Rosie Hogarth

by Alexander Baron

  It was time to attack. “Jack,” she said, laying her hand on the back of his. He stopped in mid-sentence, the breath caught in his throat. “Jack, never mind all that. Tell me what’s really been troubling you these last few weeks.”

  His face, like a child’s, betrayed each transient vibration of feeling — determination, irresolution, appeal — as he struggled to speak. He said huskily, “Marry me.”

  It was Rose’s turn to be taken aback. Too unprepared to rise above the commonplace, she said, “But what about Joyce?”

  “Oh, sod her! She won’t let me have my rights, she’ll have to take the consequences. Talk about frozen cod! Hands orf, that’s all she knows.”

  “And that’s why you want to marry me?”

  He cried out, with a violence that surprised her, “Oh, no!”

  “Well, that’s what it sounds like.” She tried to keep her voice sympathetic, to remain the wise, assured confessor, but a sarcasm which she could not restrain brought her down to his level. “After all, the idea’s come to you very suddenly, and very late in the day. You didn’t exactly rush to throw yourself at my feet when you came home.”

  “Well I — How could I? All them years — I’ve dreamed and bloody dreamed — Not in your street, me, that’s what I’ve always thought.” He wailed, in a ridiculous voice, “Why do you always put the wind up me?”

  She seized the chance to assume the maternal role again. “I’m sure I don’t dear. You’ve just been carried away a bit, that’s all. I saw you that day in the street — remember? — before you saw me, and I’m sure it wasn’t because of me you were acting strangely then. I think it’s all been a bit too much for you, dear, all that you’ve been through and perhaps what you’ve come back to. All the strangeness of settling down again, and the strain and suspense of waiting to marry, and then seeing me again, and having a few drinks, and getting a bit excited, and letting your imagination play tricks with you. There’s nothing wrong with you that a nice sweet girl like Joyce can’t cure, if only you’re patient for a little while longer. That’s all it is, Jack, pet. It’s only natural.” She smiled and squeezed the back of his hand. “It’s very sweet of you. But you and I are not for each other. You’ve got your life to lead, and I have mine.”

  “Ah,” he protested harshly, “all that guff. I don’t want that. Soft soap. Poor old Jack. Give him a pat and send him home to bed, eh?” His voice rose. “I know you. I know just what you are, and I know just how much you’re worth. I’d have a dog’s life with you. I’d be all right with Joycie, I know that, never mind what I said before. She’s all right, she is. I know, you don’t have to tell me. Think I bloody care? Bloody laugh it is, sitting here, thought of her makes me sick, but you —!” His face was contorted with the effort of speaking. “I never come here to ask you what I did. Me marry you? I’d ha’ died laughing if anyone’d told me that an hour ago. Get you on your bloody back, that’s all I wanted. All these bloody months without it! More than a bloke can stand, my age. She’s the girl to see you right, I said to myself, Rosie’s the girl. Just in her line, it is. And then I sit here, and I look at you, and I remember, all these bloody years — An’ out it comes, ‘Marry me,’ couldn’t stop it if I tried. And Rosie, I mean it, that’s the bloody joke. I’d do anything for you, Rosie. I’d eat dirt. I’d do bloody murder for you. I don’t care what you are. Oh, I’d marry you all right.”

  “Thank you,” she said with bitterness. She made another effort to remain gentle. “My life’s not what you think it is, Jack.”

  “What then?”

  She hesitated. “I’m afraid that’s more than I can tell you. Just now, at any rate. All I can say is that if my mother was alive she wouldn’t be ashamed of me. Won’t you take my word for it?”

  “I told you, I don’t care. If you was peddling your pratt up the bloody Angel I’d still want you. I love you. Ain’t that enough?”

  “If you loved me, you’d believe me.”

  “I believe you. Tell me you’re the Queen of Sheba. Go on, tell me! I’ll believe you. I swear I will. I’ll believe anything. I’ll do anything you want me to. Rosie, I’ve got money. That’s what’s worrying you, ain’t it, the money? I’ve got money in the bank, and a bloody cheque book, too. It’s all yours, you can have the bloody lot, every penny of it. Here, look! —” He pulled out his cheque book. “Write your own cheque. It’s yours for the asking!”

  “Jack!” She laughed, but anger rang through the note of incredulity.

  “Go-on! I ain’t sprucing! Here! —” He scribbled, and tore out a cheque. “There y’are, I’ve signed it for you. Filled in the name, Rose Hogarth — all you got to do is put in the amount.”

  She sighed, and pushed the cheque back towards him. “I could be very angry with you, Jack, but there’s no point in it, is there?”

  He folded the cheque and slipped it into her handbag. She let it stay there: better to tear it up later than continue this ridiculous haggling. “There y’are,” he said, “No bluff, I mean it. It’s there when you want it. Rosie love, stick to me and you won’t go short, I swear you won’t!”

