Five Windows

by D. E. Stevenson

“ Yes, it’s a flat in a friend’s house.” This was true—or so I felt. Compared with Mrs. Hall my new landlord was a very good friend.

  “ My, we are going up in the world! ” said Mrs. Hall sarcastically. “ A flat in Kensington, I shouldn’t wonder, with a page in buttons to open the door and a ’all full of palm trees! ”

  I could not help laughing.

  “ Where is it, David? ” asked Beryl.

  “ In an attic,” I replied.

  “ But where? Is it near here? ”

  “ David is not going to say,” declared Madame Futrelle with a malicious little twinkle in her eyes. “ Me, I do not blame ’im that he wants to shake the dust off ’is feet. No, I do not blame ’im.”

  “ Of course ’e’ll leave ’is address,” said Mrs. Hall, looking at me.

  I took no notice, but just went on eating my bread and jam. I had intended to leave my address but now I realised that there was no need. All my letters came to the office. As Madame Futrelle had suggested I could shake the dust off my feet. There are certain advantages to be gained from living in London; one of them is the ease with which one can disappear. Although only a few miles of streets would separate me from Mrs. Hall and her guests I could “ disappear ” as easily as if I had been going to Australia.

  All this time Ned had said nothing. He was preoccupied with his own thoughts. He looked a bit chastened and I wondered what had happened when “ the boss ” saw his car with its crumpled wing. I wondered whether Ned had got the sack or merely a dressing-down, but there was no need to wonder. I knew Ned would tell me the whole story in detail as soon as he could get me alone.

  After supper Ned followed me to my room and began his tale.

  “ I’ve had an awful day,” he declared. “ I don’t know when I’ve had such a ghastly day. I’ve had nothing to eat except aspirin tablets; couldn’t face any food. I went down to the show-room early to look at that wretched car and see what I could do about it.…”

  The story went on. Ned was so taken up with his affairs that he never mentioned mine; perhaps the fact that I was leaving had not penetrated his mind or perhaps he thought it was an empty threat on my part. Mr. Owen and Mr. Kensey often threatened to leave the place and it never came to anything. At any rate, whatever the reason, Ned seemed oblivious of my future plans. He talked and talked, describing how he had bribed the foreman to camouflage the damaged wing and how the boss had arrived in the middle of it with a brow like thunder, and what the boss had said, and what he had said to the boss, and how at first it had looked as if he were going to be thrown out, but eventually the boss had come round and said that if he paid for the damage he could stay on in the meantime.

  “ So that’s that,” declared Ned. “ I shall have to mind my step for a bit until he’s forgotten about it, of course.”

  “ You’d better,” I told him.

  “ Oh, I shall. It wouldn’t suit me to get the boot. Fortunately I managed to sell a car this afternoon—at least I think I’ve sold it—but of course you can never be certain till the deal is absolutely through. You’ve no idea how people behave, backing out at the last minute.”

  I had a very good idea of the way Ned’s customers behaved. He had described their vagaries over and over again until I was sick of the subject. I let him talk on and did not listen and presently I told him I was going to bed and managed to get rid of him.

  There was a lot to think about. I got into bed and tried to read but I was too full of what had happened and was going to happen in the next few days. Soon—as soon as I could manage it—I would say good-bye to this dismal room and this lumpy bed and start fresh in new surroundings. I would say good-bye to Mrs. Hall and Mr. Kensey and all the rest of them. I would have peace to live my own life. I would be able to write. I had intended to write when I came to London but I had been so badgered and so miserable that I had not been able to write a word; I had even not wanted to write a word. Now the mere idea of having quietude to think my own thoughts without interference stirred my imagination. Yes, I would write. One thing I must have in my new abode was a large steady table. I would put it near the window. I knew exactly where it would stand.

  Just as I was getting sleepy and was about to turn out the light I heard a slight noise at the door. The handle turned slowly and the door opened. It was Beryl.

  “ Beryl! ” I whispered. “ Beryl, you can’t come in.”

  She came in and shut the door softly. She was wearing a pale pink dressing-gown and her fair hair was fluffed out round her face. “ I had to see you,” she said. “ I couldn’t go to sleep—I was so miserable. David, why are you going away? ”

  “ We can’t talk now,” I told her. “ Miss Bulwer will hear. I’ll talk to you in the morning.”

