6

It was Saturday afternoon, and George was alone in his room, alone also in the big, dingy house. The other boarders had gone away for the weekend. George had watched them go from his window. They looked, he thought, a little odd and somehow theatrical out of their drab city clothes: the plus fours, the flannel suits, the summer frocks gave them a festive air, not in keeping with George’s depressed mood. Ella also had gone off immediately after lunch. It was her half day, and George, peering round the curtain, had watched her hurry to the bus stop. A half an hour or so later Mr and Mrs Rhodes had strolled towards the local cinema. He was now alone in the house, which seemed still and oppressive to him

Saturday afternoon depressed George: he had nothing to do, nowhere to go, and he usually sat in his armchair by the window with a book and Leo for company.

George found himself this afternoon more restless than usual. His book did not interest him, and he felt the loneliness of the big house weighing down on him. He had Brant on his mind, too. Brant, in two days, had become a star salesman. He had obtained six orders for the Ch ild’s Self-Educator: nine pounds in his first week! George had only managed to scrape up two orders that week, and he was vaguely resentful of Brant’s success. He was sure that Brant was using a series of cheap tricks to obtain his orders.

George tried to convince himself that he would rather not get an order unless the sale was a fair one, but he could not help envying Brant’s success—tricks or no tricks.

George found the King’s Arms lonely without Robinson for company. Brant seldom came to the pub. Although he was still friendly—if you could call his odd, cold manner friendly—he kept to himself, and George saw him to talk to only when they journeyed out to Wembley together. Even then Brant scarcely said a word.

George put his hook down. He stared across at Leo, who blinked, stretched lazily and ducked his head at him.

It was strange how an animal could take the edge off loneliness, George thought. Without Leo, he would have gone out and wandered aimlessly about the streets.

He got up and crossed to the bed. For some minutes he stroked the cat’s fur and talked to it, pleased with its ecstatic response. He rolled it gently onto its back, and the cat, its eyes half closed, encircled his hand with its front paws, its claws carefully sheathed. While he fondled Leo, George brooded about their relations. Leo was important to him: how empty his life would be without the cat! It came as a revelation that he was entirely alone, that no one bothered with him, and he had no friend he could trust. A wave of lonely emotion swept through him, and his eyes watered. He didn’t care, he told himself, picking Leo up and holding the cat in his arms, its face against his face, its whiskers tickling his nose. He could get on all right alone so long as he kept his health and had Leo for company. All the same, it was a pretty dreary outlook. As he was beginning to pity himself, he heard the telephone ringing downstairs. The bell startled him. Somehow, it sounded creepy, coming up from the deserted basement. He put Leo down and went to the door. It wasn’t much use going all the way downstairs. By the time he was down the hell would have stopped ringing. He opened his door and glanced along the dimly lit passage. The bell was ringing insistently—a muffled, nagging note that disturbed him. He shrugged his shoulders uneasily. Let it ring, he decided. It was certainly not for him. No one had ever bothered to ask for his telephone number. It was probably for one of the boarders, or for Mr Rhodes. But he could not bring himself to shut the door. He had a guilty feeling that he ought to answer the telephone and see who was calling. Then, as he had almost made up his mind to go down, the bell ceased to ring. He closed the door and went hack to his armchair, but a moment later he was on his feet once more as the bell began to ring again.

This time he did not hesitate; he lumbered out of the room, along the passage and down the stairs. It seemed a long way down, and the hell nagged him. He descended the basement stairs with a rush, snatched up the receiver and said “Hello?” in a breathless voice.

“You’ve taken your time, haven’t you?” a flat, metallic voice said in his ear.

“Who’s that? Who do you want?”

“It’s Brant,” the voice said impatiently, as if he ought to have known. “I thought you’d be in. Look, George, I want you to do me a favour.”

“Brant? Why, hello… I didn’t expect you…”

“Never mind that. Have you anything to do this afternoon?”

“Me?” Of course George had nothing to do. He never had on Saturday afternoons; but how did Brant know? Anyway, he wasn’t going to admit it: at the same time, he didn’t intend to miss anything. He spoke with caution. “Well, I don’t know. I was reading…”

“You can read any time, can’t you?” Brant’s voice jeered at him. “I wouldn’t ask you, only it’s important. I want someone to go to Joe’s and leave a message.”

“Joe’s?”

“It’s a club in Mortimer Street, not far from you. They’re not on the blower, otherwise I’d’ve rung ’em.”

“Mortimer Street—that’s near Paddington Station, isn’t it?”

Brant grunted. “I’ve taken the key of my flat by mistake, and I’ll be back late. It’s my sister. She doesn’t know, and she won’t be able to get in. Will you leave a message for her at Joe’s?”

