by Gerald Kersh
“Trewie, old boy, you’re welcome to a couple of pounds,” said Middleton, giving him the money, “but to tell you the honest truth I don’t think we want any more. This has come as a bit of a . . . a blow, you know, and I want to sort of . . .”
“Sort yourself out, eh?” said Trew. “Well, I’m much obliged to you for the loan, old man.”
“Say no more about it, old boy,” said Middleton, wet-eyed with friendly feeling.
“You won’t recognise me in a week or two from now,” said Trew.
“Always the best of friends, Trewie, old boy,” said Middleton, in a broken voice. He was about to thank Jack Duck for his kindness, when he observed that the old bruiser, who felt the watchful eye of his wife, was hurrying away to the cellar. So he conducted Louisa out of the “Hero of Waterloo” with the ceremoniously steady walk of a respectable person who realises that he has drunk just a little more than he is used to. Trew followed them out. His face was bright red, and his smile had melted into a loose, wet, ugly grin that fell looser and became wetter and uglier as he talked; he was more than half drunk, and proud of it. Swaying slightly he put his arms around Middleton and Louisa, and hugged them to his damp bosom, saying: “Always the best of friends. Bless you, my children!”
Louisa shook his arm away; but Middleton said: “See you later, Trewie, old boy . . . little later on if you don’t mind.”
“Oh,” said Trew. “Naturally, old man. I understand. You don’t need your old friends now. Right you are, Middleton. Au revoir, if not good-bye, Mrs. Middleton. I wish you all the luck in the world.”
“Trewie, old boy!” cried Middleton, “it’s just that——”
“ – I quite understand,” said Trew, with pathetic dignity. “The old, old story.”
Then the hot evening grew dense with strong perfume, and a harsh nasal voice said: “Pardon me if you don’t mind,” as a big, overblown woman with dyed red hair pushed between Middleton and Louisa and went through the swinging doors into the saloon bar. In spite of the heat, she was wearing a double silver fox neck-piece, one of the bushy tails of which brushed Louisa’s cheek. Louisa shuddered and said: “Ted, I want to go home – please Ted!”
Trew was walking slowly away, looking sad, saying to himself: There’s friendship for you! It’s “Trewie, old boy, this . . .” and “Trewie, old boy, that . . .” when they need you. Then along comes a bit of skirt, and it’s “Excuse me, if you don’t mind, Trewie.” And then they can run to you with their troubles, and you can offer to go hungry to help them out of your own pocket – and that’s all right. But let them get rich, and it’s “Here’s a few shillings – run away, Trew.” There’s life for you! There’s gratitude!
Feeling the two pound notes in his coat pocket Trew decided that to injury Middleton had added insult. He walked back to the “Hero of Waterloo” to drown the memory of the insult and numb the pain of it.
Middleton, aware of the roll of money in his pocket, was almost happy. He and Louisa paused in the street near Mrs. Gibson’s house, while they read the letter again. “Why, Louie dear – what is there to look so sad about?” he asked, half petulantly.
She replied, tearfully: “I don’t know, Ted. Oh Ted . . . you won’t go gambling and getting drunk now we’ve got all this money, will you?”
“Now just because we celebrate with a bottle of wine, and I put a few shillings on a horse – just to celebrate——”
“ – Yes I know, I’m sorry,” she said, hastily, “but I dare say it’s because of me being like this.”
“Louie dear,” said Middleton, “it’s the baby I’m celebrating about; because I don’t mind telling you that up to an hour or two ago I used to lay awake at night not knowing which way to turn. Now, let’s you and I talk about him.”
“ – Or her,” said Louisa.
“Him or her – you can have anything you like,” said Middleton.
“As long as you don’t . . .”
“As long as I don’t what, Louie dear? Drink champagne and back horses all day long?”
“Oh no, Ted, it’s your money, and you’re entitled to do anything you like with it. Only . . .”
Louisa was thinking of the big redhead. Her flesh crawled and tingled as she remembered the swaggering shoulders, and the swishing brush of silver fox. Rubbing her cheek where the fur had touched it, and wrinkling her nose in which the stale, expensive, dishonestly-come-by perfume still clung, she added: “As long as you don’t let a certain class of people that’re only after your money take you away from me.”
“Don’t be silly, Louie dear,” said Middleton, laughing.
“Oh, I know you’re different, Ted. But I know what men are . . . and when I see the kind of creatures they go and make fools of themselves with . . . well . . .”
