‘Not bad – better than mine,’ was Toby’s comment when we found that only one element was broken. He lit a cigarette and drew on it with relish.
I swallowed a mouthful of wine and then pointed to the partition. ‘Who lives in there?’ I asked casually.
‘That’s John,’ he said, as if that told me everything.
‘Yes, I know, but he’s – what’s he like?’
‘Good bloke.’ He dragged at his cigarette again and added with a grin, ‘A very good bloke.’
‘He was knocking on my wall before you came up.’
‘Well, it’s his wall too,’ he said reasonably.
‘Yes, but what was he knocking for?’
‘I don’t know. Why not ask him?’
‘He was peering in through the window.’ I was keeping my voice very low, but Toby kept his at a normal level.
‘Probably wanted to see what you looked like.’
‘It gave me a hell of a fright.’
‘Why? Oh, I see what you mean!’ He threw back his head and laughed heartily. ‘Hearing knocks, then looking up and seeing those white eyes rolling at you …’
‘It wasn’t the white eyes so much as the black face round them.’
‘You mustn’t mind old John. He’s just naturally inquisitive. Like a chimp, you know, he can’t help it. He could no more resist having a look at you than a monkey could resist picking up anything new and giving it the once-over.’
‘Yes, and then when he’s picked it up he’ll probably try to eat it.’
Toby laughed again. He had a very infectious laugh. My own mouth started twitching a bit. It was an unfamiliar feeling, after a whole week, the feeling of a laugh starting.
‘You’ve got him all wrong. He wouldn’t hurt a fly, old John. He’s got those great brutal-looking hands that you’d think could snap your backbone like a twig, and then when he shakes hands with you and you feel them, damn me, they’re like a baby’s bottom. And you see him handling anything delicate – well, like an egg, for instance. He’s a first-class cook, old John, you must get him to make you an omelette one day, and just watch him break those eggs. He takes them between his finger and thumb – massive bloody great thumb just about as big as the egg – and the other fingers spread themselves out like a duchess holding a Dresden teacup and he just taps the egg against the edge of the bowl, so lightly you can hardly hear it; then he lifts the two halves apart – I tell you, it may not sound like much, but it’s bloody marvellous.’ He shook his head wonderingly, grinning to himself. ‘He does needlework too,’ he added as an afterthought.
‘I don’t believe you!’
‘So help me!’ He swivelled round on the floor excitedly, as if to try and convince me, and then suddenly changed his mind and raised his voice. ‘Hey, John!’ he shouted.
Instinctively I made a gesture to silence him, but from next door came a prompt, baying shout of reply.
‘Isn’t that right, you do needlework?’ Toby yelled.
‘That’s right boy!’
‘You see?’ said Toby to me in his ordinary voice, and craned backwards to get the wine bottle. ‘My God, this is filthy stuff! What do you drink this for?’ He poured another glass each for us. It didn’t seem so bad to me; I thought it was going down rather nicely.
I said, ‘Look, you don’t have to drink it.’
‘Oh, it won’t kill me,’ he said tolerantly, topping up. ‘It’s a bit sticky, that’s all. I like a dry wine, myself. Preferably with a thick steak. A bloke once told me, an old Frenchman actually, that what you should do is get a hunk of underdone steak in your mouth, then pour in some wine and sort of suck it through the meat. It gets mixed up with the blood, he said; it’s supposed to improve it somehow. All that happens when I try it is that I make disgusting noises and suck half the steak down my windpipe.’
‘Maybe it was a Gallic joke.’
‘Could be; I’ve never been sure. Another tip he gave me that never works is to fill the bottom of your mouth with a kind of lake of wine and bring your tongue smacking down on it like a beaver’s tail, so that wine squirts between your teeth. You can imagine what happens when I try that.’ He drank ruminatively. ‘The nose-trick. Are you some kind of an artist?’
‘No,’ I said.
‘I can see you’re revelling in your mystery-woman act. Never mind; I’ll prise it out of you eventually.’ He sighed heavily. ‘I suppose I ought to get back to work. As a matter of fact I’d just begun to get steam up when I heard your knock. Now it’ll take me hours to get into it again.’ He looked at me aggrievedly as if it were all my fault.
