Rosie Hogarth

by Alexander Baron

  She flung him down on the bed. “Will you shut up?”

  He sprawled backwards. “Happy, happy, happy. Happy and glorious.” He sang rowdily, “Long to reign over us, happy and glorious —” He broke off and mumbled, “Happy as a, happy as a pig in —”

  She smacked his face. “There! Dirty mouth! Now shut up!”

  Jack said, “Ooh!” and stared at her.

  He sat in stupid silence while she took off his shoes and socks. He sat up when she told him to, and let her pull off his jacket and tie.

  “Now lie back,” she commanded. She unbuttoned his trousers and began to pull them down. “You hold those pants up,” she said, “I didn’t come in here to see the poppy-show.”

  “Eeh,” said Jack, as she tried to pull the blankets back from under him, “you’re lovely. Ooh, you’re lovely. Sweet and lovely! Juicy Joycie, the four-eyed beauty! Come and give us a cuddle, come on!”

  “When the drink’s in, the wit’s out. Else I’d give you another backhander!”

  “Ooh, she’s soft and juicy! Come on, give us a squeeze!”

  He seized her wrist.

  She pulled herself away and stood over him, rigid and furious. Her cheeks were burning. “Oh, you pig! Stinking, big pigs! Every one of you! You’re all the same! There’s only two things you think of! Well, you won’t get any change out of me, I can tell you. And you can tell her too, if she asks you!”

  “Her?”

  “My lovely mother!” she cried, and rushed out of the room.

  Jack stared at the door in bewilderment. At last he lay down, with his head in his arms. “Blind ol’ Riley,” he groaned, “What a night!” In two minutes he was asleep.

  Chapter Five

  Jack lay in bed until eleven o’clock on Sunday morning, thinking about the events of the previous night. He felt happy and victorious. At one rush, he imagined, he had crashed through the barrier of his own fears and reclaimed his place in the old life.

  He knew what Joyce had meant by her last outburst. Her mother’s intentions were clear. Well, he told himself, it suited him fine. When he had been young he had longed for a great passion. Somewhere inside him was a wistful memory of those desires which still tormented him from time to time and made the real business of living seem dreary and unsatisfying; but the old, wild hopes were now almost extinct, and his only conscious aspiration was to settle down. It was a home that he wanted, and the woman for whom he was looking was one who would fit into it. He had a notion that to be thirty years old was to be on the verge of old age. A week gone seemed like a last chance slipped by, and he was in a desperate hurry. He was not daunted by Joyce’s attitude to him, nor by her apparent dislike of men. That only showed that she was respectable. Above all he sought respectability, both in his own future life and in whoever was going to share it. Most of the men among whom he had moved in the last ten years had had the same outlook, and the more degraded and violent their own lives had become, the more they had cherished it. He had sometimes heard, in a barrack-room conversation, some fellow soldier admitting that his wife loathed sexual intimacy and that he had to make her drunk before she would permit it. “Well,” the man would say defiantly, “it only goes to show she’s a decent woman.” And someone else would add, “That’s right. If she liked it off you, she’d like it off any other sod that come along.” Jack did not see marriage quite in this way, but he was inclined to think that there was something in what they said. He had known plenty of free and easy women, the companionable ones who were willing to listen to reason, the “good sports.” This shy, nervous girl, who kept men at bay, appealed to him more than the lot of them. Besides, he was scared of passion. Four years ago someone had told him about Rosie, and it had been like a breath of flame in his face. For him, in future, the safe and comfortable emotions would suffice.

  Therefore he was delighted when, at breakfast, Mrs. Wakerell — her placid voice betraying an undercurrent of anxiety that suggested much mental rehearsal — invited him to stay. They had been thinking of taking in a lodger, she said. Fred’s room was a nice one, and Jack would be happier among friends than in a hotel or in a strange house. He accepted without giving her time to talk about the rent. Joyce, who had said “Good morning” when he had entered, poured tea and passed plates without showing any interest in the conversation. She was in hiding behind her glasses again. With her hair dull and ill-arranged and her body slack in a dressing gown, she looked as unprovoking as a draught mare. He was not deterred; she was well built and well spoken, her movements about the room were calm and decisive, she was clearly a sensible girl, and he noticed with admiration that it was she who, energetically and uncomplainingly, did most of the housework. Living with the Wakerells, he would be able to remove any bad impression that he might have made on her the previous night, and at the same time he would be able to consolidate his position among his old friends.