  “ But we can’t! ” she whispered. “ We can’t talk with all those frightful people listening to every word. David, listen——”

  “ No,” I said. “ I don’t want to listen.”

  She came nearer. Her dressing-gown was trimmed with lace, it was greasy round her neck (dirty and greasy and stuck together, so that the lace looked like string) and as she approached there was a smell of strong sweet scent. It made me feel quite sick.

  “ Go back to bed,” I said as sternly as I could. It is difficult to speak sternly in a whisper.

  “ I’m so lonely,” she murmured. “ I’m so miserable. I don’t want you to go away. I can’t bear it——”

  I leapt out of bed and took her firmly by the shoulders and pushed her out of the door. I shut it and turned the key. For a moment or two I waited, listening, but I could hear nothing. Then I went back to bed.

  At first I was furiously angry with the silly little fool but after a bit my anger faded away and I saw the funny side of it. I was not at all sure what Beryl’s intentions had been, but I had shown her mine.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  The next day when I had finished work at the office I went straight to the book-shop. Mr. Coe was waiting for me and we set off together.

  “ I’ve been thinking,” said Mr. Coe. “ You’d better leave the bargaining to me. I know the tricks of the trade, and I know Mackenzie.”

  “ It’s very good of you.”

  “ I like it,” he replied frankly. “ Now look here, Kirke, have you ever played a game called ‘ Sergeant Murphy ’? It’s a silly sort of game. We used to play it when we were kids.”

  “ We used to play it too,” I said in some surprise. “ It’s squad drill, but you don’t obey orders unless they’re prefaced by the words, ‘ Sergeant Murphy says …”

  Mr. Coe chuckled. “ That’s it. You and I are going to play that game with Mackenzie, see? For instance if Mackenzie says ‘ Two pounds ’ and I say to you, ‘ What about it? ’ or ‘ Could you run to that? ’ Then you say, ‘ No, it’s too much.’ But if Mackenzie says ‘ Two pounds ’ and I say, ‘ Well, Mr. Kirke, what about it? ’ Then you say, ‘ Yes.’ You don’t say it eagerly of course, you say it a bit reluctantly, but if I say ‘ Mr Kirke ’ you know it’s O.K.”

  “ Kirke is the password.”

  “ That’s right—and your password to me is Coe.”

  I had expected, not unnaturally, to meet a fellow-Scot but there was nothing Scots about Mr. Mackenzie except his name. If his name had been Mr. Abraham I should have felt more at ease with him. It would have suited his nose and his olive skin and his dark sad eyes. Mr. Mackenzie was no Shylock; he was well-dressed; he spoke good English and had a dignified and benevolent air.

  The conversation opened politely with introductions and remarks about the weather and the deplorable conditions of the trade. Mr. Mackenzie told an amusing story and told it well and we all laughed heartily. It was not until we had been chatting for about ten minutes that Mr. Coe mentioned business.

  “ My friend Mr. Kirke wants a few odds and ends of furniture,” he said.

  “ Certainly, we’ll have a look round,” said Mr. Mackenzie, nodding, and he led us to his store.

  The battle began. It wa
s a most amusing performance and was conducted with the greatest dignity upon high diplomatic levels. For a time I listened in silence and in some bewilderment, but before long I began to understand the rules of the game. We looked at rugs first. Mr. Coe extolled the beauties of those we did not want and depreciated the merits of the one we wanted. The password was extremely useful to us both. If I did not like a rug I said, “ Yes, it seems a nice rug. I believe that would suit me.” If I liked it, I said, “ That’s not a bad rug, Mr. Coe.”

  “ Three pounds,” said Mr. Mackenzie.

  “ Three pounds! ” echoed Mr. Coe in horrified accents.

  “ Two-seventeen-six to you,” said Mr. Mackenzie. “ I wouldn’t sell that rug to anyone else for less than three-ten.”

  Mr. Coe turned to me. “ What about it? ” he inquired.

  “ Too much,” I replied firmly.

  “ I want you to have this rug,” declared Mr. Mackenzie. “ It’s a good rug. It came out of a good house. I’m losing money on it—but I’ll let you have it for two-ten.”