“Don’t be silly. Let’s talk about you and I and the future,” said Middleton. “. . . By the way, what do you mean, you know what men are?”
“Let’s talk about you and I,” said Louisa.
* * * * *
The big, brazen, scented woman of whom Louisa was thinking had, by this time, jostled her way to the bar with her odorous silver fox neck-piece slung like a blanket roll about her swaggering shoulders. At the sight of her the respectable customers compressed their lips and exchanged frowns; while the sporting gentlemen winked at one another and looked as if they were about to whistle. A certain diminutive, squeezed-up sportsman who seemed to carry with him some of the stale air of a thousand stuffy dressing-rooms, currying favour with a young boxer who had a pound or two in his pocket, whispered:
“Look who’s here! Know who she is? That’s Wild Rose!”
“Never heard of her,” said the young fighter.
“What? You never heard of Wild Rose? Why, years ago, Jack Duck and Wild Rose—— C’meer, I don’t want to shout . . .” He put his mouth to the young fighter’s ear.
“. . . Is that a fact?” said the young fighter.
“My oath. But keep your trap shut, see?”
“Well, okay, but if I was Jack Duck and you gave me to choose that one or the one he got married to, I know which——”
“ – Shut up. Look out – here comes Jack. Keep your eyes open.”
Jack Duck, coming up from the cellar with an armful of bottles, saw Wild Rose, and dropped a bottle of gin; and when it burst on the cellar floor something seemed to splash up, cold and stinging inside him, while the darkness under the dome of his skull throbbed to the noise of a gong. Instinctively he tucked in his chin and drew a deep breath, shuffling his feet on the top step of the cellar stairs.
But the heart had gone out of him. He felt like a man rooted in a nightmare on a railway track.
Wild Rose was at the bar, unaccompanied, flaunting herself under a sign which said:
LADIES UNACCOMPANIED BY GENTLEMEN
MAY NOT BE SERVED AT THE BAR
Mrs. Duck was behind the bar. The Past and the Present were rushing together. If these two women met there would be a crash and a blinding light; a mushroom of black smoke, a shower of debris, and the end of the world.
“Now for it: Gawd Save the King!” whispered Jack Duck. This was his Lucky Word – his Prayer Before Battle.
Even as he said this a fortunate accident gave him time to think.
PART III
The ruffianly redheaded woman called Wild Rose was feared by navigators in the nightbound currents of the West End as a sort of drifting mine with bristling detonators and likely to go off bang, with fatal consequences, at a touch. Even in repose she was dangerous. Her flaring red hair seemed to be burning its way down over a perilously low forehead, to touch off a fuse between her eyes; and when she raised her eyebrows, and the red point of her “widow’s peak” came within an inch of the bridge of her nose, people who knew her took cover. She was all fire and gunpowder. Even in her sentimental moods men winced – when she filled her great lungs with the interminable breath of a tremendous sigh, they thought of a toy balloon, blown ten
se and certain to burst shockingly at any moment. Wild Rose could not sit still; she had to tap her feet on bar rails and pick the red varnish off her long sharp finger-nails; and at regular intervals she shrugged into position the silver fox neck-piece without which she felt undressed – in the manner of a wrestler who cannot keep his braces in place because of the over-developed muscles of his shoulders.
Now, hitching up one of her silver foxes, she sent the bushy tail flying so that it knocked over a glass of whisky-and-soda, which emptied itself over the light grey trousers of a pink, plump, less-than-half-sober gentleman on her left. Anticipating some protest, Wild Rose turned, clenching a large white hand, upon which she wore a white zircon as big as a bottle-cap. But the man made no protest. He laughed, and said: “Lady, if you want to launch me, break a bottle of champagne over me. Oh well, I’m only a little boat. Bon voyage!”
Then Wild Rose laughed heartily, and said: “I like a man to have a sense of humour.”
“That’s all right then, lady, you like me. A sense of humour is just about all I have got . . . apart from friends. Ha-ha! Friends! Ever have a friend that let you down? . . . Anyway, you like a man to have a sense of humour, and I like a lady to have a drink. Will you do me the honour?” said Trew, folding a pound note into a paper boat and putting it in a little puddle of spilt liquor on the bar. “A life on the ocean wave – we’re launched!”
“Well, I wouldn’t say no. To tell you the truth, that’s what I came here for. My name’s Rose. What’s yours?”
