Rosie Hogarth

by Alexander Baron

  Perhaps it was the spirit of the morning that took possession of Jack, for he was in a gay and confident mood as he trudged for two-and-a-half hours through the back streets of Islington and Stoke Newington, down to the banks of the Lea, along the river, and back homewards through Dalston and Highbury. He looked on his present life as the biggest ‘bit of all right’ that had ever befallen him. It was as enchanting and unreal as if he were seeing it on a cinema screen: to be ‘home’, to be engaged, to be surrounded by friends. Was all this really happening to Jackie Agass?

  He planned his next moves. It would be a good idea to take Joyce’s parents out for an evening, to a music-hall or to a West End cinema. It would increase his stock with them, win Joyce’s gratitude, and above all he hoped that it would put him in command of the family relationship instead of Mrs. Wakerell. He remembered, too, Joyce’s twenty-fifth birthday, which was less than a month ahead, in mid-September. He would buy her some really memorable present — say, an expensive handbag or an evening dress. He would take her out to a show with a Corner House supper to follow, and at the weekend he would take her out for a day in the country.

  His thoughts lingered, particularly, on the day in the country. He had reached the point where he wanted Joyce. He had often been for months without a woman, but this time it was becoming unbearable. Certainly he could not wait until the wedding in December. He had neither the wish nor the guile to find another woman for the purpose. At home, he was intimidated by the presence of Mrs. Wakerell, and by the calm authority with which Joyce controlled him even at her most submissive moments. On the parlour sofa the idea always seemed ‘a bit much’. It was not only out of physical hunger that he wanted her. It was the only way he knew to consolidate his position. It would set a final seal on their relationship, make their marriage utterly inevitable and put the possibility of any rupture between them entirely out of the question. In his code, as in hers, there was no argument about this. Besides, he told himself, he was entitled to it, wasn’t he? An engaged chap! A day in the country — it was in a fiercely deliberate way that he considered it, not with the intoxication of a passionate lover — would provide the ideal time and place.

  It was nearly one o’clock when he turned the corner into Lamb Street again. He passed the building site, where the brick shell was already beginning to bear some resemblance to the two-storey block of eight self-contained flats which was alluringly illustrated on a large billboard fronting the pavement. He walked on, past open windows through which a succession of front parlours could be glimpsed, some as shadowy, trinket-cluttered caves of plush and mahogany, some with airy curtains that revealed flowers and the polished whitewood of utility furniture; all of them prosperous and serene. He passed housewives in smart, brightly-coloured frocks and their menfolk in new-looking caps and freshly pressed blue suits, exchanging with all of them the gravely ceremonious courtesies that were the rule in Lamb Street, where life was full of ‘good mornings,’ ‘good evenings,’ ‘much obligeds,’ ‘the pleasure’s mines,’ ‘begging your pardons,’ ‘after you old mans,’ ‘sorry old chums,’ and similar expressions. He exchanged greetings with the decorous group of neighbours who stood talking in the sun outside The Lamb, went in, bought his pint, and came out again with his glass in his hand to join the conversation.

  Affairs of state seemed to be the subject this morning. Some of the inhabitants of the street worked hard in political parties and trade unions, and were capable of learned and skilful argument. For the most part, the politics of Lamb Street were summed up by a slogan which had been painted on the blank side wall of The Lamb during the nineteen forty-five election campaign and which still had not faded. This consisted of the two words, ‘DOWN WITH —’ and a long smear of whitewash which hinted at sudden flight. Different people in Lamb Street could have completed the sentence in differing ways, but nobody had ever felt keen enough to do so, and the slogan faded, a reminder of one of those inconclusive fits of action into which their normal mood of baffled and dispirited indignation sometimes flared. It was not the half, but the whole of a slogan.

  “Meat?” Elsie Cakebread was saying. “My week’s ration for the pair of us wouldn’t make one decent dinner for my feller.”

  “What can you expect?” said Mr. Bates. “Don’t reckon there’s much left for us, do you, when the bloody Cabinet’s had their share?”

  “They couldn’t eat that much,” put in Mr. Prawn, “not the Cabinet. It’s not as if any of ’em did a good day’s work. Besides, old Cripps don’t eat meat.”