  These resolutions governed all his actions for the next few days. He had originally meant to spend at least a month in idleness but now, feverishly keen to “dig in” (as he put it) he decided to allow himself only a week’s holiday.

  He moved his belongings to his new home. He counted up his financial resources — with the remains of his Army gratuity, his savings, and the bonus from his job, he had nearly four hundred pounds — and opened a bank account, dropping self-conscious hints about his wealth to Mrs. Wakerell in order to impress her that he was a man of substance and a desirable son-in-law. He bought a blue suit, a sporty tweed jacket, a pair of chocolate slacks, and an array of shirts, ties and shoes.

  He had thought of apologising to Joyce for his behaviour in the bedroom, but the task was beyond him. He made up his mind, instead, to demonstrate to her his sobriety and industriousness; for this purpose, and in order to entrench himself still more firmly in his new surroundings, he began at once his search for a job.

  The clerk at the Labour Exchange quickly stripped him of the illusions which he had cultivated, leading men in the Army and training hundreds of labourers in Persia, that on his return home he would have the opportunity to better himself.

  “Trade?”

  “Eh? Shopfitter. I been in the Army, though —”

  “Who hasn’t, old man?”

  “I can manage labour. I mean, I done it abroad.”

  “Any technical qualifications?”

  “Eh? Technical? You mean? — Well, no.”

  “Want to work abroad again?”

  “No fear!”

  “No qualifications at all, except shopfitting?”

  “Not really.”

  “Well, that’s your best bet. You can’t pick and choose these days, you know.”

  “Yes, but —”

  “Look, laddie, I’ve spoken to thousands like you in the last few years. I’m afraid you’ll have to tone your ideas down a bit, and take what you can get. I can give you one or two jobs to go after in your own line. Are you interested?”

  Jack said he would come back later.

  For a few days he looked at the ‘Situations Vacant’ columns in the newspapers. There was nothing for which he could offer himself. He lost heart quickly. He regarded himself as only an ordinary working chap; he was very self-conscious about his lack of education and his inability to speak ‘clever’. He believed himself fated to spend all of his life in the station to which he was born, and his little fit of ambition soon evaporated. Driving him, too, was the fear of wasting time. “I can always look around later,” he consoled himself, thus enabling himself to cling at least to a dream. On Friday he went back to the Labour Exchange. The clerk gave him an introduction card to a firm of shopfitters near King’s Cross, and when he went home in the evening he was able to announce that he was starting work on Monday week.

  Until he started work he got up late in the mornings, walked happily about London (how different everything looked when seen from within the stream of life!), enjoyed himself shopping with Mrs. Wakerell in Chapel Market, passed agreeable evenings on the street co
rner with Bernie and the boys, spent an evening at the pictures, another at Collins’ Music Hall and another at an Irish dance, had an occasional drink and paid visits to old acquaintances.

  “It’s funny,” he said, struggling one day to explain himself to Nancy Hogarth, to whom his first visit had been made. “I mean, the way you sort of come alive sometimes. Five days a week you walk past the pillarbox, don’t even see it. Next day you go past, and you see it’s red. I mean, sounds daft an’ all that, but —”. That was the nearest he could get to describing how beautiful life had become, and how vivid and startling an apprehension he had acquired of everything around him. Because he was happy, he heard the birds singing in the squares, although he could not remember having noticed them before; he grinned at babies in their prams, chatted with the old men who sat smoking their pipes in the park, was aware of the fresh, glinting leaves of chestnut trees in drab front gardens, and sang to himself as he pushed through crowds.

