Hangover Square (28 page)

He wondered whether, when he actually got up, the thing would be in any way practicable or possible, whether it was within his capacity to walk out of the hotel, to go along the streets and about in the neighbourhood without using the phone, without haunting her haunts, without throwing himself consciously or unconsciously into the way of meeting her, and, having met her once, sinking back into hell. He found, when he at last got out of doors, a little weak and giddy, that he had no sort of desire to see her, that soon he was even taking a sort of pleasure in dodging her.

He believed he had reached the crisis at last: that he had burned his passion out. It was only just in time. His whole health would have been wrecked if he had gone on like that. But now the climax had come: he had had a rest: the ’flu, and the ‘dead’ moods (both brought on, he believed, by drinking and nervous exhaustion) had receded, and he could start again. He
limited himself to two beers in the morning: had lunch at the hotel, slept in the afternoon, had a few more beers in the evening, and went to bed early.

One night he got into conversation with a young man, and talked about games and books and things. It was a great relief, it did his soul a lot of good to meet a fresh face and new personality in a pub, and talk about disinterested things. He could hardly remember a disinterested moment ever since he had met Netta. He told the young man a lot about the books he had read, secretly making up his mind to read them again himself.

The young man, oddly enough, had mentioned Netta: he had seen him about with her. He had said she was ‘frightfully attractive’. That had hurt: but only for a moment. The subject had been changed, and he had found he didn’t mind. He knew that Netta was frightfully attractive. He had never denied it. He wasn’t going to pretend otherwise. They were welcome to her. It showed, though, that he could never get away from her so long as he was in Earl’s Court. Even a stranger talked about her.

Netta
was
Earl’s Court now – he saw that as he walked along this morning in the rain. She was the buildings and the shops and the rain. Now that he no longer phoned her in the morning, now that the centre of his life was no longer her flat, that aura which she once gave forth – that appalling field of magnetic influence – no longer irradiated from her flat (being weakest at the farthest point from and strongest at the nearest point to, her actual bedroom, her being), but was spread out into the entire hateful neighbourhood.

He went into the Express and ordered a small coffee. It was lovely to sit and read a newspaper, without having to look at the clock all the time, arguing with yourself as to what time you should choose to phone her in relation to her bath and Mrs Chope. He sat over his coffee as long as he liked. This morning he was going to phone Johnnie. He had promised to do that when he was up and well again. Well, now he was up and well.

He went to the line of telephone booths in the station and boxed himself in. He felt a little nervous. By her cruel and arbitrary
behaviour she had made this instrument, the telephone, so terrifying and odious that he could no longer use it for any purpose without a feeling of trepidation, without a feeling that the person at the other end of the line was going to hurt him.

He dialled Johnnie’s office number, and a girl’s voice said, ‘Fitzgerald, Carstairs and Scott’. He said, ‘Is Mr Littlejohn there, please?’ and the girl said what name please, and he said Mr Bone, and there was a long pause. He was afraid that he was interrupting Johnnie in mighty theatrical affairs, that Johnnie might be at that moment closeted with the dread Fitzgerald, Carstairs, or Scott, and that he would be embarrassed or angry at being called to the phone by a nonentity who could only claim an old school friendship. Johnnie came to the phone, however, and was most cheerful. ‘Hullo, old boy,’ he said. ‘How are you?’

They had a little conversation, and then he told Johnnie that he had given notice at his hotel, and that he had got to find somewhere to live.

‘That’s funny,’ said Johnnie, ‘my ceiling’s fallen in, and I’m homeless at the moment.’

‘Oh – really?’

‘Yes. I’m in an awful mess,’ said Johnnie, and added, it seemed jokingly, ‘You’d better come and live with me.’

George only laughed at this, but a few moments later Johnnie surprised him by saying, ‘Well, let’s talk about it, anyway. When can we meet?’

They arranged to meet that night, the same place as before, Earl’s Court station, and they rang off.

He came out and walked along in the rain.

