The Doll Part 8

'Look here, what about it? My place is only just round the corner . . .'

It was evening. They sat in a corner of a restaurant in Soho. The room was thick with smoke, and the smell of rich food. The woman at the table opposite was drunk. Her red hair slopped over her eye, and she kept screaming with laughter. The men filled her gla.s.s, digging each other in the ribs, and winking.

'Now then, sweetheart just another little gla.s.s, just a drop a tiny drop.'

Mazie sat at the table by the window. Her companion was a fat Jew with a yellow face.

His plate was heaped with spaghetti and chopped onion. He was enjoying his meal a stream of dribble ran from the corner of his mouth and settled on his beard. He looked up from his food, and smiled at Mazie, showing large gold teeth.

'Eat, little love, eat.' He opened his mouth and laughed, smacking his fat wet lips. He bent down and felt her legs under the table. He stared, breathing heavily.

There was a piano and a violin in the restaurant. The violin squeaked and quivered and the piano crashed, and hammered. The sound rose above the voices of the people, drowning their conversation, drumming into their ears. They had to shout to one another.

Mazie forced some curry down her throat. No use thinking about being tired, no use listening to her beating heart.

'Aren't you going to order somethink to drink?' she screamed, above the wail of the violin.

A low droning voice sounded behind her. She looked out of the window.

An old woman stood there, a filthy dirty old hag with bleary eyes and loose s...o...b..ry lips. A wisp of grey hair fell over her wrinkled forehead. She held out her hand, and whimpered, 'Give us a copper, dearie, just a copper. I ain't 'ad a bite all day. I'm starvin', dearie. Be kind there's a love, be kind to a poor old woman who's got no one to look after her.'

'Oh! go away, do,' said Mazie.

'I don't ask for much, dearie, only a copper to get meself a bite of food. There's no one to give me anything now.' The terrible voice whined on and on.

'I was young like you once, dearie, young and 'and-some And gentlemen gave me dinners, too, and paid me well, they did. Not so very long ago, neither, dearie. You'll know what it is one day, when you're old and ugly, you'll stand here then and beg for charity, same as me now. You wait, dearie, you wait.'

'Go away,' said Mazie. 'Go away.'

The woman crept along the street, wrapping her shawl round her, and cursing and muttering to herself. The fat Jew heaved himself up in his chair, and poured the wine into Mazie's gla.s.s.

'Drink, little love,' he pleaded. But Mazie did not hear.

She was thinking of Norah in Shaftesbury Avenue, with her pinched white face and her words 'Sooner or later.'

She thought of the busy streets packed with people, jostling her, shoving her from side to side. She remembered the wedding, and the smell of flowers the smiling girl who stepped into the waiting car.

She saw the golden patches on the river as the sun set, and a barge that floated away to the open sea and a man's voice whispering in her ear, a man's hand touching her shoulder.

She heard the old woman whining. 'You'll know what it is one day, dearie,' and then creeping away to huddle for the night in the shelter of a theatre wall, her head in her lap. Two drops of rain fell on to the pavement.

Mazie seized her gla.s.s of wine and drank.

A shudder ran through her. The music wailed, the light blazed, the Jew smiled.

'Here,' shouted Mazie, 'why don't they play somethink gay? Waiter! Tell them to play somethink lively, some-think gay . . .'

Nothing Hurts for Long.

She had the window flung open as she dressed. The morning was cold, but she liked to feel the sharp air on her face, stinging her, running like little waves over her body; and she slapped herself, the colour coming into her skin, the nerves tingling. She sang, too, as she dressed. She sang when she took her bath, her voice seeming rich and powerful as the water fell and the steam rose, and later, before the open window, she bent and swayed, touching her toes with her fingers, stretching her arms above her head.

She permitted herself the luxury of fresh linen. Conscious of extravagance, she drew the neat pleated little pile, straight from the laundry, out of the drawer beneath her dressing-table.