  He wallowed in the friendship that was proffered to him from every hand. The news of his return had spread, and he was surprised by the number of people to whom it seemed to matter. The tobacconist called him into his shop as he went by, and told the girl behind the counter, “Here, Lil, twenty Players for this feller any time he comes in.” The butcher said to Mrs. Wakerell, “I hear young Jackie Agass has come back,” and slapped an extra piece of liver into her parcel. Jack came down to breakfast one morning and was given two new-laid eggs. “You’re popular,” Joyce said, “the milkman brought them for you.” Even vendors in the market called to him, “Hi, yer! Jackie boy!” or “You’re Jackie Agass, ain’t you? Thought I remembered you.”

  It even occurred to a number of people that he would be needing a wife, and some — as was their way — offered him their help in finding one. “Time you got wed, ain’t it?” said old Mr. Prawn. “Reckon so,” Jack mumbled, “Look around a bit first, though.” Nancy Hogarth, who counted herself as his sister, went straight to the point. “I know just the girl for you, Jack. What about it?” “Give us a chance,” Jack said, “I might have ideas of my own, you know.” The idea of inspecting a series of alternative prospects was attractive, but he lacked the boldness to do so, and decided to stick to Joyce.

  He and Joyce maintained a civil but wary relationship. Several times during the week he asked her to go out with him, but she refused, offering him on each occasion a downcast smile and an excuse that was carefully chosen to avoid hurting his feelings.

  On Saturday evening Mr. and Mrs. Wakerell went out to The Lamb. Jack said that he was going to stay at home for an hour or two. Joyce was in the house, and it was obvious from her dress that she was not thinking of going out.

  “Where’s your pal tonight?” Jack asked.

  “She’s got a date.”

  “Don’t you ever have dates?”

  “Sometimes. I didn’t feel like going out tonight. This weather gives me a headache.”

  “I’ll get you some aspirins.”

  “It’s all right.”

  “No, really, it’s no trouble. I thought you might, like, well — later on — if you get over it —”

  “I’d just like to lie down,” she said, “have a bit of peace and quiet.”

  Jack took the hint and left her alone. An hour later, after sitting in his room in a state of growing impatience, he came downstairs again, and said to her, “It’s cool out now. Do your headache good. What about a bit of a walk?”

  “No thanks, Jack.”

  He sat down in the armchair opposite her. She sprawled on the couch, face downwards, with her chin resting on her clenched fists, staring out of the window. She looked unhappy. They remained together in silence for a while, with the tension growing between them. At last, Jack said, “Feel any better?”

  “You go on out, Jack. It’s getting late.” Her voice was not unkind; perhaps, against her will, she felt gratified by his male persistence.

  “Don’t worry about me,” he said. “I’d wait all the evening if I thought — I mean.”

  She smiled faintly, not looking at him. “Be a pal and leave me alone.”

  “All right.” He wandered doubtfully towards the door.

  He paused and exclaimed, “Look, what’s the matter with me? I’m not poison, am I?”

  She did not answer.

  “Well, you might say something,” he said, in an aggrieved voice.

  “Oh, for God’s sake, leave me alone,” she cried.

  “What’s up?” he asked in despair.

  “I’m fed up with it, and that’s straight. Her trying to push me on to you all the time, and you laughing at me.”

  “Me laughing at you?”

  “You and that grin on your face. Certainly see the funny side of things, can’t you? Grin, grin, grin!”

  Jack was speechless. In a moment he would be defeated, and would flee; if he did, he was afraid that he would never be able to face her again. He said, with great savagery, “My bloody face!”

  Joyce looked at him in wonderment. “Why? What’s up with it?”

  “I’m not laughing at you,” said Jack desperately, “I never have. I mean, I never know how to look when people look at me, so I just grin. Me and my bloody grin! Hark at me! Thirty years old! You wouldn’t think it, would you? Mad Jack Agass, that’s me!”

