Joy and Josephine

by Monica Dickens

  ‘It was all right,’ she said, ‘but – ugh! How you could, with a nigger.’ She shuddered, feeling feminine and fastidious.

  ‘Makes no difference,’ he said. ‘It’s all human flesh.’

  ‘Norman,’ she said, the thought suggested by his words, ‘I liked seeing you in your shorts, with your top part all bare. You looked nice.’

  He was a little shocked. He was very proper. He was shocked too, when she wanted him to kiss her out in the street, without bothering to go into a doorway.

  So they drifted on like this, and he kissed her in the same doorway every time he took her home, and she thought that Vi and Lorrie must be over-rating sex. Sometimes on Sundays, he would borrow a friend’s motor cycle and they would go out into the country, and he would kiss her on the grass. One weekend when she had done what the magazines called ‘whisking her tub frock through the suds’ all ready for a day at Brighton, Norman suddenly told her on Saturday that he could not go.

  ‘Why not?’ Jo pouted.

  ‘Jo, I just can’t. I can’t tell you exactly; you must understand.’

  ‘Why should I? You never let me go anywhere else, why should I let you?’ He tried to placate her, but she flounced to the back of the kiosk and pretended to be tidying the shelves. The next time he passed through the foyer, which he tried to do as often as possible, Jo quickly became very charming to a prosperous-looking customer with a flat head and a pearl tiepin, who had been dallying with her for some time, telling her she looked like Ginger Rogers.

  When the customer had gone, Norman, who had neither the sense nor the resistance to keep away from Jo when she was cross with him, came up to tell her that she must watch her step; he did not like the man’s type. They had as fierce a quarrel as was possible over the counter in public, and when the customer came back later in the day, Jo agreed to go out in his car on Sunday.

  His name was Felix McOsterburg, and he was something to do with films in Wardour Street. He took her to lunch at a road house. They stopped on the way at several places where he seemed to know the barmen, and just what to order. He was rather fat, with a complexion like yellow kitchen soap, and Jo noticed that his hair was stranded carefully over a thin patch on the top of his head, but he had a lovely car, with a wireless and a cigarette lighter. He treated her quite respectfully, but there was always that undercurrent in what he said and the way he looked at her that promised more dangerous intentions.

  It was exciting. Jo swung into the Denbigh Terrace house that night humming ‘I’m playing with fire’, took one scornful look into the kitchen, where the baby’s feed, Sunday high tea, and Johnny’s breakfast were all going on at the same time and withdrew to her room to give her face a mud pack.

  She did not tell Norman where she had been. The next time she met him, she wished she had not gone out with Felix Mc-Osterburg, because Norman told her where he had been on Sunday. He had been to see Arthur, who was serving a prison sentence for a smash-and-grab raid.

  ‘It wasn’t his fault,’ Norman said. ‘He got mixed up with this gang. He’s weak, you know; it seems like he can’t go straight. It’s the shape of his head. That’s what they used to say at the school, when he was caught stealing from the teachers. The shape of his head, they said.’

  Jo was sorry for Norman then, but it was not so easy to discourage Felix McOsterburg, and she was not sure that she wanted to. He lent a spice to life that Norman had never supplied. He began now to lay a flattering siege to her. He bought her flowers and chocolates. He dangled a bracelet on the other side of the counter, tossing it carelessly up and down.

  ‘That’s pretty,’ Jo said.

  ‘Want it?’ He smiled, showing his gold teeth.

  ‘Oh, I couldn’t. I couldn’t accept – ’

  ‘You’d like it though, eh?’

  ‘Well, it’s pretty, of course. Any girl would like it.’

  ‘But this pretty thing is only for good girls,’ he said, slipping the bracelet back into his trouser pocket, from which hung a long loop of silver key chain. ‘Come out in the car again on Sunday, my dear, and it’s yours.’

  Jo was promised to Norman on Sunday. They were going to Box Hill. She was tired of Box Hill. It was a long walk to the top, and when you got there, there was nothing to do but exclaim at the view, eat your sandwiches, and come down to find somewhere for tea. ‘I’ll have to think about it,’ she told Felix.

  Lorrie warned her against him. ‘I know his type,’ she said. ‘My God, I ought to, after working three years in this brothel.’

