Five Windows

by D. E. Stevenson

  The room was full of moonlight; I could see the moon, far and peaceful, floating like a huge silvery balloon in the dark sky. I did not put on the light but went across to the window and opened it. Then I kneeled down with my elbows on the sill and looked out.

  I had been too busy putting things in order to take much notice of the view from the window of my new abode; I had glanced at it hastily and had gained a vague impression of roofs and chimneys but now that I had leisure to look at it properly I saw what a very curious view it was. 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. Thousands of people had lived in these houses and had reshaped them to suit their needs. This one had thrown out a gable; that one had built on a room; somebody else had wanted more light and enlarged his window or wanted more space and heightened his roof. There was something very human and cosy and friendly about the view from the window of my room.

  Thousands of people had lived here and died—or gone away—but there were hundreds of people living here still, behind those curtained windows—mysterious people, living their own lives, sleeping quietly in their own beds—and although they lived within a stone’s throw of my flat I should never know them.

  By leaning out of my window and looking down to the left I could see a section of the street and a lamp-post which made a pool of amber light upon the cobblestones. A man and a girl were dallying there, and the night was so still that I could hear the murmur of their voices and their laughter. I leaned out a little further and looked to the right; some distance away there was a taller house with a high straight side in which were eight windows. Most of these were dark, some showed chinks of light at the corners, but one was brightly lighted and uncurtained so that the whole room was visible and I could see a man in grey trousers and a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up above his elbows. The man was alone in the room but he was behaving in a very curious way. He was walking to and fro, talking and gesticulating wildly. Every now and then he paused and threw up his hands in a gesture of despair or shook his fist threateningly in the face of a non-existent antagonist. For several minutes I watched him in bewilderment (what on earth was he doing?) and at last I came to the conclusion that he was an actor rehearsing a theatrical role.

  Presently my new neighbour grew tired. He came to the window and stood there quite peacefully, looking up at the sky. Then he stretched his arms and drew the curtains; I could hear the rattle of the old-fashioned rings upon the rod. The play was over.

  It was bed-time now so I pulled my own curtains and began to undress, emptying my pockets as usual and laying their contents upon the table. It was only then that I realised the condition of my finances: I had four and elevenpence, no more and no less, to last me until Friday.

  What a fool! I thought, looking at the coins in dismay.

  As a matter of fact it was not quite so foolish as it sounds. I had budgeted very carefully and left myself enough to carry on quite comfortably, but Mrs. Hall had forced me to pay her two pounds “ over and above.” It was a ramp, of course (she had no right to the extra money and I had known it at the time), but it had been easier to pay than to argue, so I had paid.

  Four and elevenpence to last me until Friday! It would be all right after that, for on Friday I should get my week’s salary from Mr. Heatley, but how was I going to exist until then?

  I thought it over seriously. Should I borrow from Mr. Coe? I was sure he would lend it to me if I asked him … but Ned’s little games had put me off borrowing and I did not want to begin my acquaintanceship with Mr. Coe by asking him to lend me money. The mere idea was distasteful. Besides it was my own fault entirely. Only a mug would have paid Mrs. Hall that money and paid it without a murmur. It was my own fault and I must make the best of it.

  There was no food in the flat—literally nothing—when I went into the little kitchen to get a drink of water the clean dishes on the shelves and the gleaming aluminium pans seemed to be laughing at me.

  “ All right, you can laugh,” I said aloud. “ I’ll manage somehow. I shan’t starve.”

  It did not take long to complete my preparations for the night. I got into my new bed, stretched out my legs and relaxed utterly. How comfortable it was. How firm and straight and clean! Nobody had ever slept in it before, nobody had ever laid their head upon my nice new pillow …

  When I awoke it was eight o’clock and the sun was shining brightly. I woke slowly and luxuriously; I came up to the surface from the depths of sleep like a diver emerging from a deep dark pool of placid water. The bedroom was bare. There was nothing in it except the bed and the chest of drawers (I had put all the other stuff in the sitting-room). The window was wide open and the noise of the market came to my ears, the noise of cars and carts and shouting, but it seemed to me a friendly noise and it did not worry me. After a bit I got up and drank a glass of water and set off to the office.

  There was a coffee bar at the corner and I was so hungry that I stopped and had a cup of coffee and a roll. I knew it was foolish but I had it all the same.

  The day seemed long. I had no lunch and when I came out of the office I was ravenous. But I had made up my mind what I was going to do. On the way home I bought four large loaves of brown bread and I went into a fish shop and asked for a cod’s head.

  The fishmonger looked at me in surprise.

  “ It’s for the cat,” I mumbled. “ Any odds and ends will do.”

  He gave me a bag of unsavoury looking scraps and when I had paid him for it I had fivepence left. Then I went home and boiled the scraps and ate what I could with the brown bread and washed it down with water. I spent the evening reading Our Mutual Friend and went to bed.