‘You’d better come and live with me.’ It stuck with him all the morning. It would never come to anything, of course, but he was very proud and happy to have a friend who could say such a thing.

Chapter Four

‘Well, where are we going?’ said Johnnie, as they crossed over the road by the station and he replied, ‘Oh – we might as well go to the usual.’

He had thought this out while waiting for Johnnie. To begin with she would probably not be in there. And even if she was, did he care? No – not now – not with Johnnie by his side – an old friend with whom he might be going to stay. Not now that he was clearing out. He wished she
would
come in; he would like her to see him looking well and sober for once, and to learn of his independence and approaching departure.

The Saloon Bar was unusually crowded, but they managed to find seats at a table in a corner. They drank beer and talked about the coming war.

When she came, she was alone, and went and sat on a stool at the bar. He didn’t know whether she had seen him, and he went on talking to Johnnie. He didn’t know whether Johnnie had seen her, but rather thought he had, because their conversation became a little inattentive, and the atmosphere was curious They looked rather hard at each other as they talked.

All at once he heard her voice, and she was sitting down beside them, her drink in her hand. ‘Well, well – how are we all?’ she said. ‘I didn’t see you when I came in.’

From the beginning she took up the attitude that she was wanted, that nothing could have happened to make her not wanted, and that she expected to revive the atmosphere of the occasion when the three of them had met in here before. She was extremely cordial: he had seldom seen her so cordial: and he had no difficulty in seeing that the cause of this was Johnnie’s presence. He knew how much impressed she was by Johnnie because of his connection with Fitzgerald, Carstairs and Scott, and that she hoped somehow to make use of him in that connection. He knew, also, in his heart, that that was one of the reasons why he had brought Johnnie round to the ‘Black Hart’ – to show his friend off, and to spite her.

‘Well, what’s been happening to you, George?’ she said. ‘I haven’t seen you about.’

‘No,’ he said, ‘I’ve had ’flu.’

‘ ’
Flu?
…’ she said, and asked why she hadn’t been told. She gave the impression that if she had known she would have come round with flowers and fruit.

‘You are a bloody fool,’ she ended up by saying. ‘You never look after yourself.’ And she appealed to Johnnie to support her in this.

Once or twice before, in his relationship with her, he had known her behave like this. It had taken him in then, but he was too old a hand now. She was very lovely, but he didn’t react to her. He didn’t like her, and he wanted to get away.

‘Well, how are things up at Fitzgerald’s?’ she asked Johnnie, and soon the two of them were talking about the theatre. It appeared that the firm were again in production with another show – this time a farce – and that it was to be tried out in Brighton shortly.

‘And how’s Eddie?’ she said. ‘I haven’t seen him for ages.’

‘Oh – he’s all right,’ said Johnnie. ‘As a matter of fact, I’m staying with him now.’

‘Oh… are you?’

‘Yes. My ceiling’s fallen in, and he’s letting me put up with him for the time being. I’ve got to find somewhere to live. As a matter of fact, George and I are thinking of setting up together – aren’t we, George?’ said Johnnie, smiling at him.

‘That’s right,’ he said, and smiled back.

He had hoped to spite and snub her, but had never imagined he would do it in this almost spectacular way. That Johnnie should be actually staying at the moment with the famous Eddie Carstairs – whose name was on theatre bills all over London, in whom she took such a peculiar interest, and yet whom she was unable to approach – that he (George) should be Johnnie’s friend, and that Johnnie should be avowing in front of her a desire to set up house with him – here was a rich revenge indeed! He might not be such a useless nonentity after all!

He looked at her face to see how she was taking it. She was looking at him.

‘Why – are you making a change, George?’ she asked.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I’ve given notice at my place. I’m fed up with Earl’s Court.’

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘So am I if it comes to that,’ and nothing more was said about it.

A little while later he managed to wink at Johnnie as he finished off the remains of his glass, and looking at his watch he said: ‘Well, Johnnie, we’ll have to buck up if we’re going to be there on time.’

Johnnie, playing up, said, ‘Yes – we certainly will,’ and a few moments later they were out in the street.