“I didn’t know you had a sister.”

There was a moment’s silence, then Brant said, “Well, I have. We share a flat, see? I should’ve left the key under the mat. She’ll have to amuse herself as best she can until I get back. But I want her to know, otherwise she’ll kick the door down. Will you do it, George? Just tell the barman I’ve taken the key and won’t be back until after two. He’ll tell Cora.”

George thought for a moment. He felt a rising excitement. “Why, if you like… I’ll tell her myself. I mean I’ll wait for her and tell her.”

“You don’t have to do that. I don’t know when she’ll go to Joe’s. All I know is she’ll be there some time tonight.”

George had no idea why he should feel so excited and elated. Brant’s sister! Not five minutes ago he didn’t know that Brant had a sister, and now he was getting het-up about her, as if she were someone exciting, someone who’d be interested in him. It was extraordinary.

“Of course, I’ll do it,” he said. “You leave it to me, old boy. I’ll tell ’em. You don’t think I ought to wait and explain it to her myself? They might forget to tell her…”

“They’ll tell her,” Brant said, his voice a ghostly murmur in George’s ear. “You don’t have to worry about that.”

“All right,” George said happily. “You leave it to me. You won’t be hack until after two, is that it?”

“Something like that. Well, thanks. If you do see her… she’s dark, doesn’t wear a hat and has a red bone bangle. You can’t mistake her. The bangle’s about three inches wide.”

“Well, maybe I will see her…”

A faint, sneering laugh came over the wire.

“What was that?” George asked, not believing that Brant had laughed.

“Nothing. I’ve got to get off. So long, George.”

“Goodbye,” George said, and the line went dead.

George ran up the three flights of stairs to his bedroom. His violent entrance startled Leo, who sat up with pricked ears and wide eyes. George didn’t even notice the cat. He stood before the long mirror, and saw, not without satisfaction, that his face was flushed and his eyes bright. This was going to be exciting, he told himself. Organized properly, he would be able to extend the excitement until bedtime. He glanced at his watch. It was still early: a few minutes to three. He must make himself smart. Perhaps a shave. He ran his fingers over his chin Yes, he could do with a shave. Then a clean shirt, his best suit.

He took a towel and shaving outfit to the bathroom. The geyser lit with a little plop, and while he waited for the water to heat up he stood looking out of the window, across the grey roofs and, beyond, at the blue sky and the sunshine.

Cora! An exciting name. She wouldn’t be like Brant. He was sure of that. She was dark, didn’t wear a hat and had a red bone bangle: an exciting description! George took off his collar and tie, and filled the basin with hot water. He would spot her all right, he assured himself. Even if he didn’t speak to her, it would be interesting to look at her. But, of course, he was going to speak to her. Alone in the steamy little bathroom, George felt very confident. He forgot that he was shy with women. Somehow, Brant’s sister would be different. He was quite sure of that. It was odd how stupid he had been about women in the past. He stared at himself in the mirror. There was no sense in working himself into a fright because of what had happened years ago. He had been fifteen then, and big for his age. That always seemed to be the trouble. He was always too big for his age. School masters expected too much from him. During the war, when he was fourteen, people expected him to be in the army. Even at fifteen he had been backward and, of course, innocent. He had been in the park by himself when the woman began talking to him. She was an impressive-looking woman, rich, well dressed, refined. She said she was lonely, and George had felt sorry for her. He was lonely himself. They stood talking beside the duck pond; at least, she did the talking, while George listened politely. He was really more interested in watching the herons; but she was lonely, so he listened. She talked about people being nice to each other, about being lonely and what a fine, strong fellow he was. It was talk that George could understand. So when she suggested he might come to her house because it was chilly standing by the pond, he was flattered, and he did not see anything wrong in going with her.

He thought it odd that she should take him straight up to her bedroom. He had never seen such a beautiful room. But before he could appreciate it, the refined lady seemed to take leave of her senses. George never quite knew how he got out of the house. It was like a nightmare, and he dreamed for many years about running down long passages and opening and shutting many doors with someone screaming names after him as he ran.

That experience kept cropping up at the back of his mind when he had anything to do with women. He never quite got over it. It made him shy and suspicious of women. Of course, sometimes he needed a woman, but his need was not as strong as his nervousness, so he never did anything about it. Once or twice, when he had been a little tight, he had ventured as far as Maddox Street. But the waiting women he found there seemed so unlike any other women he had seen that he had abruptly turned back and caught a bus home.

Now, in the solitude of the bathroom, he only felt the excitement and not the fright that women raised in him.

