outward bound.’

  Something tightened in Mazie’s throat.

  ‘Go on,’ she whispered.

  ‘That’s right,’ he said. ‘She’ll pass you by in the middle of the river, and you’ll fancy you hear the clanking of chains on a deck, and the hoarse cries of men. Right down the Channel she goes, past Greenwich and Barking, past the flat green swamp, past Gravesend – into the sea. And you stand on the edge of the dock, just a little black smudge – left behind.’

  ‘That’s what we are,’ repeated Mazie slowly, ‘a crowd of little black smudges – and nobody knows and nobody cares. A funny world, eh?’

  ‘Yes – a queer world.’

  They were silent for a moment. Mazie watched the golden patches on the water.

  ‘I wish – oh! I wish I was rich,’ she said. ‘D’you know what I’d do? I’d take a first class ticket at a station, and I’d get into a train, a train that goes to a place as I’ve seen on posters.’

  ‘What’s it called?’

  ‘I don’t know – but if I saw it written down, I’d remember. There’s sands there, golden sands, and a wide stretch of sea. There’s little boats too, with brown sails – which you h
ire for a shilling an hour – and there’s donkeys with ribbons in their ears – running up and down the sands. D’you know what I’d do if I went there – d’you know? I’d pull my shoes and stockings off, like a kid, and tuck up my skirt, and I’d stand in the water just as long as I liked – and splash with my feet.’

  He laughed at her.

  ‘You don’t want much, do you?’ he said. ‘I bet that place you mean is Southend.’

  ‘That’s it, you’ve got it,’ she nearly fell over in her excitement. ‘That’s where I’m going when I’m rich. And I’m going to build a little farm, on a cliff, with cows and chickens, ever so homely.’

  She looked across the river, and saw no more factory chimneys, but a small, very white cottage and a neat garden, trimmed with stiff flowers. There’d be a hammock strung between two trees. Oh! Why did the picture make her feel so tired again, why did her head ache once more, and that old sleepless devil of a heart start thumping, thumping in her breast?

  Mechanically she drew her puff from her bag, and covered her face with a white cloud. She smeared the lipstick on her mouth.

  ‘Silly – how it is, when you gets thinking,’ she said aloud. The light was gone now. The river passed beneath the bridge, brown and swollen. The barge had vanished. The sky was grey and overcast. And the man had forgotten the ship that passed out of the docks at midnight, outward bound.

  He was somebody now who jingles the change in his pockets, who smiles a slow false smile. The man who passes – the man in the street.

  He touched Mazie’s shoulder.

  ‘Look here, what about it? My place is only just round the corner . . .’

  It was evening. They sat in a corner of a restaurant in Soho. The room was thick with smoke, and the smell of rich food. The woman at the table opposite was drunk. Her red hair slopped over her eye, and she kept screaming with laughter. The men filled her glass, digging each other in the ribs, and winking.

  ‘Now then, sweetheart – just another little glass, just a drop – a tiny drop.’

  Mazie sat at the table by the window. Her companion was a fat Jew with a yellow face.

  His plate was heaped with spaghetti and chopped onion. He was enjoying his meal – a stream of dribble ran from the corner of his mouth and settled on his beard. He looked up from his food, and smiled at Mazie, showing large gold teeth.

  ‘Eat, little love, eat.’ He opened his mouth and laughed, smacking his fat wet lips. He bent down and felt her legs under the table. He stared, breathing heavily.

  There was a piano and a violin in the restaurant. The violin squeaked and quivered and the piano crashed, and hammered. The sound rose above the voices of the people, drowning their conversation, drumming into their ears. They had to shout to one another.

  Mazie forced some curry down her throat. No use thinking about being tired, no use listening to her beating heart.

  ‘Aren’t you going to order somethink to drink?’ she screamed, above the wail of the violin.

  A low droning voice sounded behind her. She looked out of the window.

  An old woman stood there, a filthy dirty old hag with bleary eyes and loose slobbery lips. A wisp of grey hair fell over her wrinkled forehead. She held out her hand, and whimpered, ‘Give us a copper, dearie, just a copper. I ain’t ’ad a bite all day. I’m starvin’, dearie. Be kind – there’s a love, be kind to a poor old woman who’s got no one to look after her.’

  ‘Oh! go away, do,’ said Mazie.

  ‘I don’t ask for much, dearie, only a copper to get meself a bite of food. There’s no one to give me anything now.’ The terrible voice whined on and on.

  ‘I was young like you once, dearie, young and ’and-some And gentlemen gave me dinners, too, and paid me well, they did. Not so very long ago, neither, dearie. You’ll know what it is one day, when you’re old and ugly, you’ll stand here then and beg for charity, same as me now. You wait, dearie, you wait.’

  ‘Go away,’ said Mazie. ‘Go away.’

  The woman crept along the street, wrapping her shawl round her, and cursing and muttering to herself. The fat Jew heaved himself up in his chair, and poured the wine into Mazie’s glass.

  ‘Drink, little love,’ he pleaded. But Mazie did not hear.

  She was thinking of Norah in Shaftesbury Avenue, with her pinched white face and her words – ‘Sooner or later.’