  ‘Brothel?’ exclaimed Jo. ‘It’s one of the best hotels in the West End.’

  ‘Same thing,’ said Lorrie. ‘You want to do like me, dear. Fun’s fun, and we’re supposed to act pretty to the customers, but always keep the counter between you and a man who says he can get you a spot in films. I heard him. Don’t you believe a word of it.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t,’ said Jo, who had lapped up Felix’s information that she was photogenic with a glamour-plus shape. ‘I can look after myself. I’m just having a bit of fun, that’s all.’

  One evening, she wore Felix’s flowers when she was going to see Norman fight. ‘Where d’you get those?’ he asked, his eye riveted at once.

  ‘Off the stand,’ she said airily. ‘They were left at the end of the day.’

  ‘You know you’re not allowed to take them. They go back on the ice for to-morrow. You told me. Come on, who gave them you?’ He gripped her arm so tightly that she squealed and slapped him.

  ‘Stop it, you beast,’ she cried. ‘You hurt me. Don’t carry on so, Norm, you’ll have everyone looking at us.’

  ‘I don’t care.’ He did not look attractive when he stuck his jaw mulishly sideways.

  ‘If you want to know,’ she said, ‘a man gave them to me – one of my customers.’

  Norman stopped on the pavement. ‘You take them smellers off, or I don’t take you a step farther.’

  ‘You are silly. I thought you’d be proud of me looking smart for you.’ She touched the flowers affectionately.

  ‘Not in another bloke’s flowers.’

  ‘Well, you never buy me any, so why shouldn’t someone else?’

  ‘That’s a bloody mean thing to say, Jo. You know I can’t afford things like that when I’m saving up to get married.’

  ‘Oh yes, in about a hundred years’ time,’ she scoffed. ‘You’re pretty sure of me, aren’t you? Well, you’d better look out, because one fine day you might wake up and find I’ve got sick of waiting, that’s all.’

  ‘Jo!’ His black eyes were stricken. ‘Don’t say things like that. I can’t stand it.’

  ‘Oh for the Lord’s sake, don’t get pathetic,’ she said. ‘I can’t stand that. I’m off.’ She ran from him across the road, jumped on a bus, and went back to the hotel.

  Felix McOsterburg was in the bar with another man. He grinned confidently when he saw her hovering in the doorway. They all had several drinks, and when she came back from powdering her nose, Felix and the other man were laughing about something. The man went away, and Felix took her to have dinner in a little Soho restaurant where they sat at a table in an alcove, and he made her drink wine, and pressed her knee with his. She kept sidling away along the seat, but he moved after her. By the end of the meal, he had his hand on her leg, and she did not know whether to remove it, or pretend not to notice it was there. She was feeling so muzzy that it did not seem to matter much.

  Felix snapped his fingers and ordered liqueurs. He could always get attention, unlike Norman, who had to wait until someone chose to come to their table.

  ‘I thought you were going out with the boy friend to-night,’ Felix said, his gold tooth very close to her face. ‘What happened? Have a fight?’

  ‘How did you know?’

  ‘Little Felix knows everything. I could tell from your face when you came into the bar. Anyone ever tell you how seductive you look when you’re angry?’

  ‘No,’ said Jo, smiling foolishly. ‘You tell me.�
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  ‘Not here.’ He squeezed her thigh. ‘What would the boy friend say if he knew where you were? You’re a naughty baby, aren’t you.’

  ‘I don’t care,’ she said, knocking over a glass. ‘I don’t care if he does know. Oh Felix – ’ she turned to him, managing at the same time to move her leg unobtrusively out of his reach – ‘he gets my goat at times, honest. He’s so paltry, and awfully Jewish about money – ’ She caught her breath in horror, because she thought Felix might be a Jew in spite of his Scotch name, but he did not seem to be offended. He encouraged her to tell him about Norman, and gradually, it all came out, exaggerated as he fostered her sense of grievance. He kept telling her that Norman was not good enough for her. He was holding her back, ruining her chances of the success and riches she might have if only she would go about with the right people.

  After the liqueur, which was yellow aniseed, and so strong that she could hardly get it down without choking. Jo felt a little sick. She said she would like to go home.