It was after four o’clock before he left the house. In high spirits he walked briskly down the street. It was a grand afternoon, and he found a secret pleasure in mingling with the crowds moving along the Edgware Road. He was now one of the crowd; he had somewhere to go, someone to meet. It gave him a feeling of security and confidence. He must do this more often, he told himself. It was absurd to bury himself away in his bedroom as he had been doing.

Mortimer Street consisted of a row of small shops, three or four hawkers’ barrows and a public house. George had to walk the length of the street before he discovered Joe’s Club. It was over a second-hand bookshop. The open door revealed a flight of uncarpeted stairs that rose steeply into darkness, and through the doorway cane the smell of stale scent, spirits and tobacco smoke.

He hesitated for several minutes before climbing the stairs. Finally he went up, his hand on the rickety banister, his feet treading cautiously, the stairs creaking under his weight.

There was a dimly lit passage at the top of the stairs, and at the end of the passage there was a door on which was a dirty card with “Joe’s Club” printed in uneven, illiterate letters.

George turned the door knob and pushed open the door. He found himself in a long, narrow room, which, he guessed, must stretch the width of the two shops below. At the far end of the room was a bar. Rows of bottles stood on shelves within reach of the bartender’s hands. All round the room stood tables on which chairs were stacked, their legs pointing to the dirty, grey-white ceiling. Opposite the bar, at the other end of the room, was a dais containing a piano, three battered music stands and a drummer’s outfit. The walls of the room were covered with large reproductions of nudes from La Vie Parisie nne a nd Es quire. A public telephone box stood just inside the door.

“The joint’s closed,” a man’s voice said at his elbow.

George jumped. He looked round, took a step back and stared at the little man who had come silently into the room. His flat, broad face was unpleasant; his complexion was shiny white, the texture of a slug’s body. Reddish hair like steel wool grew far back on his head and gave him a great deal of domed white forehead. His small, hitter, green eyes probed at George inquisitively.

“Besides, you’re not a member,” the little man went on. His voice seemed to come from the back of his throat, like that of a ventriloquist. His bloodless lips hung open, but did not move as he spoke.

“Yes,” George said. “I know.” He fingered his tie uneasily. “I really came to leave a message…”

“Why should I bother with messages?” the little man asked curtly. “Do you think I’ve got nothing better to do?”

That settled it, George thought, delighted. He would have to wait for Brant’s sister. You couldn’t rely on this nasty little specimen to pass on any message.

“All right,” he said, shrugging. “Perhaps you can tell me when Miss Brant will be here? I’ll tell her myself.”

“Who?” asked the little man “Miss Brant? Never ’eard of ’er.”

“Never mind,” George said firmly. “It doesn’t matter. I’ll come back later.”

The green eyes probed his face.

“Do you mean Cora?”

George was startled. “Yes,” he said. “Miss Cora Brant.”

A sly, sneering smile came into the green eyes.

“Gawd Almighty! We’re putting on side, ain’t we?” the little man said. “Okay, palsy, leave your message. I’ll take care of it.”

George’s growing dislike for the little man suddenly turned to suspicion. He looked a real had lot: a shady character: a gangster. He could have been anything—a racing tout with a razor, a pimp with a knife

Abruptly he turned to the door. “I’ll see her,” he said shortly. “Don’t you bother.”

He went downstairs. The little man watched him all the way down. As he reached the street door, the little man called after him, “Now wait. Don’t be so ’asty,” but George did not stop. He walked rapidly away, his face hot and red.

At the end of the street he paused and tried to make up his mind what he was to do. Obviously the club wouldn’t open until the evening. But what time in the evening? He’d have to find that out. He crossed the road and entered a shabby little tobacconist’s. He bought a packet of Player’s, and as he was waiting for his change he asked, “When does Joe’s Club open?”

The old woman who had served him shook her head. “You want to keep away from that place,” she said. “No good’s ever come out of it.”

George opened the packet of cigarettes and lit one. “Oh?” he said, feeling a stab of excitement. “What do you know about it?”

“Enough,” the old woman answered shortly, and put the odd coppers on the counter.

George lowered his voice, “I’m interested,” he said. “Perhaps you can help me.”

“A den of thieves,” the old woman said, her thin, yellow face creasing in disgust. “The police ought to lave closed it down long ago. I wish I was the mother of some of those little sluts ’oo go there: I’d warm their backsides for ’em!”

“I’m supposed to meet someone there,” George said, looking at her a little helplessly. “I don’t want to get mixed up in anything. Who’s the little bloke with the red hair?”

“You’ll get mixed up all right,” the old woman said contemptuously. “You keep away from that ’ole.”

“Thanks for the tip,” George returned, smiling at her. “But who is the little bloke with the red hair?”