Her green dress was back from the cleaner's. It looked as good as new and the length was quite right, although she had worn it last winter as well. She cut the disfiguring tabs from the collar, and sprayed the dress with scent to take away the smell of the cleaner's.

She felt new all over. From her head to her shoes, and the body beneath her clothes was warm and happy. Her hair had been washed and set the day before, brushed behind her ears without a parting, like the actress she admired.

She could imagine his face as he stared at her, his funny smile that ran from one ear to the corner of his mouth, and his eyebrow c.o.c.ked, then his eyes half-closing, and holding out his arms 'Darling, you look marvellous marvellous.' When she thought about it she felt a queer pain in her heart because it was too much . . . She stood before the window a moment, smiling, breathing deeply, and then she ran down the stairs singing at the top of her voice, the sound of her song taken up by the canary in his cage in the drawing-room. She whistled to him, laughing, giving him his morning lump of sugar, and he hopped from side to side on his perch, his eyes beady, his tiny head fluffy and absurd after his bath. 'My sweet,' she said, 'my sweet,' and pulled the curtain so that the sun could get to him.

She glanced round the room, smiling, her finger on her lip. She pummelled at an imaginary crease in a cus.h.i.+on, she straightened the picture over the mantelpiece, she flicked a minute particle of dust from the top of the piano. His eyes, in the photograph on her desk, followed her round the room, and she paraded before it self-consciously, as though he were really there, patting a strand of her hair, glancing in the mirror, humming a tune. 'I must remember to fill the room with flowers, of course,' she thought, and immediately she saw the flowers she would buy, daffodils or hard mauve tulips, and where they would stand.

The telephone rang from the dining-room. It was really the same room, divided by a curtain, but she called it the dining-room. 'Hullo Yes, it's me speaking. No, my dear. I'm afraid I couldn't possibly. Yes. Yes, he comes back today. I expect him about seven. Oh! but you don't understand, there are tons of things to see to. I like to think I have the whole day. No, I'm not silly, Edna. Wait until you're married, then you'll see. Yes, rather, we'll go to a film next week I'll let you know. Good-bye.'

She put down the receiver, and shrugged her shoulders. Really how ridiculous people were. As if she could possibly go out or do anything when he was coming home at seven. Why, for the past fortnight now she had remembered to book nothing for Tuesday. Although he would not be back until the evening it did not make any difference. It was his day.

She crossed the absurd s.p.a.ce known as the hall and went into the kitchen. She tried to look important, the mistress of the house, ready to give her orders, but her smile betrayed her and the dimple at the corner of her mouth.

She sat on the kitchen table, swinging her legs, and Mrs Cuff stood before her with a slate. 'I've been thinking, Mrs Cuff,' she began, 'that he always does so enjoy saddle of mutton. What do you say?'

'Yes he is fond of his mutton, ma'am.'

'Would it be terribly extravagant? Do saddles cost a lot?'

'Well, we've been very careful, this week, haven't we?'

'Yes Mrs Cuff, that's what I thought. And for lunch I can have a boiled egg and some of that tinned fruit, it'll be heaps. But this evening, if you think you could cope with a saddle and p'raps what does one eat with it? Oh! mashed potatoes, done his favourite way and Brussels sprouts, and jelly.'

'Yes, ma'am, that would be nice.'

'And Mrs Cuff could we possibly have that kind of roly-pudding he likes with jam inside? You know one is terribly surprised to see the jam.'

'Just as you wish, ma'am.'

'I expect he'll be frightfully hungry, don't you? I'm sure it's horrid in Berlin. I think that's all, don't you? It doesn't seem only three months, does it, it seems three years since he's been gone?'

'Oh! It has been dull, ma'am. It will be a different place with him back.'

'He's always so gay, isn't he, Mrs Cuff? Never dreary and depressed like other people.'

'Please, ma'am, while I remember it we want some more Ronuk.'

'I don't think I've ever seen him in a bad temper. What did you say, Mrs Cuff? Ronuk? Is it stuff for swilling round basins?'

