Hangover Square (20 page)

They had two more rounds at the buffet, and then went to a pub a little way down Queen’s Road. Here they had three more rounds and played pin-table, and when they came out it was dark and raining again. They went back to the station and got a taxi.

‘Where to?’ said Peter, swaying about outside. The Little Castle Hotel,’ cried Netta, ‘and drive like the devil, my man!’

She was tighter than he had ever seen her. She put her arm through his and began to sing.

They sped through the bright lights of the gleaming town, and as they passed the Regent – ‘What’s the matter with you, George?’ said Peter. ‘You’re still looking very dumb.’

‘Yes, he is,’ said the stranger. ‘I don’t think I like your friend. What’s the matter with him? Doesn’t he like us? You told me he was dumb, but I didn’t know he was this dumb.’

‘Why,’ said George, ‘have you been discussing me?’

‘Yes, darling,’ said Netta. ‘We discussed you in the train.’

‘Well, I’m sorry if I’m dumb, but I didn’t know it was going to be a binge. I thought I was meeting Netta alone.’

‘My God,’ said Netta. ‘You didn’t think I could stand you alone, my sweet Bone, did you?’ And at this they all laughed, and a few moments later they drew up in front of the little hotel.

Chapter Five

The staff looked askance, hesitated, and then decided good-naturedly to treat it as a joke. ‘No, do shut up!’ whispered George. ‘Shut up!’ And Netta actually joined him with, ‘Yes, shut up or we’ll be hoofed out.’

‘I don’t
want
to register,’ said Peter. ‘I want the bathroom. Where’s the bathroom?’ But he signed, and went off in search of the bathroom, and the other two signed more or less quietly. They had only one room left in the hotel itself, but the odd man could sleep in the annexe. ‘All right, that’s not
me
,’ said the young man, and he bagged the key for the room in the hotel, which was found to be next door to Netta’s.

They asked how late they could have dinner, were told they had half an hour, and went through into the bar. George sneaked out to the office and said he was sorry. The woman was nice about it, and the porter, his trusty friend, said, ‘Don’t you worry sir. They’ll settle down when they’ve had something to eat.’

He got them in by a quarter to ten. He had now had quite a few himself, and could stand up to it better. There were, unfortunately,
two other diners still in the room, who stared but took it in good humour, and soon enough they went out. The waiter was good-humoured, too, and the porter hung about, as though willing to come to the rescue if things got too tough.

Netta was the toughest to begin with, taking it out of the waiter. ‘Waiter, I want some household bread!’ Then, when it didn’t come at once, ‘
WAITER
! – I want some household
bread
–
I
want some household
bread
–
I
want some household
bread
–
I
want some household
BREAD
’ – chanting rhythmically and banging her hands on the table. He had never seen her, had never expected to see her as bad as this, and yet he was seeing nothing new, making no fresh discovery about her character. He was seeing only what he always saw beneath her normal composure – the harsh, cruel, beastly, tyrannical little girl he knew she must have been as a child and which she had never ceased being. To see this while she was wild and raucous was hardly more painful than to see it when she was calm and collected, and, anyway, he was really beyond pain at the moment.

Soon enough Peter began throwing whole rolls of bread about the room, as he always did when he was really lit up, and this the new member of the circle enjoyed enormously. They threw catches to each other the whole length of the room, and Netta cheered.

Then they began to play football, Peter lying down and holding the roll, while the newcomer took a flying kick to convert a try, and then the latter lying down and Peter taking the kick. And every now and again Netta cheered, and her bright eyes rained influence and judged the prize. Then the waiter came in and said excuse me, but would they be a little more quiet, as some of the guests had already gone to bed. And Peter said Blast him and Damn him, he would
not
excuse him, but all right if he would bring some more beer they would see what they could do. And actually they were quieter for a little, and the waiter brought them some more beer, and they went on with their dinner.

Then all at once Peter was demanding an evening paper, and sending the porter out for one, because he wanted to see what
Em
Molotov was up to Blast him. There was a lot of dirt going on, and he wanted an evening paper. And soon enough they were talking about
Em
Molotov and
En
Chamberlain, and were getting quarrelsome.