I was on the point of asking him about his writing, but then I remembered my determination not to get interested. He was squatting on his heels, bouncing gently and staring at me. ‘You’re quite pretty, aren’t you,’ he said at length. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Jane,’ I said.
‘That’s funny. One of the tarts is called Jane.’
Two tarts in one house called Jane, I thought.
‘The other one’s called Sonia. She’s Czech or something. Did Doris tell you about them?’
‘She mentioned them.’
‘Must say that for old Doris. She’s nice and frank about things like that. I mean, if I were a landlady, I’d boast about having artists and musicians in my house and keep quiet about the tarts. Wouldn’t you? But actually, you know, in some crazy way I think Doris is rather proud of having them here. Shows what a great big all-embracing tolerance she’s got. Not that we ever see them, or practically never. They’ve got a separate entrance.’
‘How do you know their names then?’
‘Men ring up for them on the party phone, and we have to buzz them. And then of course one listens to their conversations. At least I do, and I expect everyone else does.’
‘How do you justify that?’
‘Hell, I don’t try to justify it! I just couldn’t possibly stop myself. I can barely stop myself reading other people’s letters. It’s an occupational disease. Of writers. Curiosity, I mean. Will you be having any intriguing phone calls?’
‘I’ll take good care not to.’
‘Look out, you’re smiling,’ he said suddenly.
He continued to bounce and stare for a moment, then with an extra vigorous bounce stood upright.
‘Thanks for the excuse,’ he said. ‘I’m being terribly strong-minded, leaving now and not waiting to be thrown out.’ He crushed out his cigarette in the Cinzano ashtray and drained the last of his wine. ‘You must come and visit my room sometime. Don’t worry, no etchings. No nothing very much. Still, what’s mine is yours, and don’t get too grateful till you see what it amounts to. Well, good night. Don’t drink too much more of that, it’s pretty vomit-making, especially on an empty stomach. Whee –’ He lurched down the room in a parody of drunkenness, swinging on the angle as if it were a lamp-post, and left me alone.
I picked up the bottle. His advice was kindly meant, I expect, but unnecessary, as it was empty. I was a little startled to realize we’d put away a whole bottle in what seemed like a few minutes. I thought Toby must have had the lion’s share, because apart from a rather tight feeling across my forehead I felt perfectly normal.
I sat on in the arm-chair, thinking about John breaking eggs with gestures like a conductor, and giggled a little. I wished I had something to eat, but it didn’t seem very important. Then, idly, I began thinking that there must be something I could do to make the room look a bit better.
The first thing to get would be another lamp; a table lamp would do, with a long flex and a 100-watt bulb. I began to examine the skirting-board for a plug, and when I found one beside the crockery cupboard my spirits gave a little lift. I’d get two 100-watt bulbs while I was at it, and put one in overhead. Even if the dirt and flaws did show up more under a brighter light, it would be less depressing than this, and anyway, some of the dirt I could remove. I gave a tentative tug to a raw edge of the offensive wallpaper and felt how easy it would be to rip it
all off. Underneath was firm white plaster which would gratefully accept a coat of some light-coloured emulsion paint – pale green, perhaps. All the walls at home were pale green; it was Father’s favourite colour. Against my will I heard Father’s shaky voice again, telling me to go; as clearly as if he’d been with me now, I knew that he was already regretting it. For no apparent reason I remembered a photograph of him in his first-war sergeant’s uniform …
No, well, not pale green, then. I passed rather quickly on to the pock-marked floor. How much would it cost to put down some of that cheap matting stuff? It couldn’t be much, the area was so small. I looked again at the arm-chair, with its greasy chocolate-coloured cover. I wasn’t much good at sewing, but with a generous remnant of cretonne I could probably manage something … I couldn’t make it look worse, that was one sure thing. And curtains – hell, any fool could make those. Perhaps John would help! I found myself giggling.