“Dick Trew. Hi, Jack!”
Wild Rose stared, slapped her thigh, and cried: “Well, if it isn’t Jack Duck!”
“Famous fighter,” said Trew.
“Fighter? Don’t talk silly,” said Rose. “We’re old friends – how are you, Jack?”
Jack Duck whispered: “Shush!”
“Who’re you shushing, you——”
“ – Rosie, be a pal – I’m a married man.”
“The beautiful lady and I would like a drink,” said Trew.
Wild Rose said, in an astonished voice: “Listen, Jack, tell me – that flyweight in the green dress – is she your trouble-and-strife?”
“Shush, for God’s sake!” whispered Jack Duck, winking hideously; and then he shouted: “Certainly, certainly, Mr. Trew! Certainly madam! . . . Oh, Nora, Mr. Trew and his lady friend would like a bottle of champagne!”
Mrs. Duck, her suspicion unaroused, went to get the bottle, and Jack Duck said, as quickly and quietly as he could: “Look, do me a favour, can’t you? Come on, Rosie, you always were a sport. Fight fair, Rosie. I played the game with you, didn’t I? Do me a favour – don’t start no bundles here, will you? I’m a married man, get it?” Before she could reply, he pulled a pound note out of his trousers pocket, pressed it into Trew’s hand and continued: “It’s all right, the bottle’s on me. Pay for it with that. Go and drink it at a table. Do me a favour, Rosie, will you? I’ll come and talk to you in a minute.”
Then Mrs. Duck came with a bottle of the sweet champagne, which the waiter carried to a vacant table. Trew, pocketing his folded pound note, said nothing. He sat close to Wild Rose, who said: “What’s the matter with Jack? Here I am on my way to Euston station – I’m going to Manchester. I’ve got an engagement, you know. They’re putting on lady wrestlers. Why, I haven’t seen Jack for years. Me and him used to be the best of friends. What the hell does he mean,” said Wild Rose, growing angry, “what the hell does he mean by talking to me in that tone of voice? Married? Married? Who cares? He’s not entitled to talk to me in that tone of voice – him or twenty Jack Ducks! Who’s he? Why, I’ve got a good mind to——”
Then Jack Duck came lumbering over to their table, looking with anguish at Wild Rose, and bellowing: “Everything all right? Everything all right? Everything all right?” Then, tucking his chin into his left shoulder, he whispered: “Listen, Rosie. I’m a pal. You’re a sport. I’m a married man. Look, Rosie . . . here’s something for a fox fur, or something. I’m a married man, see? I can’t go to the till, get it? But this is as good as gold – ask Mr. Trew. Gentleman just came in to a hundred thousand quid. You ask Mr. Trew, here. Didn’t he, eh, Mr. Trew?”
“Yes, definitely,” said Trew, not very comfortably.
“What is all this?” said Wild Rose.
“Catch hold of this, and for God’s sake keep it quiet,” said Jack Duck, giving her Middleton’s cheque. “It’s a cash cheque, see? Twenty nicker. Good as gold. Isn’t that so, Mr. Trew? . . . Grab hold, quick, Rosie. Mr. Trew, he’ll tell you – cheque’s as good as gold. Anyway, I’ll guarantee it. Man came in to hundred thousand. Ask Mr. Trew. I’d give you the money in cash, but can’t. Married man. Cheque endorsed. Be good girl, Rosie – play the game – married man. Let sleeping dogs lie. Be pal.”
Then Jack Duck went back to his place behind the bar, and Wild Rose said to Trew: “Now what is all this? Cheques? Did Jack think I came to bite his ear?”
Trew said: “Well, a friend of mine’s uncle left him a hundred thousand pounds. Jack Duck cashed him a cheque for twenty, that’s all.” The wine and the whisky had combined to make uneasiness which would not go away, because it was shaken up and thickened by the palpitation of his heart.
Suddenly sober, Trew knew that his joke had gone far enough, and might be ended here. If he said to Wild Rose: “Oh, tear up the cheque and forget it – be big-hearted”; and if she tore up the cheque, Middleton would have had twenty pounds, and no one could be a penny the worse.
But he could not say it, and Wild Rose, drinking the dregs of the champagne, taking him by the shoulder in a terrible grip, cried:
“Come on. I’ll catch the later train. You come along with me to Little Lew’s. I like a man with a sense of humour, and you bring me luck.”