‘Excuse me,
En
Chamberlain is nothing of the sort,’ said Peter, and ‘Excuse me,
En
Chamberlain is
everything
of the sort,’ said his opponent, and Netta cried, ‘Good old
En
Chamberlain! I say he’s a bloody hero.’

‘Bloody hero? He’s a bloody weakling,’ said the newcomer, and, ‘Please don’t talk rot, both of you,’ said Peter. ‘Neither of you know what you’re talking about. Listen.
Mister
Chamberlain…’ And he went off into a lecture, to which the other two did not listen, but to which they gave an appearance of listening by remaining silent in a dazed, glassy way for a few moments before interrupting simultaneously.
Mister
Chamberlain…
Mister
Chamberlain…
Mister
Chamberlain… Adolf… Munich…
Mister
Chamberlain! Excuse me!… On the contrary!… On it went and they ordered a fresh round of drinks.
Mister
Chamberlain… Munich… Good old Adolf… ‘Well,
he
did something for his country, anyway,’ said the newcomer, and ‘Hooray!’ said Netta. ‘That’s what
I
say. I’m all for my Adolf…! ‘Listen – you don’t understand,’ said Peter wearily, ‘you’re
children
politically –
children
.’

‘Well, you’re a bloody fascist, anyway,’ said Netta… ‘You don’t
understand
,’ said Peter, and, ‘Well, there’s a lot
in
this fascist business if it comes to that,’ said the newcomer, and the reconciliation slowly set in.

He sat there, smoking and drinking with them, and not saying a word. He knew they would be reconciled. He knew they all loved Chamberlain and fascism and Hitler, and that they would be reconciled. Finally they became maudlin.

‘You’re right, old chap, you’re right,’ said the newcomer. ‘You’re perfectly right. You’ve
shown
me something. No, I’m not flattering you – I
don
’
t
flatter – you’ve
shown
me something. You’re right.’

‘Well, I think I’m right,’ said Peter. ‘I’ve been in jail for it, anyway!’ And he laughed in his nasty, moustachy way.

‘Jail?’ said the newcomer, politely, his head lurching over his pint can of beer. ‘Really?’

‘Oh, God, yes,’ said Netta. ‘Poor old Peter’s been in jail twice. Come on, Peter, tell us how you’ve been in jail!’

‘I have been in jail
twice
, to be precise,’ said Peter, lighting another cigarette, and suddenly employing a large, pompous professorial tone. ‘On one occasion for socking a certain left-winger a precise and well-deserved sock in the middle of his solar plexus, and on the other for a minor spot of homicide with a
motor-car
…’

He sat there, smoking and drinking with them, and saying not a word. He was frozen inside. So it was all coming out now – it was all coming out! Jail-birds and proud of it. No doubt it would soon transpire that Netta was a shop-lifter. Never mind. He could take it. He was frozen inside.

He wondered whether Peter would remember having made these revelations when he woke tomorrow morning. It was amazing how this secret had been kept from him all this time. And Netta in on it, too – they were very close, these two, closer than he had imagined. You’d have thought it would have come out before: they’d both been tight in front of him often enough. But of course tonight Peter was raving tight.

The little virile, pugilistic newcomer was delighted, inspired, humbled by these revelations – the sudden distinction accruing to his drinking companion – and with Netta’s assistance egged him on to talk. Mr Chamberlain was forgotten and Peter held the stage.

‘Jail?… Yes… Jail is a curious thing…’ He sat back, he leaned forward, he made large gestures. He was absolutely blind. Finally he called the waiter for some more drink, but the porter came up instead and said he was sorry but it was after twelve and they couldn’t serve any more.

‘What the
hell
are you talking about?’ said Peter. ‘We’re staying at the hotel, aren’t we?’

And then, as the argument rose, a curious thing happened. Instead of supporting Peter, and arguing, quite correctly, that as residents they had the right to order drinks at any time, Netta
all at once said, ‘Oh, well, if we can’t we can’t – let’s go to bed.’ And as she said this, stabbing out her cigarette on a plate, she gave a funny little sidelong glance in the direction of the newcomer, who glanced at her in the same sidelong way, and then said, ‘Yes. Let’s call it a day. I’ve had enough, anyway.’ And George saw both glances and believed he understood them.