  “Old Bevin does,” answered Mr. Bates triumphantly. “And look at the gut he’s got on him. Mean to say old Cripps don’t sell him his share? Stands to reason he won’t waste it. That’s how they make their money, these heads, they don’t waste a penny. Anyway, there’s the Civil Service. Stuff comes off the boat, these Whitehall chaps have to book it in. Trying to tell me they don’t get a prime bit of rump put aside for the missus? And there’s a lot of them, I can tell you. And then there’s the Lord Mayor’s banquet. Don’t forget that.”

  Chick Woodruff said, “Old Churchill —”

  Jack, who was waiting for a chance to join in, cried, “He’s the kiddie!”

  “What, him?” cried Mr. Prawn. “You can’t deny —”

  “Give old Attlee his due,” interrupted Mr. Lucy, a little hunchback who collected subscriptions for the Labour Party, “He’s got up as good a government as anyone could these days.”

  Mr. Wakerell, who had been leaning against the wall with an absent look in his eyes, turned his head and growled, “Contradiction in terms.”

  “What is?”

  “A good government.” He became aware that further explanation was expected of him, and added, with an unexpected surge of fierceness in his voice, “None of ’em’ll let you alone.” An affirmative chorus told him that his words had struck home. “Go on!” he insisted, glaring pugnaciously around him. “Name one of ’em that’ll let you alone!”

  His challenge, it appeared, was unanswerable. He uttered a darkly satisfied “Ah!” and settled back into his former dreamy attitude against the wall.

  There was an impressive little pause. Mr. Prawn took courage, and began, “In Russia —”

  “’Ere! —” Bernie Whiteflower was loud and peremptory as if he were summoning the attention that was his due. He towered over everyone else in the group. With his broad shoulders set proudly back beneath a yellow sports shirt whose open collar revealed his red, corded neck, with his red hair and reckless profile, he seemed joyous and heroic. “Tell you what! Next bloody election, take my tip an’ vote for Newcastle United. If they licked the Arsenal last season, they can lick anything.”

  Miraculously the whole group shed its Sunday morning somnolence. There were indignant gasps, noises (from the younger members) of the kind known as raspberries, whistles of dissent, snarls of ‘Gah way!’ Chick Woodruff said angrily, “That was last season. Bloody bad luck from start to finish, that’s all it was.” Mr. Pennyfarthing, as deeply shocked as if he were rebuking an utterance of treason, said, “Bernie! I thought you was an Arsenal man!”

  Mr. Prawn began, “In Russia —”

  Bernie turned on him. “Why don’t you shut up?” he bullied. “That’s the trouble with your lot. Won’t give no-one else a chance to get a word in edgeways.” Mr. Prawn subsided. He was a small man with scanty grey hair and a slack face so deeply lined that its stubbly skin seemed to hang in folds. His dark grey tweed suit of old-fashioned cut, like the celluloid collar and knitted tie that he wore, gave him the appearance of a self-improving working man of the old school. When he talked about his forty years in the Socialist movement he was listened to with inattentive tolerance, and the young people — restrained by their good-hearted parents from ribald interruption — stared at him as if he were riding up the street on a tricycle. This was not the only reason for his habitual expression of melancholy. Four years ago he had retired from his job as tram conductor, looking forward to a quiet old ag
e with his wife, his books and his Daily Worker. To augment his pension he had let his three upstairs rooms. He had often pondered since on the suddenness with which a man can bring undeserved calamity crashing down on himself after a blameless, studious and hardworking lifetime — for his tenant was Bernie Whiteflower. Both Bernie and his wife were of that heroic, red-blooded, uninhibited breed whose more articulate members proclaim that ‘Struggle Is Life’. They spent half their time waging war on each other: their battles, audible to the most distant of their neighbours, thundered like artillery bombardments over Mr. Prawn’s head, kept his kitchen ceiling in a constant shudder, sent his most treasured ornaments reeling off the mantelpiece, seasoned his meals with falling plaster and reduced him to a state of nervous collapse. When the Whiteflowers made peace, however, there was still no peace for poor Mr. Prawn, for their abundant vitality immediately inspired them to open joint campaigns against him. He crept about in a state of constant misery, and thought with nostalgia of the tranquil days of war, when there had been no Whiteflowers above — only flying bombs. Fearful, now, of offering some new provocation, he sidled away from the group, muttered ‘good morning’s to his cronies and trotted off home.

