For Love Alone (45 page)

He went on talking fluently about politics, Hitler, Brüning, British investments, von Papen, Hindenburg, the Westwall, a thousand references which flashed in and out of his wonderful knowledge. She listened timidly, with shame and fear. She had heard of Hitler in the past three or four years, and knew that he was some kind of dictator in Germany, head of the Nazi party, a few other things that she had picked up from chance headlines or words in the streets and on the boats. She had never bought a newspaper or magazine, or been to a cinema in all the time she had been saving up; and since everyone sulked at home round the table, after Leo left, nothing was said at home. Sometimes, at night, dull explanations were given in Lance's room, over his little radio, but to such eternal jawing she had been too listless to pay attention. Now, as the train ran towards the terminus, her heart sank under a fearful load of guilt. She would have to conceal from him that she was ignorant of all those things, until she had a few days to herself, to study it in the newspapers and a couple of books. She had studied everything, to please him, but not that, the thing he was most interested in! As he went on talking, comfortably, authoritatively, she stole a glance at him.

To tell the truth, got up like that, she might have passed him in the street—but no, not with those deep-set, narrow-set, moving eyes and that long mobile mouth; there were no others in the world like that. He had turned handsome and plump, otherwise. His voice was firmer, more melodious, but his rasping, assertive, complaining
tones were there, as before. Only now he smiled more, and as if to himself, wisely, like a man quite at home in the world. Each time she looked at him, she became more frightened; he had become so good-looking and easy and he was so much the man in his fine clothes, that he could have any woman for the asking. She realized what she had been ignorant of before, how good and condescending he was to write to her as he had done, every week for so many years, how friendly to come to the wharf to meet a friendless girl.

The dull green country rattled past. He spoke of his work, his essay, his classes, his hopes of going to America. She egged him on politely, though she had a sense of bafflement which she could not explain. Why, when he was so kind and good? It was perhaps because she had not enough courage. Just the same, she had had six weeks at sea; she ought to be ready to face the world again, look for work and begin to learn all these political facts which were on the tip of his tongue. When she knew a bit more, so as not to appear an idiot, she would ask him to help her.

Jonathan, meanwhile, glibly retailing what he had said a dozen times, felt dissatisfied. Of course women, to sell themselves to men, will send these retouched photographs; and she had aged two years since the last photograph, which had showed her a pale, plain, but sweet and still plump girl. He felt a slight embarrassment. He flashed a look at her, she was staring out at the landscape. She certainly was wasted and strange, her face had taken on that curious illumined but ravaged look, often seen in disease. Tuberculosis? Unconsciously, he drew away from her a little, leaning on the window which was on his side, and looking out, pointing out some species of housing.

She felt the withdrawal of the rough, hairy coat, and trembled. Had he already found out that she knew nothing about Hitler? Good, she thought, good, if I have lost him, I have lost him. I put all my eggs in one basket, I played the grand play, it's win or lose that way, and I'm not one to complain if I lose.
He
said so. “It's up to you, Teresa.” How fair he was! Lovely! Where is there a better man? And he sits by my side, but so far from me, lost in his own
austere and unselfish world, thinking about mankind, other nations, while I have only been thinking about myself, my own desires! This is wickedness. How beastly I have been. It seems people have been burned alive, crucified, martyred, starved to death, driven out of their homes and all I have been thinking about all these years is my love, while
he
, poor man, with all his sorrows and his ideas of failure, has been thinking about
them
and their sorrows. I really deserve to fail.

Teresa was afraid also of the dull rainy light falling on her face. She knew how worn she looked. Every time he glanced at her she shrank. They were both glad when they got out at Fenchurch Street, for the first strain was over and in a sort, some explanation had been held between them, though he had talked about Hitler and she had murmured: “Yes,” and “Really?” He was kind as ever, carried a bag for her, bought a ticket, and in her ignorance she thought that this meant he liked her, in spite of all her failings, and wanted to protect her.