  ‘I thought we were going to my club to dance,’ Felix said. ‘But we could go up to my flat instead if you’re tired. We’ll have some records on the radiogram – ’

  ‘No, no,’ she said, taking fright. ‘I’d like to go home please, Felix, if you don’t mind.’

  ‘Always the perfect gentleman.’ He took her home, and she made him drop her at the corner of Chepstow Villas, letting him think she lived there. If he saw Denbigh Terrace, she thought, he might never take her out again.

  His car shot away, broad in the beam like its owner, and Jo staggered home. Auntie Phyll’s house, throbbing with late night dance music, was more detestable than ever. Vi was asleep, but woke to curse when Jo stumbled about and fell over the furniture. When she was undressed, Jo went out and was sick in the sink.

  As she was getting into bed, Daisy called through the curtain: ‘Jo’s been catting in the scullery. I heard her.’ Jo threw a shoe at the curtain and heard Daisy pounce on it with a yell of triumph. She had to wear an old pair until she got her money at the end of the week and could pay the shilling extorted by Daisy, who had put up her prices.

  Although she was still cautious with Felix and would not go to his flat, he worked a subtle change in her. She began to wear showier clothes and jewellery, and to pile her hair higher on top. Lorrie approved. Johnny took to giving a long, low whistle when he saw her. Mrs Abinger, not knowing whether to admire or disapprove, said that she looked like a mannequin, which pleased Jo. Her father said she looked a figure of fun, but she did not mind. He would like her to look like Kitty Baines, no doubt, with bobbles at the neck of her croshered jersey, no brassière, and a baby blue hair ribbon.

  She bought herself a dress with a low heart-shaped neckline, which made even Felix McOsterburg whistle. Jo began to feel she had arrived. Soon, she would progress beyond the cigarette kiosk, which once had seemed the fulfilment of all ambition. She was too good to remain a sales girl all her life. She looked enviously at the scented girls who floated through the revolving doors with seemingly nothing in the world to do but have free meals and drinks in smart hotels. Why shouldn’t she have that kind of life? She was as good as they, even if her parents were not. She began to think she must be a throw-back to some classier stock, and each time she went to the flat, she felt it more irksomely inferior. Even Norman, generally considered in North Kensington to be a fair enough match, with his nice appearance and manners, good job and better prospects, was not good enough for Josephine.

  She set herself out to make this clear. If Norman wanted to keep her, he would have to live up to her, that was all. When she went out with him, she began by showing off and usually ended by quarrelling. He hated the change in her. Terrified of losing her, he grew sadder and more silent than ever. She was slipping away; he watched it with dumb agony. He spent money he could not afford on better seats at the cinema and more expensive restaurants, as abject as if he were responsible for the things about them which did not please her. Even the motor cycle did not please her now. She said it smelled. She did not like the carrier. If they must go out on a motor bike, why couldn’t it be one with a side-car?

  When the tribal sanction was at last bestowed on the nuptials of Lorrie and Leonard, Jo and Norman were invited to the wedding.

  Jo was thrilled with the synagogue service. She had had no religious upbringing beyond a few surreptitious Christmas visits to church with her mother, who did not know the hymns or the responses, and the school Scripture lessons, in which it had been fashionable to do your prep. She had no idea that people could enjoy going to church or that a service could be so colourful and romantic, with Lorrie and Leonard, awed and uplifted, standing together under the canopy, and the shattered wine glass, and the Rabbi howling at them like one inspired.

  The synagogue, with its red upholstered scats and rich carpets looked as prosperous as the guests. There was champagne at the reception, and a three-tiered cake made by Lome’s uncle, who was in the fancy bakery business. The white satin dress and flowing veil made a dazzling radiance of Lome’s fruity looks.

  If only Jo and Norman could have a wedding like this! But her father would never let her be married in church, much less in white satin with arum lilies and a dangling silver horseshoe. If there was any party afterwards, she thought bitterly, it would probably be at the flat, with Kitty Baines pressing everyone to cold liver sausage and brawn from the cooked meats department below.

  At nineteen, your fancy marries you to almost every man who looks at you twice. Sometimes, Jo toyed with the idea of marrying Felix McOsterburg, until she considered how his back view would look to the congregation. True, he had not asked her yet, but he would. He was working up to something, and in spite of Lorrie and Norman’s warnings, his intentions so far had seemed quite gentlemanly.