  Hunger woke me early, but not too early for the market which already was in full swing. I had wanted to see the market and here was my chance. I went downstairs and let myself out of the shop and in a moment I was in the middle of it. The narrow streets were full of huge lorries; the open bazaars were full of men and packing-cases and crates. The noise was deafening, everybody seemed in a hurry, shouldering along, calling, shouting, bargaining. There were stalls piled high with vegetables, flowers and fruit. The whole place was in such confusion that it was impossible to stand still and look on—which was what I wanted to do. Everybody else was moving; men with trollies came rattling past calling out “ Mind your back! ” “ Look out there! ” Men with crates balanced on their heads or with hampers upon their shoulders pushed through the crowd. There were a few policemen about; they were endeavouring to keep the traffic moving but without much success. I spoke to one of them and asked if it were always like this.

  “ It’s worse at week-ends,” he replied. “ But they’re not so bad—not really. It looks ’opeless but it sorts itself out. If you want to stand still and ’ave a look you could park yourself be’ind that pillar … ”

  He raised his voice and shouted, “ Look out, there! This is a one-way street and you know it as well as I do. You’ll ’ave to back.”

  There was a girl sheltering behind the pillar, she was dressed in slacks and a loose coat and I put her down as an artist.

  “ It’s fun, isn’t it? ” she said. “ It gives me something. It’s so old and so new … and it’s mostly good-natured.”

  “ It’s very English,” I suggested.

  She smiled and nodded. “ Have you been here before? ” she asked.

  I told her that it was new to me and explained that I had just moved in to a flat near-by—an attic flat in a very old house.

  “ What fun! ” she excl
aimed. “ Of course this part of London used to be very fashionable at one time. All sorts of interesting people lived here.”

  We chatted for a few minutes. She knew the history of the district and told me (what I had always wanted to know) that the name Covent Garden, was a corruption of Convent Garden. Long ago it was the garden of the Abbey of Westminster and people came here to buy fruit and vegetables from the monks. Gradually it became a market and at the beginning of the nineteenth century the Duke of Bedford built the big hall of Arcades which is now known as Charter Market.

  “ I like the architecture, don’t you? ” said the girl. “ Many of the buildings were designed by Inigo Jones—and of course he designed the Church of St. Paul’s at the same time. The buildings are Italian in style; you can’t see them properly in all this hurly burly.”

  “ It seems a mixture of architecture.”

  “ Oh yes,” she agreed. “ That’s what happened last century. They built all sorts of rubbish and hid the beautiful bits … all these crowded narrow streets! ” she laughed and added: “ I met an American here the other day and he said the whole place ought to be pulled down and a market built upon the site on modern lines. I was a bit horrified at first, but of course he was right from his point of view; Covent Garden is the most inconvenient market in the world. We happen to like it—that’s all. We don’t mind the inconveniences and cramped quarters; we shouldn’t be nearly so happy in a well-designed, modern market run on properly disciplined lines. My American couldn’t understand this, of course. Why should he? ”

  “ No,” I said slowly. “ It’s rather interesting when you think of it.”

  “ The inconvenience of Covent Garden is beyond words,” continued the girl. “ It isn’t only the market itself, it’s the approaches. Every street for miles around is blocked every morning by hundreds of lorries converging upon the place from all directions: the Strand, Kingsway, Bedford Street all blocked! You couldn’t do anything about that unless you pulled down half London.”

  “ You explained that to your American of course.”

  “ Oh yes! He was all for pulling down half London,” laughed the girl.

  “ Tell me more,” I said. “ Tell me how it’s run.”

  “ There isn’t much plan,” she replied. “ The whole affair is a bit haphazard in true English style. The lorries time themselves to be on their pitch between four and five o’clock and are off again about nine. By that time most of the business of the day is over. Most of the big growers have their own pitches so that anyone who wants to do business with them knows where to find them. They have their own porters too.”

  “ They ought to be well paid,” I said, looking at one of them who was staggering past with a tower of baskets balanced on his head.

  “ They are,” replied my new friend. “ Some of them make £11 a week. They make enough during the season to keep them for the rest of the year.”

  “ Why the hurry? ” I asked. “ It’s the hurry that makes the confusion.”

  “ The stuff is perishable, that’s why. If the growers lose the market they’re left with it on their hands. It’s useless. It’s a dead loss. And that’s why the prices fluctuate. If there’s a shortage the prices go up by leaps and bounds and if there’s a glut you can buy perfectly sound stuff for half nothing. That’s why I’m waiting, you see.”

  “ That’s why you’re waiting? ”

  “ I buy for a small hotel,” explained the girl. “ I come here three times a week and buy all the fruit and vegetables we need—flowers too, of course. At first I used to dash in early but now I’ve got wise and I wait for the right moment. It’s a bit tricky because if you wait too long you may find that there’s a shortage of the stuff you happen to want and the price has risen. You’ve got to judge; you’ve got to get the feel of the market. There’s lots of stuff to-day and if I wait for a bit I shall get things cheap. That’s the idea.”

  It seemed a funny job for a girl and I said so.

  “ I love it,” she said, smiling. “ It’s fun. I know a lot of the big growers and most of them are awfully nice. They look out for me and help me no end. Of course some of them are nasty but that doesn’t worry me. I used to teach in a School of Domestic Economy but I like this job heaps better. I’ll have to go now,” she added. “ The time has come to talk of cabbages … perhaps I’ll see you again sometime.”