They were in a two-decker bus. It was Jonathan who made her look at this. She had seen it, but did not care about it. He said: “Look, a two-decker bus, aren't they funny?” and she had looked and laughed, warmed by his grin, the old grin of the old, old days. She was here, in London, with him by her side, it was all over, the long sickness, it was all done. She laughed, she said: “I came a long way to see a two-decker bus!”

He laughed. “I didn't know if you were coming third or first and I kept looking at the first.”

“Oh, I came in the middle, downstairs was E deck, a kind of steerage, but they don't call it that any more. And underneath E deck, the glory-hole.”

He laughed: “What's that?”

“That's where the sailors and stewards sleep. I knew quite a few of them.”

He laughed. “Ah, you did? You had a good time, eh?”

“Oh, yes, I rested. A funny thing happened. You know my brother Leo ran away, disappeared, about four years ago?”

“Yes?”

“They told me there was an Australian sailor called Leo, they told me all about him. One day, he came up to see me—one night rather—but it wasn't my brother at all.”

He looked closely at her. “One night?”

“Oh,” she flushed with amusement, “just before he went to bed, on his way, so to speak. You know—no, you don't—I travelled by night. I slept in the daytime. I saw nothing. I got up one day to look at Suez, I left my work, well, it wasn't work exactly, to see Stromboli. It was about a quarter to midnight when we passed. I was so surprised when it could not get dark in the Bay of Biscay. I don't like the pale nights when it doesn't get dark.”

He seemed to be picking his words when he said: “I don't understand, why did you sleep in the daytime?”

“There was a drunk woman aboard in first class. Two women volunteered to nurse her, since there weren't enough stewardesses and she wouldn't be put ashore. They were afraid for her because she's an heiress, so they asked for volunteers out of third class. Two volunteered, a woman called Mrs Brown and myself. Mrs Brown was with her husband, so of course I had to take the night shift, twelve hours, but in the Mediterranean they took me off at two in the morning.”

He stared at her in an unfriendly way. She hastened to say: “Oh, I should never have got to know the sailors and night watchmen any other way! Do you realize I had a first-class breakfast, all the way across? They gave me that. When down in third class, for which I had paid, they had stewed apricots and tea for breakfast, up in first class I had marmalade, toast, cream, bacon and eggs. And that was only the nursery, out in the restaurant they had dozens of things, haddock, all kinds of fish, meat, fruit cup, all kinds of things. I did not do so badly. But the nurses only got a restricted menu and they called me a nurse.”

“How long did you do it ?”

“Oh, five weeks. It was about a week out of Sydney when they found out she couldn't move. Well, she could. She dragged herself
to the cannon port and tried to throw herself overboard, they say. She had D. Ts.” He was stupefied and his dark eyes stared at her inimically. She regretted telling it to him. She had made up her mind not to, because she knew he disliked anything peculiar; it had slipped out. It was her whole trip. She had led a very peaceful life with a couple of night watchmen and a steward for friends. She had known no one on board otherwise but the drunken woman, a good-natured though cranky girl with unfortunate affairs. In some queer way this seemed to Jonathan Crow an unexpected calamity. It bored and irritated him. Why had she done it? Did she know, he asked her.

“They asked us to!” she said. “The ship, I mean, the ship's doctor and the captain.”

“They asked you to,” he said sarcastically. “So you were helping out the Orient Line.”

“That's silly, they actually did not have enough help, the stewardesses were overworked, the ship was full.”

“It's silly?” He looked at her furiously. She hastened to repair her mistake. “Not silly, I don't mean that, I just say that all the time.”

He said in a husky, hollow tone: “And to think I travelled like a lord! Twelve courses for' breakfast, maybe fifteen, I don't remember.” He cast a sweet smile upon her. “I know though. Pah! I didn't see the nursery, I saw what the real other half was like. Middle-aged women and old hags, flaunting their paint and powder and the youngsters smeared over with lipstick showing their breasts in their sun-suits—starting their cocktail parties in the corridors at eleven in the morning. I saw them. I guess you didn't see that if you were asleep.” He smiled at her with pathetic sweetness.