  She thought of the busy streets packed with people, jostling her, shoving her from side to side. She remembered the wedding, and the smell of flowers – the smiling girl who stepped into the waiting car.

  She saw the golden patches on the river as the sun set, and a barge that floated away to the open sea – and a man’s voice whispering in her ear, a man’s hand touching her shoulder.

  She heard the old woman whining. ‘You’ll know what it is one day, dearie,’ and then creeping away to huddle for the night in the shelter of a theatre wall, her head in her lap. Two drops of rain fell on to the pavement.

  Mazie seized her glass of wine and drank.

  A shudder ran through her. The music wailed, the light blazed, the Jew smiled.

  ‘Here,’ shouted Mazie, ‘why don’t they play somethink gay? Waiter! Tell them to play somethink lively, some-think gay . . .’

  Nothing Hurts for Long

  She had the window flung open as she dressed. The morning was cold, but she liked to feel the sharp air on her face, stinging her, running like little waves over her body; and she slapped herself, the colour coming into her skin, the nerves tingling. She sang, too, as she dressed. She sang when she took her bath, her voice seeming rich and powerful as the water fell and the steam rose, and later, before the open window, she bent and swayed, touching her toes with her fingers, stretching her arms above her head.

  She permitted herself the luxury of fresh linen. Conscious of extravagance, she drew the neat pleated little pile, straight from the laundry, out of the drawer beneath her dressing-table.

  Her green dress was back from the cleaner’s. It looked as good as new and the length was quite right, although she had worn it last winter as well. She cut the disfiguring tabs from the collar, and sprayed the dress with scent to take away the smell of the cleaner’s.

  She felt new all over. From her head to her shoes, and the body beneath her clothes was warm and happy. Her hair had been washed and set the day before, brushed behind her ears without a parting, like the actress she admired.

  She could imagine his face as he stared at her, his funny smile that ran from one ear to the corner of his mouth, and his eyebrow cocked, then his eyes half-closing, and holding out his arms – ‘Darling, you look marvellous – marvellous.’ When she thought about it she felt a queer pain in her heart because it was too much . . . She stood before the window a moment, smiling, breathing deeply, and then she ran down the stairs singing at the top of her voice, the sound of her song taken up by the canary in his cage in the drawing-room. She whistled to him, laughing, giving him his morning lump of sugar, and he hopped from side to side on his perch, his eyes beady, his tiny head fluffy and absurd after his bath. ‘My sweet,’ she said, ‘my sweet,’ and pulled the curtain so that the sun could get to him.

  She glanced round the room, smiling, her finger on her lip. She pummelled at an imaginary crease in a cushion, she straightened the picture over the mantelpiece, she flicked a minute particle of dust from the top of the piano. His eyes, in the photograph on her desk, followed her round the room, and she paraded before it self-consciously, as though he were really there, patting a strand of her hair, glancing in the mirror, humming a tune. ‘I must remember to fill the room with flowers, of course,’ she thought, and immediately she saw the flowers she would buy, daffodils or hard mauve tulips, and where they would stand.

  The telephone rang from the dining-room. It was really the same room, divided by a curtain, but she called it the dining-room. ‘Hullo – Yes, it’s me speaking. No, my dear. I’m afraid I couldn’t possibly. Yes. Yes, he comes back today. I expect him about seven.
Oh! but you don’t understand, there are tons of things to see to. I like to think I have the whole day. No, I’m not silly, Edna. Wait until you’re married, then you’ll see. Yes, rather, we’ll go to a film next week – I’ll let you know. Good-bye.’

  She put down the receiver, and shrugged her shoulders. Really – how ridiculous people were. As if she could possibly go out or do anything when he was coming home at seven. Why, for the past fortnight now she had remembered to book nothing for Tuesday. Although he would not be back until the evening it did not make any difference. It was his day.

  She crossed the absurd space known as the hall and went into the kitchen. She tried to look important, the mistress of the house, ready to give her orders, but her smile betrayed her and the dimple at the corner of her mouth.

  She sat on the kitchen table, swinging her legs, and Mrs Cuff stood before her with a slate. ‘I’ve been thinking, Mrs Cuff,’ she began, ‘that he always does so enjoy saddle of mutton. What do you say?’

  ‘Yes – he is fond of his mutton, ma’am.’

  ‘Would it be terribly extravagant? Do saddles cost a lot?’

  ‘Well, we’ve been very careful, this week, haven’t we?’

  ‘Yes – Mrs Cuff, that’s what I thought. And for lunch I can have a boiled egg and some of that tinned fruit, it’ll be heaps. But this evening, if you think you could cope with a saddle – and p’raps – what does one eat with it? – Oh! mashed potatoes, done his favourite way – and Brussels sprouts, and jelly.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am, that would be nice.’

  ‘And – Mrs Cuff – could we possibly have that kind of roly-pudding he likes with jam inside? You know – one is terribly surprised to see the jam.’

  ‘Just as you wish, ma’am.’

  ‘I expect he’ll be frightfully hungry, don’t you? I’m sure it’s horrid in Berlin. I think that’s all, don’t you? It doesn’t seem only three months, does it, it seems three years since he’s been gone?’