I still had my key from home. Father couldn’t object to my going back while he was out and picking up some of my things. My French print, that’d go well over the mantelpiece; some books; my bits of green glass from Majorca with which to replace the foredoomed Alsatians. I might even pinch that white mesh firescreen with the plant-stands, to mask the gas-meter? Father never liked it. Get some pots of ivy to trail round, disguising things …
I began to feel elated. Already I could see the room as it would be when I’d finished with it. It needed me. My transformation of it would be a work of creation, like making a garden. I began to sing, and then to dance. My head was light. I felt wonderfully alive and capable, as I had felt on the train coming home that time, with fifteen hard-earned pounds in my pocket. ‘I can do anything! I can do anything!’ I fitted the exultant words to my tune.
The bright colours of the afghan kept spinning past me as I whirled round and round. No, I thought suddenly, whatever I changed, the afghan I would keep. It was a friend; vivid, tattered, rakish, with its torn black wool fringe, I loved it! I would keep it forever and have it buried with me. As I danced past, I snatched a corner of it, meaning to wrap it round me as a bizarre cloak. Then I stopped.
The pillow on the bed had no cover except its own soiled mattress-ticking and there were no sheets, only a pair of dingy grey army blankets. The mattress was also soiled. As I lifted the blankets aside to look closer, something moved.
When the blackness cleared I was leaning against the partition wall, fighting back an ocean of dismay. My excitement of a moment earlier had disappeared like a pricked bubble. I stood looking at the room, not as it could be, but as it was, feeling the beginnings of a horrible sick lonely fear. Suddenly I was in the middle of a nightmare – the more so because I couldn’t remember what the point of my being here was. Where was my own room at home, and safety, and familiarity, and where was my father? I began to cry like a baby, blubberingly. Why had I run away, and if I had to run, if I had to be alone, why hadn’t I found myself somewhere bright and clean to live? I remembered it had had something to do with pride, but that seemed crazy. Surely if one had one’s self-respect to keep up, one needed light and sheets and hot water … This place was horrible, a pigsty – what had Toby called it? A bug-house. I was living – I’d chosen, of my own free will – to come and live in a bug-house. There was a black man watching me and things crawling in my bed. And it was too late to back out, too late to change my mind. There was something at the bottom of it all, some prime cause, some terror I couldn’t even bring myself to remember. I only knew that somehow I was irretrievably, inescapably trapped.
I slipped down on to the floor in front of the fire and lay there sobbing, the afghan cradled in my arms for consolation, like a child’s teddy-bear.
Chapter 4
WHEN I woke up in the morning I was so stiff with the hardness of the floor – and cold, the fire having gone out hours ago – that I could hardly move. I levered myself up with the help of the arm-chair. The overhead light was still on, supplemented by grey daylight filtering dismally through the thin curtains. I sat down heavily in the chair, and began to shiver. I wrapped the afghan round myself, but I was cold to the bone. My teeth were rattling uncontrollably. I thought I must get myself something hot to drink, even if it was only hot water. I stood up, and suddenly saliva rushed into my mouth. On aching legs I staggered to the wash-basin and threw up violently, only there wasn’t much to throw up and the result was what seemed like hours of empty convulsive retching that left me feeling half-dead.
Forgetting my discovery of the night before I fumbled my way to the bed and lay down on it. The folded blankets made uncomfortable lumps underneath me, but I was beyond caring. I lay there, groaning with misery.
After a long time came a knock on the door. I scarcely heard it, submerged as I was in the backwash of nausea. The next thing I knew, someone was standing over me.
‘Hey, miss,’ said a soft voice. ‘You like a cup of tea?’
I looked up. Beside the bed stood a huge bulky figure in a plaid shirt, surmounted by a broad black head split like a ripe chestnut on a crescent of snowy teeth. Dwarfed by the enormous black paw which held it was a steaming cup.
Sluggishly I struggled into a half-sitting position, too exhausted to feel anything but grateful that I wasn’t going to be left to die all by myself. The welcome cup was put into my hands.
‘You sick, miss?’
‘I was,’ I said faintly. ‘Better now.’
‘Better still when you drink hot tea. See how you hands shakin’! Here, John hold it. You spill it all down youself, you not careful.’