'No, ma'am for cleaning the floors.'

'I'll try and remember. All right then, an egg for my lunch and the saddle to-night.' She went upstairs to see that his dressing-room was tidy.

'Some day I'll find you-.

Moonlight behind you,'

she sang, and opened the cupboards in case the suits he had left behind, and might want to wear to-morrow, had not been brushed. The shabby old leather coat, not good enough for Berlin, still hung on its peg. She fingered the sleeve, and pressed her nose against the motoring cap that smelt of the stuff he put on his hair.

The photograph of herself swung crookedly from a drawing-pin on the wall, curling at the corners. She pretended not to notice it, hurt that he had never bothered to get a frame, never taken it to Berlin. 'I suppose men think in a different way to women,' she said to herself, and suddenly she closed her eyes and stood quite still without moving, because it had come to her swiftly like a wave covering her from head to foot, a wave of the sea and the sun, exquisite and strange, the realisation that in less than ten hours he really would be next to her they would be together again and they loved each other, and it was all true.

She had filled the two rooms with flowers, and had even drawn the curtains separating the dining-room aside, so that the s.p.a.ce should be magnified. The canary still sang in his cage. 'Louder, sweet, louder,' she called and it seemed that the house was filled with his singing a high, joyous clamour straight from his small bursting heart and it mingled in some indescribable fas.h.i.+on with the beam of gold dust s.h.i.+ning upon the carpet, the last lingering pattern made by the setting sun.

She poked the fire and dusted the ashes in the grate, thinking as she did so how, in the evening, she would be doing the same thing, and would remember this moment. The curtains would be drawn then, and the lamps lit, and the bird quiet in his cage, and he lounging in the arm-chair by the fire, stretching out his legs, watching her lazily. 'Stop fussing and come here,' while she turned towards him, smiling, her hand on his knee. And she would think 'This afternoon I was alone and now I'm looking back remembering it,' and the thought would be somehow delicious like a secret vice. She hugged her knees, and stared at the fire, childishly excited at the memory of the large, expensive bottle of bath salts she had bought that morning and put on his dressing-table, as well as the bowl of flowers.

When the telephone rang she sighed regretfully, unwilling to leave the fire, alter her position and be taken from the queer, lonely pleasure of her dreams to the conversation of someone who did not matter, forced and unreal.

'Hullo,' she said, and there came from the other end of the wire a little choking sound, the pitiful drawn breath of one who is crying, who cannot control her tears.

'Is that you? It's May . . . I had to ring you. I I'm so desperately unhappy,' and the voice trailed off, choked, suffocated.

'Why,' she said, 'what on earth is the matter? Tell me, quick, can I do anything? Are you ill?'

She waited a moment, and then the voice came again, m.u.f.fled and strange.

'It's Fred. It's all over we've finished. He wants me to divorce him he's stopped loving me.' Then she heard a quiver and a sharp intake of breath, and the sound of sobbing, hideous, degrading, uncontrolled.

'My poor darling!' she began, amazed and horrified; 'but how perfectly frightful. I can't believe it Fred but it's absurd.'

'Please please come round and see me,' begged the voice. 'I think I'm going out of my mind I don't know what I'm doing.'

'Yes of course. I'll come right away.'

As she put on her things she brushed from her mind the selfish regret she felt at leaving the fire and the book she was reading, and the idea of making toast for tea, all the things that were part of the loveliness of waiting for him, and she gave her thoughts to May, broken and distressed, crying helplessly, her happiness gone from her.

She went in a taxi, because, after all, May was her greatest friend, and one and six was not so much; and that reminded her she had forgotten about the Ronuk. Oh, well! never mind . . . and Mrs Cuff seemed pleased with the saddle of mutton . . . Was he crossing now? She wondered; how awful if he was sick, poor angel, how sweet . . . she must remember to think about May, though; Life was frightful, of course . . . and here she was at the door, thank goodness, only a s.h.i.+lling; still, she would go home in a bus, anyway . . .

