Hangover Square (22 page)

Then the trouble about Brighton was the distance from Maidenhead. It wasn’t near Maidenhead, like London was, and if there was any meddling from the police he couldn’t get there so quickly, so that they couldn’t touch him. He would have to go up to London first, and then on.

Yes – meddling from the police – ‘questions asked’ – there mustn’t be any of that. That was the whole point. Or if there was any meddling he had got to be on his way to Maidenhead. Perhaps it was dangerous, this Brighton business…

No! – there he was, shilly-shallying again – trying to put it off. He meant business this time – he was going to do it now. If he didn’t do it now he would somehow forget again, and the cold would come, and he would be in for another winter in Earl’s Court…

If he could only plan it, think it out, it was as easy as pie… Then why not plan it and think it out now, while he was walking, while he was alone in the dawn?

He must go on walking and go on thinking. He would walk and think until he had found the plan. He wouldn’t go back, he wouldn’t turn round, until he had found it. Then he would go back and do it. It might me today: it might be tomorrow: but it would be in Brighton, and he would do it. He meant business this time all right.

He passed the King Edward Peace statue (a fat lot of peace with Hitler about!) and walked along by the Hove lawns. The dawn glowed redder and brighter: it would soon be day. He noticed he was not entirely alone; ahead of him a fat man, clad
in a dressing-gown, a bather, climbed over the railing, and scrambled down to the sea – a raving lunatic, of course, but it took all sorts to make a world.

Hove and Brighton slept. The dawn glowed pink – the front shone in the recent rain. The raving lunatic bobbed up and down in the decidedly rough waves. He noticed that he himself wore no overcoat and no hat – that he had come out just as he was from the hotel, in the blue suit he had put on for Netta, and stayed in all night. He walked towards Worthing.

Chapter Two

Crack!
…

It almost knocked him down. It made him reel. It was as though he had been hit by something. And yet he knew what it was. It was only his head, cracking back. And with the crack everything came flooding, rushing, roaring back – noise, colour, light, the fury of the real everyday world. It was almost more than he could bear. It would settle down, he would adjust himself soon, but for the moment it was too much for him. He leaned against a wall, giddy and faint.

That crack! Usually it was a little click, a pop, a snap. But this time his brain had almost burst in two: it had practically knocked him off his feet. These attacks were getting worse. He was an ill man.

Coming up from the depths, the impact of the real world was too much. He simply couldn’t collect himself. He still leaned against the wall. Where was he?

A woman came up to him. ‘Excuse me,’ she said, in a frightened way. ‘Can I help you?’

She was a middle-aged working-class woman wearing black. She carried a straw shopping-bag.

‘No. It’s all right, thanks,’ he said. ‘I’m just a bit giddy. It’s all right. Thanks very much.’

‘Sure you’re all right?’ she said.

‘Yes. Thanks awfully. Just a bit giddy. I get these attacks. I’ll be all right. Thanks very much.’

She smiled doubtfully and passed on. Where was he? Where in God’s name
was
he? He raised his head.

He was in a narrow street. He saw the mast of a ship: a wood-yard – a coal-yard – a canal – the sea – ships – tugs – cranes – wharves – warehouses…

He couldn’t
collect
himself. Where was he? He must be in a port somewhere. Where was it – Southampton, Portsmouth, Yarmouth, Plymouth, Cardiff? How had he got to a narrow street in a port? He had nothing to do with ports.

Oh, God – this was terrible. He was up against it this time… He didn’t know where he was – he didn’t know
who
he was – he just didn’t know. He wore no hat; he was dishevelled, cold, exhausted. He had on his best blue suit. He might be in Dublin: he might be in America: he might be in France – he just didn’t know. No, not France, because the woman spoke English.

He must keep calm. He must ask somebody, go to the police. They must find out for him. This was the end.

How had he
got
here? If only he could remember how he had
got
here!

He began to walk. He must go to the police, and ask them to explain it all to him.

But couldn’t he find out for himself?

He saw an errand-boy propping up his bike outside a small tobacconist’s. He crossed the road to him.

‘Excuse me,’ he said. ‘Where is this?’

The errand-boy stared at him in a scared way.