As he bent over me I was assailed by an almost overpowering warm, animal smell. It was not quite like sweat or blood, or anything I’d ever smelt before; but though rather unpleasant in itself, I found it oddly comforting and reassuring. It was such an alive sort of smell; in my pale, stale, cold, sick state I breathed it in with the perfume of the tea and was glad of them both.
He held the cup and helped me to drink. The tea was hot and strong and very sweet, and I drank it all greedily. John dipped a teaspoon into the syrupy sugar at the bottom of the cup, and fed me that too. ‘Sugar is good for you, you see,’ he insisted earnestly. ‘Give you energy. You got to go work today?’
‘Oh God,’ I said. ‘Yes. What time is it? What day is it?’ My mind was still not functioning properly.
‘It half past eight, Tuesday morning, October sometime. What exact date, I don’t remember.’ He grinned. ‘You like more tea?’
‘No, thank you.’
‘Got a whole pot …’
‘No, really, I must get up.’ I pushed my legs over the edge of the bed.
‘You well enough?’
‘Yes, I’m fine. Your tea’s done the trick.’ But my head was spinning ominously.
‘You shiverin’. I light the fire.’
‘I’ve got some pennies –’
‘Never mind, I got some here. You sit a minute.’ He jabbed the pennies in and lit the gas, striking a match on his thumbnail. ‘You don’t look good. Try puttin’ you head down ’tween you knees.’ I did as he told me. I could sense him watching me in concern. ‘You sure you well enough go to work this mornin’? You best ring up you boss, tell him you don’t feel so good.’
I longed to do just that. It would be wonderful to crawl into bed and get warm and stay there all day. Then I remembered what I’d seen under the blankets the night before.
‘No,’ I said. ‘I can’t do that. I’ll be all right.’ I stood up slowly, a little at a time. John hovered anxiously, his big hands ready to steady me. But oddly enough, I did feel a lot better. My head was clear and the nausea gone. Only the deep-down chill remained.
I went to the basin and bathed my face in the icy running water. John was looking at me curiously.
‘You don’t take you clothes off to sleep?’
‘I didn’t go to bed last night.’
‘Where you sleep then?’
‘On the floor.’
I heard him suck in his breath. �
�No wonder you sick!’ I started groping for a towel, remembered I hadn’t one, and swore rather feebly. John gave me his handkerchief. It was unironed, but spotlessly clean. ‘What you sleep on the floor for?’
‘My bed’s lousy,’ I said shortly.
He gave a deep, sing-song laugh. ‘That’s bad, that’s real bad!’ he said, chuckling.
‘I’m going to kick up hell with Doris about it.’ I went to the chest of drawers and started fumbling about looking for make-up among the clutter I had dumped in there when I arrived.
‘That won’t do no good.’
‘Why not?’
‘She heard it all before. She pretend not to believe you. She say it’s all lies, say you insult her house. She kick up more hell than you can.’
‘I’ll show her, then!’ I went to the bed and stripped off the blankets. To my amazement, there was nothing to be seen on the stained mattress. John laughed again.
‘Them bugs too smart to let you catch ’em twice. They crawl away in the daytime, only come out at night.’
‘Then I’ll show them to her tonight!’
‘She smarter than the bugs. She come in making big noise. She get to the bed before you, and she say, loud-like so that bugs can hear: “This is best, cleanest bed in the house,” and she pat, pat, like this – when you pull back the blanket, bugs all gone. That woman has them bugs trained up real good. They in league, to make a fool of you.’
‘What can I do then? I can’t sleep on it while it’s like that.’
‘You got some soap?’
‘Soap?’
‘Yeh, you got a cake of soap? Never mind, I got one. When you come home tonight, you knock on my door – before you come in here and scare them bugs away. Then I show you how to catch them little devils.’
‘What, catch them all?’
‘No, no! Not all. Never catch ’em all. Just catch enough to show Doris.’
‘What’ll happen then?’
‘I dunno. Be fun to see.’
‘Did you do that, when you first came?’
The L-Shaped Room Page 6