  She faded into the crowd and disappeared.

  By this time most of the lorries had finished unloading; the traffic was beginning to move and, very slowly, to disperse. But just opposite where I was standing things seemed to have got behind-hand. A huge lorry, piled high with crates of cauliflowers had pulled up at the entrance to an arcade and was beginning to unload. It was obvious from the confusion that the lorry had been delayed en route.

  I crossed the street to see what was happening and was amused by the antics of a small stout man with a very red face who was superintending the operations. He was bellowing directions to the porters, cursing and swearing and waving his arms.

  “ This is the second time in a week you’ve bin late! ” cried the red-faced man with a string of lurid oaths. “ Engine trouble, my foot! It’s lazy—that’s wot you are! I’m short-’anded any’ow—and you turn up at this hour. Get a move on, can’t you! Wot the blazes d’you think you’re doing! I could ’ave sold them caulies twice over ’alf an hour ago.”

  In their haste to get unloaded one of the men threw a crate on to the pavement where it burst like a bomb. Cauliflowers flew in all directions—the place was strewn with cauliflowers. Some of the passers-by laughed at the accident and this annoyed the red-faced man still more. He was so furious that words failed him and he began to kick the cauliflowers into the street.

  “ Look here! ” I cried, seizing his arm. “ Don’t you want them? If you don’t want those cauliflowers give them to me! ”

  He gazed at me in amazement. I suppose I looked too respectably dressed to be begging for cauliflowers which were rolling in the gutter.

  “ Give them to me,” I repeated, shouting to make myself heard above the din. “ Look here—I tell you what—I’ll help you to unload if you give me some of those cauliflowers.”

  “ What the blazes——” he began.

  “ You’re in a hurry,” I said. “ Well, I’ll help you. You said you were short-handed. Is it a bargain? ”

  “ All right, get on with it,” he replied.

  I took off my jacket and started without more ado. As a matter of fact I had been watching the porters and it had looked easy; they swung the crates as if they were full of feathers, but I discovered that the crates were very heavy indeed, it took me all my time to lift them. I was soft, of course, for I had had very little exercise all the winter and I was unskilled into the bargain. The porters were amused at my attempts to help them but they were quite decent about it; probably they thought I was doing it for a joke.

  When the job was finished I went up to the red-faced man and reminded him of his promise. He had calmed down a bit by this time.

  “ I’ve bin watchin’ you,” he said, smiling. “ Never done this before, ’ave you? ’Ot work, ain’t it? ”

  “ Yes,” I agreed wiping my face. “ I’m not very good at it, I’m afraid! ”

  “ You’ll learn all right. D’you want a job, young feller? ”

  “ No, I’ve got a job. I’m off to it now,” I told him. “ I just want some of those cauliflowers.”

  “ Take the whole blooming lot,” said the red-faced man. “ You can ’ave a few tomatoes too. There’s a crate of bruised tomatoes somewhere. If you like to turn up same time tomorrow morning I’ll give you some more. You ain’t much use, but you’re better than nothing.”

  “ All right,” I said.

  The cauliflowers had been thrown into a corner; most of them were too badly crushed to be eaten, but I chose three which were moderately sound and I filled my pockets with tomatoes.

  “ ’Ere, catch! ” shouted the red-faced man and he th
rew me a couple of oranges.

  There was no time to cook the cauliflowers, but they would do for supper. My breakfast consisted of a chunk of dry bread and tomatoes. I cut another chunk of bread to eat at lunchtime and put it in my pocket.

  As I walked to the office I felt well and happy. There was no hardship about it. The rough brown bread had a pleasant nutty flavour; it was filling and I had plenty to last me till Friday, so there was nothing to worry about. I thought of breakfast at Mrs. Hall’s; her “ guests ” would be eating greasy sausages or scrambled eggs swimming about in yellow water. I did not envy them. The only thing that annoyed me was the fact that I had put up with the discomforts of Mrs. Hall’s boarding-house for so long and had paid so much good money for so much bad food. It was incredibly foolish of me. As a matter of fact if I had not happened to see that notice in the window of Mr. Coe’s bookshop I should be there still!

  The other clerks went off at half-past twelve as usual and, when I had finished typing a letter for Mr. Penman, I got a glass of water from the tap in the washing-room and sat down to my meal. I ate the bread slowly and drank the water. This was all right; indeed it was great deal more pleasant than the restaurant where I usually had lunch. The restaurant was hot and crowded and the waitresses were so busy that it was difficult to get served. Here I had peace. There was no reason why I should not continue to have my lunch here. I could make some sandwiches and bring fruit.

  “ Hallo, Kirke! ” exclaimed Mr. Heatley. Mr. Heatley had his lunch at one; he was on his way out but he stopped and stared at me. “ What’s up? ” he asked.

  “ Nothing, sir. I’m having my lunch——”

  “ Bread and water! What’s the matter with you? Are you doing penance or something? ”

  “ No, I like it. I mean——”

  “ Well, what is it? I suppose you’ve been gambling, you young idiot. Lost your shirt on a horse? ”