  “ Look at that burn! ” said Mr. Coe. “ Somebody must have dropped a cigarette on it … no, I wouldn’t advise my friend to pay a penny more than two-five.”

  “ Two-seven-six,” suggested Mr. Mackenzie. “ That’s giving the rug away.”

  “ Well, I don’t know,” said Mr. Coe reluctantly. “ What do you say, Mr. Kirke? It’s for you to say.”

  “ I might run to that, Mr. Coe,” I replied in reluctant tones.

  In addition to the rug I bought a solid table, a divan with a broken leg, an easy-chair and two upright chairs with wooden arms and leather seats. I bought two pairs of blue rep curtains which matched the rug, a cupboard with shelves for books and a shaving-mirror. Mr. Mackenzie endeavoured to persuade me to buy a bed, but I refused for I had decided to have a new one. The bed in Mrs. Hall’s boarding-house with its queer musty smell had given me a horror of second-hand beds and bedding. My refusal pained Mr. Mackenzie and to soothe his injured feelings I consented to buy a large old-fashioned chest of drawers and a standard lamp with a parchment shade.

  It was nearly nine o’clock when we came out of the furniture-store and I was weak with hunger so I invited Mr. Coe to dine with me, and he took me to a small restaurant not far from his book-shop and we had a comfortable meal.

  In some ways the place reminded me of The Three Lamplighters, where I had gone with Beryl, but it was smaller and a good deal cheaper. It was called The Wooden Spoon and Mr. Coe knew the proprietor who was an Austrian and cooked the food himself.

  “ You’ll find this place useful,” said Mr. Coe. “ If you get tired of cooking your own food you can nip round here and have a decent meal. I only hope it isn’t discovered.”

  “ Discovered? ”

  “ That’s what happens. These little places where you can get a good meal are all right until they’re ‘ discovered ’ by nobs. Once they’re discovered the nobs come in droves and up go the prices.”

  Mr. Coe was in great form. He discussed our purchases and declared that on the whole we had done well.

  “ You tumbled to it,” he said, laughing. “ I could hardly keep my face straight over that wooden table. I couldn’t believe you really wanted that table—a great clumsy thing! I couldn’t believe my ears when you said, ‘ That’s not a bad table, Mr. Coe.’ Why didn’t you take the other table? It was a good bit of furniture.”

  “ I wanted a solid table,” I said.

  “ You’ve got that,” he declared. “ It’s solid. It would take an elephant to knock that table over. It’s all scratched too ”

  “ It needs to be sand-papered, that’s all.”

  “ We paid too much for the mirror but the chest of drawers was a bargain; so was the divan. If you’re handy with tools I’ll lend you some and you can mend that leg yourself.”

  Next day I got off early from the office and went to a good shop in the Strand. I bought a plain iron bed and a mattress, a pillow, blankets and sheets. I also bought a kettle and a couple of saucepans. Woolworth’s provided me with knives, forks and spoons and the necessary china. These things cost nearly as much as all the other stuff put together but I had to have them. I nearly forgot towels and dish cloths and cleaning materials—it is amazing all the odds and ends one needs to set up house.

  I spent Friday evening cleaning the flat and on Saturday afternoon the furniture arrived from Mr. Mackenzie’s store. Two men brought the stuff and they were not pleased when they discovered they had to carry it up to the attic. The bed and the other things came too, and a very neat little electric radiator which I had not ordered. Mr. Coe said it was a present from him and told me to air the mattress and blankets.

  “ I don’t want you to get rheumatism,” said Mr. Coe when I thanked him. “ If you get rheumatism in your knees that flat will be empty again. I’m sick of having that flat empty.”

  It was late when I got everything settled; the rug on the floor, the curtains hung, the furniture just as I wanted it. When I had drawn the curtains and lighted the standard lamp I was delighted with the results of my efforts. The room looked snug and cosy, there was a friendly feeling about it. I had made a home.

  If I had planned things better I could have moved straight in but I had no food and the shops were all shut so I had to go back to the boarding-house for the week-end. On Monday evening I packed my suitcase and told Mrs. Hall I was going.

  “ Not now—this minute! ” exclaimed Mrs. Hall, looking at my suitcase.