No! No! No!
Please God,
No!

Chapter Six

He lay on his bed and tried to relax. He was fully dressed, but he had turned out the light. He faced the bed and held his head in his arms. He would be able to think soon – if he relaxed for a little.

The last door had closed. Peter was over in the annexe. They had sorted out their belongings from Netta’s suitcase in the hall and the porter had taken Peter over. They had all said ‘Good night’. ‘Good night, Bone,’ she had said. The last door had closed. The lights were out. He relaxed. Outside it was beginning to rain.

The last door was closed. They had closed the last door cleverly. No sneaking in. They were too clever for that. They had closed it boldly, slammed it almost, as though in the general hubbub of going to the bathroom, of sorting out the luggage, of to-and-froing before going to bed… But he had heard the first giggle through the thin wall, and the long silence and creaking after the first giggle.

Now they were getting bolder – now they were beginning to talk. A few moments ago they were whispering, but like all whisperers at night they couldn’t keep it down; they kept on breaking into the vocal tone, and then shamefacedly whispering again. It was like the first twittering of birds at dawn; it would grow and grow; and soon they would be in full chorus.

Why did they have to talk? What was he to do if they went on talking? Didn’t they know he could hear them? Or didn’t they care? Why had they chosen Netta’s room – next to his?

Why hadn’t she gone into
his
room? They were too drunk to care – too
hard
to care.

And only this morning he had done a sixty-eight! He had walked on the Downs and found that he was a good man, that life was good, that he could start afresh, cool and calm, that Netta might yet be his. But now it was half an hour after midnight and to this strait had his coolness and calmness brought him, and in this manner was his passion fated to find consummation!

If only they wouldn’t talk… They were getting louder and louder, and he heard Netta giggle, and someone walk across the room. What were they up to? He heard the clink of a glass. Oh, God – they were going to have a drink. They were going to drink from the half-bottle of whisky he had seen in Netta’s suitcase. They would drink out of the tooth-glass. Yes – there it went – faint as it was he heard it – the gurgle in the pipe and the hissing of the tap as they filled up with water! They were doing it in style. Nothing brief and bestial. A night of love.

And that morning he had done a sixty-eight, and flattered himself. And while he was flattering himself, and breathing life and fresh air into his lungs, they, up in London, were brewing this for him. He saw it all: he could piece it together from their conversation during the evening. She had gone over with Peter to the ‘Black Hart’ in the morning and they had got talking to this stranger. She had probably taken a fancy to him at once – this aggressive little boy of twenty-two with the pugilistic nose and the school-bully’s brown eyes – he was probably her type. There must have been an understanding between them from the beginning. A depraved woman. Then, as they all got drunk, the scheme must have materialized. She must have originated it, told them of her date in Brighton, told them what a bore it was, asked them how she could get out of it. Then the moment of inspiration, as they all chimed in and said they would all go! -and had another drink to celebrate it! How Peter must have gloried in that moment, gloried in the knowledge that George wasn’t going to get away with it after all. Well, Peter, actually, had been one too clever. He was in the annexe.

A pleasant holiday. A pleasant holiday by the sea. And he had given her fifteen pounds for this.

If only they wouldn’t talk. Mumble, mumble, mumble. They had given up trying to whisper now – they were settling down to it. That tap again! – and the soft gurgle in the pipe! Filling up. Running h. & c. in all bedrooms – every modern convenience…

A tinkle, a creak, a subdued laugh… Mumble, mumble, mumble… Liquid, intimate… Didn’t they
know
he could hear them?

Why did people do these things to him? Was it his fault? Did he deserve it? Had he done something wrong? Had he done wrong to get a sixty-eight this morning and try and start life afresh? It looked as though he had, because this was the result.

Or was there something wrong with his character? Did he ask for all he got? Ought he to go and make a scene, burst in on them, bash this little horror’s face in, kick him out? Wake up the hotel? Would another man do that? He couldn’t see it. It was her business, her affair. You couldn’t wake up a hotel. He was probably wrong, but he couldn’t see it.