  Joyce sat up slowly. She said nothing, but her movements and her attitude as she faced him were soft and conciliatory. Her face was troubled. “Oh, I’m sorry Jack. I upset you, didn’t I? I got fed up with myself and I took it out on you.” She added, with solicitude. “You’re not mad, Jack. You don’t want to talk like that.”

  Jack took courage again. “Well, what about it, then?”

  “What about what?”

  “Comin’ up the pictures with us. It’s cool up the Odeon. Air-conditioned.”

  “All right,” she said, “might as well.”

  “Here —” he was eager to say his piece before speech deserted him once more — “Here, I wish you wouldn’t keep throwing your mum at me every time. I mean, I can’t help liking you, can I? I don’t know what it’s got to do with her, throwin’ her up at me every time.”

  Joyce laughed. “I can just see me throwing my mum at you. I’d sooner try and throw the Queen Mary. Wait for me, I won’t be long.”

  Her step was light. She could not conceal her excitement as she hurried out of the room. “I don’t know,” said Jack to himself, “rummest bloody lot on earth, they are, and that’s a fact.”

  Chapter Six

  Jack and Joyce enjoyed their evening together. Jack had little to say. Joyce appeared pleased to be allowed to sit by his side in silence and, after the show, to wander along beside him lost in her own thoughts; he, in turn, was glad that she did not impose on him the agonising duty of making conversation. Thus the first sentiment that awoke between them was one of mutual gratitude.

  Encouraged by this beginning, they went out together almost every night. At first, little passed between them. Jack would make a suggestion; Joyce would accept it meekly and as meekly follow him to the park. They would settle themselves side by side in deck chairs and sit for a long time without speaking, looking up at the pale evening sky, not even daring to turn their heads and look at each other. Their arms would dangle close together in the space between the chairs, and when they accidentally touched each other both he and she would flinch. Jack spent the whole of one evening trying to goad himself to hook his little finger in hers, but he could not find the courage. Nevertheless they were happy together, and each gradually became aware of the other’s happiness, so that the lazy contentment each felt after the heat and work of the day, while it made them behave abstractedly and remotely towards each other, became in reality a second bond between them.

  Jack had started work. He found that, even when he was apart from Joyce, there remained with him a sense of wonder at what had befallen him. From time to time, during the day’s work, he would be visited by mysterious impulses of glee, that came and went without
explaining themselves, and with moments of physical excitement that left him breathless. He discovered, to his astonishment, that he could face strangers without embarrassment. What was it that was changing him and opening all the world’s doors to him? It was not what he had once known as love. He could look at Joyce calmly, face without dismay the prospect of not seeing her for an evening, take note of her defects as well as her merits, weigh up cold-bloodedly the arguments for and against pushing matters any further with her; it had not been like that with Rose. It was — and he was aware of it, for he knew what had ailed him in the past — the joy of relief from loneliness. For four years, ever since he had left his battalion, he had been lonely; he had been lonely with his companions in Persia, he had been lonely in card games and at drinking parties, he had been loneliest of all in the arms of women. He guessed, too, from Joyce’s demeanour, that she felt the same relief, for her heavy face had become relaxed and gentle (at least, to his eyes); the wariness that he had seen in her every attitude like the defensive crouch of an animal gave way to a tenderness that made her seem almost graceful; she tackled the housework as quickly and deftly as before, but in place of the anxiety and impatience that had formerly driven her he imagined he saw a confident womanliness. Sometimes, as she looked up at him, he would see a frank and wondering expression on her face until, catching his eye, she would frown self-consciously.

  In a few days their relationship underwent a new transformation. At first it was he who took heart and, labouring to find words, began to speak more freely to her; then she, flattered by his confidences, responded. Soon their tongues loosened and, as is often the case with shy people, they were chattering away to each other without mercy, each eager to pour out pent-up thoughts and feelings, each beginning every sentence with the word ‘I’, each greedily leaping in to take over the conversation as soon as the other paused unwillingly for breath.

  Listening to her confessions, he learned a good deal about her, not so much from what she said as from the nature of the evasions, the pathetic little excuses and self-delusions to which she resorted.