  After the wedding, Jo let Norman take her out to dinner. She was wearing a new dress, a swooping coal-heaver hat with a scarlet quill, and the silver fox on which she would be paying instalments for another two years. She had made up her face more than usual, with blue eye shadow and clotted mascara. Her lower lip was a glistening scarlet sausage.

  When she told him where she wanted to go, he sought glumly through the pockets of the hired suit which decked him awkwardly, like an ox for the sacrifice. ‘I’m afraid I haven’t enough cash on me, dear –’

  ‘Not enough cash on a Sunday! What’s happened to your wage packet?’

  ‘I always set some aside, you know, to pay my room and laundry, and next week’s lunch money, and my savings account – ’

  ‘You’re so careful, Norm,’ she expostulated. ‘It’s so stick-in-the-mud to know exactly where your money’s going before you’ve even spent it. You ought to live dangerously!’ She flung up her arms.

  ‘That’s all right for a bachelor,’ he said.

  ‘Well what are you – Bluebeard?’

  He knew by experience that if he said he was saving to get married, she would take the opportunity to say ‘Who to?’ so he let this drop.

  ‘Let’s go to the Grand Metro, Norm,’ she said daringly, still buoyant from champagne. ‘Busman’s holiday. We could go down to the Grill; be a bit of a lark.’

  ‘But Jo!’ He looked at the money in his hand. ‘I haven’t got near enough for that.’

  ‘Never mind,’ she said. ‘I know one of the waiters down there. We’ll get his table and he’ll let us pay later. What’s more, we’ll go in a taxi. I’ll pay for that if you won’t. Don’t just stand there, Norm. Get me a taxi. Felix always finds one directly, wherever we are.’

  Of course, the waiter would not give them credit. Jo had gaily ordered cocktails and wine, and when they could not pay the bill, the manager turned them out with an ominous ‘I’ll see you Monday,’ to Norman.

  All the way home, he worried in silence. Jo was not worrying. She had enjoyed herself. She was feeling very gay as they walked from the station. It seemed wicked to go back to Denbigh Terrace, a waste of her fur and new hat to consign them so soon to the
box in which she hid them from Vi on top of the cupboard. As they passed the Moores’ house, she saw Billy’s red car, much shabbier than when she had ridden in it more than a year ago. So he was at home. Light and voices came through the drawing-room curtains. Two people were on the balcony with cigarettes.

  ‘Tell you what, Norm, let’s go and call on the Moores!’ She dragged him towards the house.

  He tried to pull her back. ‘They wouldn’t like it.’

  ‘Why not? They were glad enough to see us in the old days.’

  ‘No, Jo, we can’t. We’re not their sort. You are, perhaps, but not me.’

  His humility infuriated Jo. ‘Well, I’m going, even if you won’t,’ she said. ‘I know them quite well, as a matter of fact.’

  ‘All right.’ He dropped her hand. ‘You go on. It’s not for me to stop you.’

  She had to go in now. She had not been there since she took her father’s begging letter. She had often wanted to, but something that might be pride or shame had held her back.

  This was a good opportunity, since she was looking so smart. She went up the steps, swinging her hips and tossing back her fur with bravado, while Norman stood on the pavement like a man watching his loved one go aboard an ocean liner.

  ‘Is Mrs Moore at home?’ Jo asked the maid in a high, social voice, hoping she would not connect her with the bedraggled outcast she had seen before. She went inside without looking back, and Norman turned away.

  There were six people talking in the drawing-room. When Jo was shown in, their faces dropped in various degrees of dismay. Their talk died away.

  Margery Moore recovered quickly. ‘Why Jo, how nice!’ She uncoiled herself and came forward to welcome her. So this was what happened when you tried to give someone a leg up. What had she started? ‘How – er – how well you look. Quite different from last time you came. Why have you stayed away so long?’

  ‘You know what it is, what with one thing and another.’ Jo gave an affected little laugh and handed Mrs Moore her finger tips in black suède gloves. ‘I’ve said to myself ever so often I really ought to visit you.’ Mrs Moore winced at the ‘reely’ and Captain Moore, straddling by the fire, wrinkled his forehead, trying to make out who it was.