  “ Yes, now,” I replied. “ I’ll pay you up to Wednesday of course.”

  “ And two pounds over and above,” said Mrs. Hall firmly. “ People what leaves their rooms sudden pays two pounds over and above. That’s only fair. It takes time to find a nice respectable guest and I’ll be out of pocket.”

  “ But I gave you a week’s notice.”

  “ Two pounds over and above,” she repeated. “ That’s what’s done under the circumstances. It’s the right thing, Mr. Kirke.”

  I was pretty sure it was not the right thing but I was anxious to escape before the other boarders came down to supper. I took out the two pounds and gave it to her without a word.

  “ What’s the address? ” she asked, pursuing me on to the doorstep.

  “ It doesn’t matter,” I told her and I ran down the steps for the last time.

  Mr. Coe was shutting up the shop when I arrived. I helped him to put up the shutters and he asked me to come and have supper with him. It was all ready in his little parlour; rabbit stew and onions, a pot of tea and a tin of condensed milk. It was an odd sort of supper but the stew was well cooked and I enjoyed it. I enjoyed Mr. Coe’s company as well. He was cheerful and amusing and full of odd bits of knowledge which he had picked up in a varied and interesting life. When he was young he had joined the Merchant Navy and had been all over the world; then he had fallen heir to his uncle’s book-shop and had settled down to read and improve his mind.

  “ That’s the right way to do it,” Mr. Coe explained. “ See the world when you’re young and nippy, and then sit down and read. I’ve never been married—never wanted to marry—but that doesn’t mean I’ve never had a sweetheart, you know.”

  “ A girl in every port? ”

  “ Well, that’s a bit exaggerated,” declared Mr. Coe, chuckling. “ A girl here and there but nothing serious. I’ll tell you about some of my adventures one of these days. I could make a good story if I could write.”

  “ Have you tried? ” I asked.

  “ H’m,” he said. “ I’ve had a try but it isn’t my line. Comes out dull as ditch-water. But we were talking about marriage, weren’t we? Marriage is a mug’s game. Don’t you get married. Kirke.”

  “ No, I don’t intend to.”

  He smiled at me and continued, “ You’ll have your work cut out to escape. They’re after you all the time. You’ve got to run pretty fast to escape the females.”

  “ Or live in an attic,” I suggested.

  “ H’m,”
he said. “ You think you’re safe in an attic, do you? ”

  We talked about books after that. He adored Dickens. “ Dickens was a Londoner,” said Mr. Coe. “ He walked the London streets and he knew the people. He knew them inside out. You may say his characters are overdrawn—the bad ones too bad and the good ones too good—but that’s a healthy way to see people, Kirke. In modern novels the good and the bad are mixed up so you never know where you are. More often than not the hero behaves like a cad and you’re expected to like him just the same. Give me Dickens,” said Mr. Coe earnestly. “ I know where I am with Dickens. The hero is good and the villain is bad—that’s what I like.”

  I had read most of Dickens but not Our Mutual Friend which was Mr. Coe’s favourite. When Mr. Coe discovered this lamentable fact he rose at once and we went into the little shop and found a copy of it, an ancient dog-eared volume with Cruickshank illustrations.

  “ Read it,” said Mr. Coe, handing it to me. “ It’s well worth reading. I envy you, Kirke. I wish I was going to read it for the first time … and take anything else you like so long as you put it back in the same place. Not new books, of course, but any of the old ones.”

  I thanked him warmly and said good night.

  The Fourth Window

  “ My window looked out on to roofs of all shapes and sizes sloping in all directions: upon jutting gables and hundreds of chimney-pots. The whole aspect was topsy-turvy, it was a choppy sea of roofs. The gables cut sharply across the night sky: in the bright moonlight their slates shone like silver and their shadows were black as pitch. It was a curious outlook, quite different from any of my other windows, and strictly speaking it was ugly … but it was ugly in an interesting way. There was history here: not the sort of history which finds its way into books but the history of ordinary people.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  The stairs were steep and my suitcase was heavy so I was somewhat breathless when I arrived at the top landing. I opened the door of my flat and went in, bolting it behind me. Here I was at last in my own place; it belonged to me, everything in the room was mine. I could do as I liked; I could live my own life.