“No, but she went up to one or two dances at the end of the trip and she told me a few things when she got back. She wore her dress only. She said they all do.”

He looked out and spread his hand, in its grey glove.

“Fleet Street—you're not interested? I noticed you passed St Paul's without looking.”

“Oh, I saw it. But I couldn't see much, that is.”

“Oh, I know, girls can pass Vesuvius in eruption and talk about frills and flounces,” he said good-humouredly.

She laughed. “Is this really Fleet Street? Where are we going?”

“To Bloomsbury.” He peered at her. “I think you'll probably try to get a room in Bloomsbury, so we may as well go straight there.”

“Bloomsbury? It's a boarding-house area, isn't it?”

“Why do you say that?” he asked with great amusement. “There's some song,
My little back room in Blooms-bu-ry!”

“Is that all you know about it?”

“Yes. What is it then?”

He smiled good-naturedly and whistled a moment between his teeth. Then he said: “I'll show it to you, then you'll know. It's no good in the telling.”

She was so touched that she slipped her hand under the hairy arm of his overcoat. He said: “Temple Bar. Now we leave the City of London and enter the City of Westminster.” He changed from his first mood. At first he had thought that she would be writing home to their friends in common and saying: “Thus was Johnny when I first saw him,” and he had wanted to show himself at his best; mature, intelligent, sophisticated, a political man, but now he began to think that she too had some peculiar life behind her of her own. She had come for him only and this intrigued him. It was not the “Teresa Hawkins” of the letters but a sick young woman quite different. Poor thing! How she had aged! He noticed the first signs of crow's-feet round her eyes. She was peaked, a young hag, yet what age was she exactly? Was it possible that she was younger than himself? He said, reminiscently: “Yes, the boat! So you saw the other half, anyhow? You beat them to it? You saw the women they have? She must have been a nice handful, your young drunk. How old was she?”

“About twenty-seven.”

“Did she look bad?”

“No, she looked about eighteen, she was a beauty, she looked wonderful, a soft pale skin. Besides, I saw the whole of her, she wore
chiffon nightdresses. She was in love with one of the stewards, and he was forbidden to come to the cabin. You would have said that drinking was good for the skin.”

He laughed shrewdly and glanced at her askance. “She was a high stepper, I suppose? All these women in first class have no morals. You mean there was something between her and the steward?”

“The steward, Andre, was not supposed to see her. But one night he came along and I let him go in because I knew she wanted him. She was so lonely, really. He was nice to everyone.”

Jonathan frowned. “A lady's man. Well, these stewards must see the women half undressed, or quite, you can't blame them.”

“Oh, Andre told me it made no difference to him whether they had all or nothing on. He was too damned tired.” She blushed. “Excuse me, that's what he told me. They used to call me ‘Nurse',” she explained.

“Nurse.” He grinned. “I'll bet you saw a lot of queer goings-on, at dead of night, Nurse!”

“Yes, I did,” she laughed. “Yes, I did. A captain from India who was always tiptoeing somewhere with a lady, and a bottle under his arm. It was terribly funny, and only old Pillicock, the night watchman, got angry with them.”

“Ah, you knew him? Pillicock? Rum name. Old English? Pillicock's Hill? Isn't there something? What was he like?”

“White-headed, an old man, this was his last trip. Now he's retiring to Brighton, where his wife lives. He has a garden.” She smiled. “He invited me there if I couldn't get a job; he told me you had to work six months here to get on the dole.”

“We get out here,” said Jonathan, inserting his hand under her arm and picking up her bag. “Now we'll get you a room. I looked the last two days but thought you'd better look by yourself. You'll get it cheaper.”

“Oh, Jonathan, did you? How kind! But I expected to look myself.”

He grinned. “At one place the woman said she wasn't used to having black people. At another the old fraud said she didn't like young women who had men to visit them.”

“Oh, you didn't tell her—”

“No, that's why I say you'd better go yourself.”

“Yes, yes.”

“At the same time, you'd better make sure to begin with, ask her if men friends can visit you. I don't want to get thrown out.”