The Ninth Part

’FLU

But what availed this temperance, not complete
Against another object more enticing?
What boots it at one gate to make defence
And at another to let in the toe
,
Effeminately vanquished?

J. MILTON
Samson Agonistes

e-, pro-voke; raise up, summon up, call up, wake up, blow up, get up, light up; raise; get up the steam, rouse, arouse, stir, fire, kindle, enkindle, apply the torch, set on fire, inflame.

stimulate; ex-, suscitate; inspirit; spirit up, stir up, work up; infuse life into, give new life to; bring –, introduce – new blood; quicken; sharpen, whet; work upon &c. (
incite
) 615; hurry on, give a fillip, put on one’s metal.

fan the – fire, – flame; blow the coals, stir the embers; fan, – into a flame; foster, heat, warm, foment, raise to a fever heat;…

Roget
’
s Thesaurus of English Words and Phrases

Chapter One

It was seven in the evening. He walked round to the chemist’s (her breath still on his face, her mouth and cheek still on his lips), to get her medicine and told his heart and senses to be quiet, and not to be beguiled again.

It had all happened so absolutely out of the blue, and such a little while ago, that he was giddy and confused. Never before (save once, when he first knew her, and then she had turned him out of the flat without ceremony) had he felt her face on his. No wonder he was bewildered.

It had been a weird week. She had been ill. She had had ’flu like him, and had phoned him up. Mrs Chope had deserted her, and he had found her lying in bed, pale, not made up, and plainly fevered. He had got a doctor: he had cleared up the flat: he had found a temporary woman: he had taken the doctor’s instructions (he still wondered what the doctor thought) and he had given her her medicine and her orange juice and milk.

Her eyes hurt her and she liked to lie in the dark. She had given him her key, and he had hung about all day. He had had four days of it. One night he had brought Johnnie round and they had had drinks round the bed. Peter and Mickey were away on ‘holiday’. He had told his hotel he would stay on another week and today she had been much better, and talked of getting up tomorrow, and tonight she had made up her face and done her hair. She had put a red ribbon in it.

He still didn’t know how it had come about. He had got her a fresh hot-water bottle and had been walking about her bedroom, talking quite casually, when, apropos of nothing he could remember, she had said (her face sideways on the pillow, and the rest of her body snugly wrapped in the bedclothes): ‘But of course you don’t love me any more, do you George?’

The remark, presumably a joking one, was so odd, so entirely outside the character of their normal relationship, that he had turned and stared at her. He had said, ‘What do you mean, Netta?’ and there was a pause. And then, something in her silence, something in her expression (she wasn’t looking at him), something in her snug attitude in bed, something provocative yet altogether inviting about her generally, made his senses giddy, and the next moment he flung himself down by the bed beside her, and said, ‘What do you mean, Netta? You know I adore you, don’t you? You know I adore you!’ And he kissed her face.

Then she had said, ‘What?…’ dreamily, as a girl will who is suffering herself to be kissed – who intimates that the situation may remain on its present footing and even be proceeded with – and he said, ‘Oh, Netta, I do love you so!’ and kissed her again.

‘Oh, I thought all that was over,’ she said, still not looking at him. ‘What with your going away, and all that.’

At this, seemingly an invitation from Netta to stay, a soft reproach from a Netta allowing him to kiss her for the first time since he had known and adored and dreamed and schemed all day and night about her – he could hardly believe his ears and completely lost his head, and blurted out, ‘Oh, Netta, I don’t
want
to go away! I love you! Won’t you come away with
me
, Netta? Won’t you come away with
me
?’

‘How do you mean?’ she said, ‘by “go away”?…’ But she didn’t say she wouldn’t.

‘Oh, anywhere,’ he said, ‘just to get away from this place! Just to be alone with you, Netta – if only for a little. Do say you’ll come away?’

‘How can I go away, my dear Bone?’ she said, now looking him in the face, and putting her hand on his cheek. ‘I haven’t got any money…’