‘This?…’ he said blankly. ‘This is Portslade…’

‘Oh – thanks…’

He seemed to be frightening everybody. The woman first and now the boy. But they weren’t as frightened as he was!

Port Slade… Slade… Where was Slade? He had never heard of Slade. The Slade school of art, but not port. Port Slade.

No…

And yet there was something familiar about it… Port Said! That was it – it was like Port Said? But he couldn’t be in Port
Said – you wouldn’t have women with shopping-bags, and errand boys and tobacconist-shops like that, in Port Said…

No – it was Port
Slade
all right. Or perhaps Port Slaid. And there was such a port – he had somewhere vaguely heard of it. He just couldn’t place it.

A green motor-van came by. He saw written on it, in neat gold letters, ‘
THE PORTSLADE MODEL LAUNDRY
’.

‘Ah! Portslade! Portslade!
Portslade!
The little green van had saved his life – his sanity! Portslade! – the little town next to Brighton. Brighton! – it was all coming back. He was staying down at Brighton. It was all perfectly normal. He was there with Netta, with Netta and Peter and the little school-bully they had brought down with them.

But how had he got out to Portslade? What was the order of events? He had met them at the station and they had all been drunk: then they had gone back to the hotel and made a row; and then – oh dear, yes, it was coming back – they had gone to bed. The last door had closed. The gurgle of the tap, the creaking, the giggles, the mumbling all night, the ultimate silence. All night long they had driven him out of his mind. That was Netta’s clever revenge on him for giving her fifteen pounds, for forcing her to come to Brighton. And at last he hadn’t been able to stand it any more, and he had run out into the dark dawn.

Then blank. Complete blank until that awful crack in his head, and he woke up in Portslade. Why Portslade? How had he got there? Had he taken a bus? Or a train? Or had he walked? He looked at his wrist-watch and saw that it was five and twenty past nine – breakfast time. Presumably he had walked. He felt as though he had been walking for ever: he was exhausted, cold with exhaustion, sleeplessness and general shock. Since he met them at the station last night he had taken it on the chin as he had never taken it before.

That crack in his head. That had really frightened him. Usually his coming up from the depths, his clicking out of a ‘dead’ mood, was a more or less pleasant exhilarating sensation, was accompanied by a gratifying clarification of mind. But that crack, and the subsequent utter confusion – that was something new. Was this a turn for the worse in his strange mental disorder?
Was the strain he had been through beginning to tell on it? He ought to do something about it: he ought to see a doctor.

And he had nattered himself that these ‘dead’ moods of his were getting better. He had had a bad bout of them round about Christmas and for a little while afterwards: and then he had had one or two in the early spring; but after that he had been almost entirely free. They went in bouts, he knew that by now.

He ought to go and see a doctor. And a doctor would tell him to go away somewhere, and take a rest. But he was ‘away’ – wasn’t he? Wasn’t he at Brighton, supposed to be having a ‘holiday’?

And now. actually, he was at Portslade. He was within full sight of the sea again, and walking back to Brighton. He saw some bus-stops, and hoped he might soon catch a bus to help him along; but he didn’t really care much.

A pleasant holiday. The wind was rising, hitting him in the face, and the sky was full of rain. It was blowing up for a storm. The still days, the long summer, had crashed, fallen into tempest and misery, as he had done. He was indescribably unhappy.

At last he caught a bus, and was physically grateful for the warmth inside, the padded seats, the smoothness and speed with which he was wafted along.

What now? Go back to the hotel to them? To his bedroom? The thought made him feel faint with pain.

It was now half past nine: he would be there by a quarter to ten, and they almost certainly would not be up. They would, of course, halve a frightful hangover, and be sleeping on. No – not
back
to the torture! He couldn’t face his bedroom: he couldn’t go upstairs while they were there. He doubted whether he could face them at all.

Then how was he to get back to his things – to wash and tidy himself up? He was in an awful state: he had to do something. He was hungry, too.

He supposed he would have to face them some time. But no – not until they were out of bed, not until they had come downstairs where he could meet them on his own ground.

Then he must wash and shave and eat outside – go to a
barber’s and a Lyons’. Yes – that was it – be fresh and tidy before he saw them.