May was lying face downwards on a sofa, her head buried in a cus.h.i.+on.

She knelt by her side, patting her shoulder, murmuring senseless little words of comfort.

'May, darling May you mustn't cry like that, it's so weakening for you; it will pull you down try not to, please, try and pull yourself together, darling.'

And May lifted her head and showed her face, swollen, disfigured and blotched, so ravaged with her tears that it was shocking, something that should not be seen.

'I can't stop,' May whispered; 'you can't understand what it is it's tearing at me like a knife, and I can't forget his face as he told me, so cold and different . . . it wasn't him at all, it was somebody else.'

'But it's simply unbelievable, May! Why should Fred suddenly take it into his head to tell you he doesn't love you? He must have been drunk it can't be true.'

'It is true.' May was tearing her handkerchief to little shreds and biting the ends.

'And it's not sudden, that's the whole thing; it's been coming on for some while. I've never told you I've never breathed a word to anyone. I kept hoping and praying it was only my imagination, but all the time I knew deep down that everything was wrong.'

'Oh! my poor May. To think I didn't know . . .'

'Don't you understand that there are some things one can't tell, that are too intimate; that I was terrified to breathe, hoping if I kept silent they wouldn't come true?'

'Yes yes I see.'

'And then to-day, when there was no longer any doubt, I suppose the agony and terror I had been holding inside could not stay silent any more; I had to give way.'

'Oh! May darling, darling May!' she said, looking round the room hopelessly, as though by getting up and moving a piece of furniture she could do some good.

'What a beast what a brute!' she said.

'Oh, he's not that!' said May, staring before her, her voice weary from crying. 'Fred's only a man like other men. They're all the same; they can't help it. I don't blame him. I'm only angry with myself for being such a fool to care.'

'How long have you known?'

'Ever since he came back from America.'

'But, May, darling, that's eight months ago. You surely have not been suffering all this time, keeping it for yourself? It's impossible!'

'Oh, my dear it hasn't been eight months to me, but an eternity! I don't know if you can realise for one minute the h.e.l.l that it's been. Never quite being certain, the awful bewildering doubt and pretending that nothing was wrong. Then the degradation of trying to please him, of not noticing his manner, of making myself a sort of slave in the hope that he might come back to me. Eight months of misery and shame . . .'

'Oh, if only I could have helped!' she began; and she was thinking, 'But these things don't happen to people they can't; it's only in plays.'

'Help isn't any use,' said May; 'you have to go through it alone. I believe every moment has made its mark upon me, hurting and branding my heart every moment from the very first until the last.'

'But, May, darling, why should America have made any difference?'

'Because going away does make a difference to men. Don't you see that when Fred wasn't with me he forgot about wanting to be with me, and once he forgot that he was ready to forget anything. And a different way of living, and seeing new things, and meeting new people.'

'But still . . .'

'Directly he came back I knew what had happened. I can't describe to you the difference there was. Nothing marked or striking. But a queer, subtle change. Little things he said, his manner, even his voice he talked louder, like someone who is trying to bluff a secret can you understand? The very first day he was home I saw and I pushed it aside but it hurt and it went on hurting until to-day and now I know at last what I've tried to hide.'

'Is he in love with somebody else?' she whispered.

'Yes . . .' and the voice broke again, the tears welling up into her eyes, 'yes . . . there is some woman, of course behind it; but it's not only that it's our life he doesn't want any more, this house me everything. He wants to break away altogether. He doesn't want ties, or a home he talks of going back to America . . .'

'But Fred to behave like that and all this time when I've seen you together, not a sign from either of you my poor May!'

And though her words were full of pity and she held May close to her, trying to comfort her, she was aware that her heart could not hold any real sympathy, and that the sight of May's tears awoke even a sense of irritation and contempt which was difficult to banish, and she said to herself, with her eye on the clock, 'I suppose I can't feel this because I know it couldn't ever happen to me.'