  Few noticed his departure, for the street outside The Lamb was alive with a little uproar of disputation, in which the prospects of the Arsenal for the coming season were thrashed out. Historical precedents (reaching back to the most remote Cup Ties) were unearthed, the life histories, characters and states of health of players were discussed, intricate computations of goal averages were entered into, diets and transfer fees were criticized, scorn was heaped on the pretensions of a succession of rival teams; there was much sapient nodding and illustrative gesticulation; there were shouts of assertion and cries of denial. Faces and voices were lit with a rare animation.

  While the discussion was at its height Barmy Naughton came down the street. He walked with a long, hurrying stride, his arms swinging exaggeratedly outward, his hands flapping like dead things at the end of his arms. He seemed to be in one of his good moods, for he was singing to himself in a cracked voice and offering ingratiating smiles to everyone he passed. Usually he would mutter to himself as he walked. When he was out of temper he would snarl at every passer-by as if he were answering an insult that had been flung at him. He hesitated on the outskirts of the group, like a dog that was afraid to approach, looking all the more canine because of the enquiring way in which he cocked his head to one side. One or two people gave him kindly greetings, to which he returned eager smiles, and he sidled up closer.

  Bernie Whiteflower saw him and shouted cordially, “Wotcho, Barmy boy, been out on the prowl again?”

  Barmy smiled; to do so seemed to require a physical effort on his part, and an interior glow of pain shone from beneath the movements of his face. “Been for a walk.” He spoke civilly and sensibly, but with a thick awkwardness as if his tongue were swollen or as if he had to force his voice up from his throat. “Got boxing kangaroos in Clissold Park. Three of ’em. Kangaroos. Hop about all over the place. Talk about funny! Kangaroos. Spar up like —” he blinked with the effort of thought, and when he spoke again his voice creaked like a disused door. “Boxing kangaroos they got.”

  “You like the park, don’t you?” Bernie asked.

  “Ah!” Barmy, responding to the encouragement in Bernie’s tone, invested the monosyllable with a childlike trustfulness. He stared hungrily at the pavement, racking his brain for words which would enable him to prolong this rare pleasure of being permitted by his fellows to talk normally with them. “It’s all right, I tell you. Kids on the lake, laughing and screaming —”

  “All right in the park, eh? I bet!” Bernie’s voice took on a prodding geniality. His right eyelid flickered in a wink that was unseen by Barmy. “All the girls, eh? All them blowy summer dresses you can see right through? Lovely legs, eh? Good squint up their skirts, eh, what the old doctor saw?”

  Barmy’s “No!” was like a yelp of pain. He blinked more rapidly, helpless with distress as the momentary hope of friendship receded from him and it dawned on him that once more, as through all the weary years, he was being mocked. “All them kids. Hear ’em — in them little boats — laughing.” He looked as if he were chasing butterflies of thought, trying to seize them and show them to the others. “Tennis — all them playing tennis — bloody kangaroos boxing.”

  Bernie silenced him with a raucous “GAH way!”

  The group of listeners, who at first had received Barmy with passive welcome, submitted — after a transitory waver of discomfort — to Bernie’s leadership. Those who felt pity for Barmy were ashamed to show it, and joined even more loudly than their neighbours in the obedient barking of laughter that broke out.

  Bernie, urged on by the noise of support, uttered a loud and prolonged “W’yerh!” of derision. “Think we don’t know you loonies? There may be a bit missing in the top storey, but you got plenty o’ stock in the basement, eh?”

  There was a chorus of laughter, ugly with selfconsciousness. A tragic interflow of cruelty had been set up between Bernie and the assemblage, each evoking from the other, in successive waves, fresh surges of the malice that might otherwise have remained latent and undetected in their natures. Barmy cried, “I ain’t a loonie. I can talk as good as any of you. I —” The effort was too much for him. He could not find the words to plead for a chance, to explain himself. He shrank into a bitter, defensive crouch. Jack, remembering how, in the peace and loving kindness of Kate’s kitchen, Barmy had once become relaxed and articulate, a normal man, for hours at a time, said, “Here, he ain’t daft,” but he had not the courage to utter the words loudly enough for anyone else to hear. Barmy stood with his head bowed, his face screwed up and defiant.