“But——”
“I’m not used to begging people to give me the pleasure of their company,” said Wild Rose.
“Whatever you say,” said Trew.
When they reached Little Lew’s Club in Lisle Street, he learned that Wild Rose had kept the taxi waiting since she had gone into the “Hero of Waterloo” for a quick drink. He gave the taxi-driver the facetiously-folded pound note, and was waiting for seven shillings change, intending to give the man a two-shilling piece, when Wild Rose said: “Keep the change, driver,” and dragged Trew into Little Lew’s Club.
Now all the humour drained out of Trew, and he was no longer at his ease. Calculating rapidly, secretively fumbling the money in his pockets, he found that he had four pounds ten and a little small change. He had left the office on Friday with four pounds ten. After having paid one or two debts of honour (his landlady could wait) he had gone into the “Hero of Waterloo” with three pounds seventeen-and-sixpence. He could not possibly have spent more than five shillings: Middleton had paid for most of the drinks, and had lent him two pounds. Therefore he should have been able to count nearly six pounds. Where had his money gone? Trew looked up, saw the fierce, implacable face of Wild Rose, and remembered that he was in the company of a woman who could spend thirteen shillings on a taxi-ride and tell the driver to keep the change out of a pound. Then he wanted to go home; but she had him fast by the wrist, and was shouting: “Now here’s a man with a sense of humour! I like him, I love him! . . . What did you say your name was?”
“Trew, Dick Trew.”
“Hi, there, Nobby – hi there, Muriel! . . . What, is that you, Billy? Come and have a drink with Dick Trew – you too, Sylvia; and bring Wally. Come on over. Meet Dick Trew – a man with a sense of humour. I love him, I want to kiss him!”
Trew put down a pound note. The smoky air in the little club-room seemed to break into ripples which, when Trew coughed, became a curtain of blue-grey watered silk. “Wish you all you wish yourself,” somebody said; and Trew, with an empty glass, fumbled for more money, looking left and right for Wild Rose. But she was engrossed in conversation with a very small man in the remotest corner of the room. Trew cried: “Oh, Rose!” – but a w
oman’s voice said: “Leave her alone, dear. Can’t you see? She’s talking to Tishy. Come on, what I say is, Bank Holiday comes but once a year, so let’s all have a drink. Oh, Lew! – Gentleman wants to offer somebody a drink.”
“Hm, yes. . . . That’s right,” said Trew.
The man called Tishy was saying: “. . . I’ve got a proposition, Rosie. Give you my word of honour. Come on, couldn’t you raise me a fiver?”
Wild Rose said: “I haven’t got a fiver, Tishy.”
It was well known that Wild Rose had a motherly regard for Tishy. Occasionally she treated him to heavy meals – eighteen-ounce steaks, whole chickens, double chump chops, and pints of bottled stout – because Tishy had an air of dumb woe, suggestive of malnutrition, and in his sore pink-lidded eyes there was the wistfulness of a starving waif staring into a pastry-cook’s window. He lived like one of those skinny, beaky birds that run forwards and backwards with the ebb and flow of the tide, hurriedly pecking invisible nourishment out of the mud – one of those anxious grey little birds that have to live on the seashore, but apparently hate to get their feet wet. Perpetually advancing and retreating, between waves, Tishy managed to survive in the silt at the edge of the deep. He always knew a man who had a car, a watch, a fur coat, or a greyhound. Whatever you might happen to want (no questions asked) Tishy knew a man who knew a man. He might also be likened to the bird that picks the teeth of the crocodile, or the bird that gets ticks from between the folds of a rhino’s hide – any small, quick, omnivorous bird.
“Couldn’t we raise a few quid?” he asked, looking up at Wild Rose with his sad starveling’s eyes. “I could pay you back double. I know a certain party, a valet, and so this valet worked for a lord. This lord just died, and left a whole lot of clothes. Get it? Suits, overcoats, shoes, silk shirts, hosiery, those red coats and high boots they go and catch foxes in . . . everything – worth a packet. Well, Rosie, for personal reasons this party doesn’t want to flog the stuff with any of the gent’s wardrobe people, and he’s got to have some money by to-morrow, or Monday at the outside. I’ve got a fiver. If I could let him have, say, a tenner on account I could get the stuff, pay him off on Tuesday, and clear eighty or a hundred nicker. Oh well . . . I’ll see what I can fiddle.”