What attitude was he going to take – how was he going to meet Netta’s eyes? How was he going to save his pride before them both? How was he going to meet the little school-bully’s eyes? She had no doubt told the latter all about him – of his long-standing and ridiculous inclination towards her. They were probably giggling about it last night over their whisky.

All he could do was to pretend he wasn’t hurt, that he hadn’t noticed, that he was well and happy, on top of the world. To pretend, really, either that he was a complete fool or that he didn’t really care a damn about Netta. It wouldn’t really wash, either way, but it was the only thing to do: and it might mystify them, even annoy them, if he seemed to be in good form. For all they knew he might have a secret of his own.

That was the thing. He must be looking well and in good form. So he would go to a barber’s, and have a shave, and wash and brush-up, and then to Lyons’ for a meal, and when he met them he would just act – pretend that there had been no night-before – no gigglings, no gurgling taps, no silence – and that he was feeling fine. They would have a hangover, but he would be feeling fine. It wasn’t much good, but it was the only thing.

He saw West Pier approaching. He had better get off here. The bus stopped at Preston Street, and he got off.

He walked up Preston Street, and found a barber on the left. He went in and was shaved soothingly in warm electric light. The barber did not talk, but beat up a rich sweet-scented lather with the brush on his face, and then scraped with the razor in a sacramental hush. Only once he asked, in a formal voice, ‘Is the razor to your liking, sir?’ and George Harvey Bone replied, ‘Fine, thanks.’ Thus these two, the barber with his own past and private life, and George Harvey Bone with his, met, touched, were silent with each other under electric light, and then parted never to meet again.

When he came out, carrying, as he walked along, the fresh electric-lit memory of his shaven face, his brushed hair, his brushed clothes and tidied collar and tie – seen in the barber’s electric-lit mirror – he felt wonderfully better. He walked up to
the Western Road and along towards the Clock Tower, whose clock pointed to a quarter past ten. A tremendous wind was banging up West Street from a lead-grey sea, and he went down North Street to the Lyons’ at the bottom.

He ordered egg and bacon and household bread and coffee. He began to feel warm all over, and he read a paper he had found at his table. When he had eaten, he smoked a cigarette. Soon enough it was eleven o’clock. They would be up by now, and he supposed he ought to go. Instead, he lit another cigarette, and sat on reading his paper. Let them wait. Let
them
wonder what
he
was doing, for once.

The time crept on to a quarter past eleven, and then to twenty past. Perhaps now he had better go. He got his check from the girl, paid his bill, and came out into the street.

The hotel was only two minutes’ walk away, and he suddenly felt frightened. It was, after all, something of an ordeal after last night. But he pulled at his coat and straightened his body, and remembered that he had had a shave and was in his best suit.

He walked straight up the steps of the hotel. He looked into the dining-room, but they weren’t there – only the waiter laying the things for lunch. Then he looked into the little lounge over the way – but they weren’t there either. Then he went to the reception office, but there was nobody there either. Nobody seemed to be anywhere.

Finally the woman – the receptionist – appeared from a door behind her office. ‘Oh, good morning,’ he said, smiling. ‘Have you seen anything of my friends?’

‘Oh… Them?’ she said, staring at him in rather the same frightened way the woman in Portslade had stared at him when he was standing against the wall. ‘They’ve gone… Didn’t you know?’

‘Oh,’ he said. ‘Have they… ?’

And he stared back at her.

Chapter Three

‘They went this morning – about ten…’ she said.

‘Oh… really?…’ He could think of nothing else to say.

‘They said you’d pay the bill,’ she said. ‘Is that all right?’

‘Oh… really?… Yes, That’s all right… Did they leave any message for me?’

‘No. They didn’t say anything.’

‘Oh,’ he said. ‘How funny… Well, if they’ve gone, they’ve gone, I suppose.’ He smiled. They were still staring at each other.

‘To tell you the truth,’ she said, ‘I think there’s something I ought to tell you.’

‘Oh – really?… What?…’

‘Well, to tell you the truth, the manageress had to ask them if they’d mind going. You see, there was such a noise last night, and one thing and another, we really felt we couldn’t keep them. I thought I ought to tell you. I’m sure you’ll understand.’