  Bernie drank in the laughter with distended chest and sparkling eyes. Nourished by it, his vanity drove him on to strut and trample. “Gah way, we know you’re out on the batter when you go up the park. All the girls love a loonie. Dark ’orse on the quiet, our old Barmy. You think ’e’s ’ard up for it, but ’e knows better. Nothing like the old slap and tickle, eh, Barmy? Come on, boy, you ain’t gonna keep it secret, are you? Not from all your old friends? Tell us all about your flaming love life? ’Ere, ’at’s a girl, Elsie —” Elsie Cakebread, flushed with the mood of the group and eager to make herself prominent, had slipped to Barmy’s side, and was embracing him demonstratively, kissing his cold, lumpy cheek and squeezing herself up to him. “’At’s a girl,” Bernie shouted, “Warm ’im up! Give ’im a good ol’ cuddle!”

  Barmy’s head was tilted back, the Adam’s apple bobbing horribly in his thin neck. Muscles gathered in hard lumps at the corners of his cheeks. His mouth was open fixedly like a corpse’s. Fear, hatred and desire mingled in his glare. The people grew uneasy, but the more they felt the chill of conscience the more loud and high-pitched their laughter became, the more frequent their cries of encouragement to Bernie and Elsie. Jack, oppressed by a sudden and unbearable feeling of guilt and misery, laughed with the others and tried to ease himself by shouting encouragingly, “Go on, Barmy, give her a kiss she’ll remember.”

  Barmy uttered a harsh sigh, seized Elsie’s arms in a clawing grip and fastened his mouth on her face. He was shaking violently as he bent over her. Elsie began a scream of mock outrage; then, as Barmy did not release her, the note of pretence died from her voice and she made breathless, inarticulate noises of fear and protest.

  “’Ere!” Bernie tore them apart. He was the embodiment of virtuous anger now, the dispenser of justice. “What you think you’re doing?” He shook Barmy. “Eh?” He shook Barmy again. Now it was the awareness of his own strength that intoxicated him, and the chance to display it to others. “Come on, answer, you little rat. ’Oo d’you think you are, muckin’ a decent woman about like that?” Barmy, breathing in long, shuddering gasps in his choking grip, was unable to answer, and rolled his eyes in an expression that was at once of hatred and entreaty.

  The people were silent now,
their mood uncertain. Jack felt released from the common spell of cruelty, and humiliation at his own cowardice invaded him. “Leave him alone.” He only managed to croak the words, and no-one took any notice. He made another attempt to speak. It was not a physical fear of Bernie that throttled him, but a fear of standing out from the herdlike hesitation of which he was now part. A terrible indecision settled upon him. In a confused way the importance of this moment presented itself in his mind. He was one of those retiring people who are impelled by fits and starts of courage. There would occur in his life desperate moments of choice, when he would say to himself, ‘If I wait for another moment I am lost. And if I am lost now, then I am lost for life.’ Then, driven as much by terror as by resolution, he would act. There had been such a moment when he was ten years old, at a swimming lesson with his school-fellows: he had walked out on to the springboard while the other boys stood at the edge of the pool with their arms folded across their chests, waiting for him to make his first dive. There had been another such moment in the war when, at the age of twenty-four, he had taken part in an attack for the first time. He had sat waiting beneath the bank of a sunken road while the platoon commander squatted on his heels staring at a wristwatch. The officer had climbed to his feet, dusted the legs of his trousers, said, ‘All right, chaps, let’s go,’ and walked forward through a gap in the cactus clump. The other men had begun to filter forward. Jack could remember them shambling casually through the ragged patterns of daylight between the bushes. Jack had remained, for an awful lagging moment after his neighbours had gone; then, unwillingly, he had risen and plodded after them, across the bare brown plain, towards the smoke and dull noises in the distance.