“That’s Little Ernie; everyone knows ’im and his women.”

“What time does the Club open?” George asked again.

“Seven, and take my advice, keep clear of the place. They might take you for a copper, like I nearly did.” The old woman smiled secretly. “It ain’t healthy being taken for a copper in Joe’s Club.”

George raised his hat and went out into the sunshine. Dark with a red hone bangle; a den of thieves; Little Ernie and his women. What a wonderful Saturday afternoon!

He caught a bus at the corner of the street and travelled to Hyde Park. There he lost himself in the crowds, listening to the speakers, walking along the Serpentine, sitting on the grass. He didn’t mind waiting, because the evening was so full of promise. This was the world that fascinated him: the world he had read about and dreamed about.

At half past six he walked back to Mortimer Street. It had a forlorn, deserted appearance now that the hawkers’ barrows had gone and the shops were shut. He went into the public house which was opposite Joe’s Club and ordered a pint of bitter. He took his glass to the window, where he could see the club entrance. From the window he had an uninterrupted view of the street. He lit a cigarette and waited.

It was a long wait, but he did not mind. The street was full of interest. After seven o’clock a couple of stout, flashily dressed Jews came along, paused outside the Club, talked for a minute or so and then entered. Almost immediately a blonde woman wearing fox furs came down the street with a coarse, elderly man who was talking excitedly, gesticulating with his hands, an ugly look of rage on his badly shaven face. The woman walked along indifferently. She swayed her hips, and George recognized her for what she was. They, too, disappeared up the stairs to Joe’s Club. A little later three young girls—the eldest could not have been more than seventeen— all blonde, all wearing cheap, tight little frocks, all talking in highpitched, nasal voices, disappeared, giggling and yapping, through the shabby doorway.

George ordered another pint and continued to watch. From what he had seen, Joe’s Club seemed to attract the most odd type of man and woman from the shadowy night life of London. They were out of place in the sunlit street, like slugs you reveal when you turn over a log that has been lying in thick grass for a long time Sunshine was not for them. Dark streets, dimly-lit pavements, tobacco-laden air, the clink of glasses, the sound of liquor running from a bottle—that was their background. They were the “wide” boys and girls of London—the prostitutes, the thieves, the pimps, the touts, the pickpockets, the cat burglars, the hangers-on, the playboys and the good-time girls all moving in a steady stream, like a river of rottenness, into Joe’s Club.

As George watched them, summed them up, recognized them, he began to think about Brant’s sister. Would she turn out to be a brassy, hard little piece like these other girls who had gone up the stairs to Joe’s Club? He hated that type of girl. He had no personality to cope with them. He knew what kind of man they liked. He had listened to them in the park often enough. They and their boyfriends: young men with spotty complexions, padded shoulders, snappy felt hats and cigarettes dangling from their loose mouths. Wise cracking: every remark had a double meaning. The girls would scream with shrill laughter, vying with each other in appreciation. You were not wanted if you couldn’t make them laugh; if you didn’t know all the off-coloured jokes. Would Cora he like that?

George didn’t think so. He felt certain that she would mean something to him when they met. He didn’t know what their relations would he, but he was sure that meeting her was the most important thing in his life. The longer he waited the more excited he became.

Then as he was about to call for another pint, as the hands of the clock above the bar shifted to eight o’clock, he saw her. She was around twenty and dark. She had on a pale blue sweater and dark slacks and she didn’t wear a hat. There was a three-inch-wide red bangle on her wrist. But even without these clues he was quite sure he would have known her. It was as if the finger of destiny had pointed her out to him.

He crossed the bar in two strides, jerked open the door and stepped into the street. He crossed the street, removing his hat, as Cora reached the club door. She stopped when she saw him and stared at him. Her eyes were slate-grey, and had almost no expression when they looked at him

“Are you Miss Brant?” he asked, colour flooding his face. He tried, unsuccessfully, not to look at her breasts. She was flaunting her figure; with every move of her slim body, her breasts jiggled under the soft wool covering. She ought to wear something, he thought.

“Yes,” she said.

“I’m George Fraser,” he went on, aware that his heart was thumping wildly. “I don’t know if Syd ever mentioned me. He asked me to tell you that he’d he late. He’s taken the key…”

Her eyes travelled over him. He had never experienced such intense scrutiny. He felt that she was even peering into his pockets.

“Of course,” she said, “I know all about you. But come into the club. We don’t have to stand out here, do we?”

Without waiting for his reply, she turned abruptly and walked out of the sunshine and the clean-smelling air into the darkness of the building.

Following her, a helpless victim to the raven hair and slim, jaunty hips that preceded him up the stairs, George went towards his doom.