  She called the waiter and ordered brandies. “There,” she said when the drinks came, “you drink that up and pull yourself together. It’s strange how we can’t talk to each other any more — not to reach each other, that is. That’s the pity of growing up. While you were talking I was thinking how useless it was. You can’t trust me, you simply couldn’t. And though I suppose I could make you see me differently if I took you into my confidence, I feel from what I’ve seen of you that I can’t trust you either. It’s not our thoughts that don’t trust each other, but our natures.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “No, I suppose not. Anyway, you take my advice. Whatever your troubles are, you stick to Joyce and you’ll get over them. I don’t know what misunderstanding there’s been between you, but surely if you could speak to me you can speak to her. It’s worth trying, isn’t it?”

  He gave no sign of having heard her. The flush in his face had deepened, there was a gleam of sweat on his brow, and his lips quivered faintly as he looked vacantly past her.

  “Isn’t it, Jack?” she persisted.

  His eyes flickered at her, then moved away again. “What’s the use,” he said, almost inaudibly. “Next few days, I’ll think up all the things I ought to told you. Now, here you are in front of me, can’t do it.” He tapped his forehead with his knuckles. “Nothing there. Laugh, ain’t it?” His tongue appeared between his lips for a second. “It’s all right for them that’s got the words. Say anything, they can.” His voice trailed off, and he gave himself up entirely to his stare at the other end of the room.

  “Another brandy?” He shook his head. She paid the bill, expecting him to protest, but he remained huddled on his chair, apparently bereft of all initiative. He rose when she rose, and followed her out to the street. She stopped a taxi, opened the door, and turned, ready to dismiss him with a parting admonition, a bright and friendly farewell. He pushed past her into the cab, sat in the far corner and glowered at her from the shadow. “See you home.”

  He remained silent throughout the journey, huddled as far away from her as he could get, brooding to himself but watching her intently all the time. Their destination reached, he let her pay off the cabbie, gripped her arm before she could say anything, and accompanied her up the stairs.

  She decided to speak to him at the door of her flat, but there he forestalled her again, pushing her against the wall, and holding her so tightly by both arms that the hard quivering of his hands passed into her. Mute, his eyes glaring, he tried to force his mouth against hers. Even while she held her body rigidly back from him and averted her face, indecision seized her. She gave her mouth to him, lifelessly. She wanted to be rid of him. He had no interest for her, and she was sick of being hounded, then mauled. But, to her hatred of the squalid little struggle which threatened, there was added a feeling of concern for him. He was ill, and f
rantic. She could not bear to let him loose upon the streets in this state. She imagined him being knocked down at the first crossing. It was only a trifling mercy for which he was begging. Afterwards she could pack him off, slaked and happy, to his Joyce. Stifled, she managed to say, “Let’s go inside.”

  His expression, as he followed her into the flat, was bitter and inflamed. He wandered about the room, his movements fierce and restless, saying nothing. But when he was at her bedside he appeared hesitant. She had to take his hand and speak to him kindly. Making love, he was violent, artless and self-absorbed, his burning face averted, his occasional inarticulate endearments muttered as if to himself. Rose let her body make its own responses to him, but its ardours were local, dying in the unimpassioned flesh long before they could reach her thoughts or emotions. She too, remained silent, except for a few vague comforting sounds. Impatience crawled in her. Her mind, detached, was occupied with self-criticism and with plans for his final dismissal.

  Later he lay, raised on one elbow, at her side. He looked crestfallen and uncertain. He wiped his hand over his face, from forehead to mouth, and said, with a propitiatory smile, “D’you love us?”

  Her answering smile was cool but deliberately uncomprehending. “Just to be nice, I’ll say ‘yes’.”

  “Just to be nice?”

  “Well — we’re friends, aren’t we? We’ve had a pleasant evening, and we’ve both been kind to each other. We’re both old enough to know that these things don’t go any farther than that. We shall go our own ways, like grownups, and leave it at that. Mm?”

  “Don’t you want to see us again?”

  “Why not, dear? — one day. You, and Joyce too, after you’re married. I don’t think we ought to see each other before then, though. And we certainly can’t carry on like this.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because it’s not right.”

  “Not right! Listen who’s talking!” He sat up. “I’ll chuck Joyce. I said so.”

  She shook her head. She was used to men, but his nearness now, great-shouldered, clumsy, red and sheepish of face, embarrassed her. “Dress yourself. You can’t stay here all night, or the Wakerells will be wondering where you’ve got to.”

  “Oh, to hell with the Wakerells.” He rose, however, and began to dress. The sight increased her embarrassment. “I don’t want Joyce,” he exclaimed, “I want you. I always have.”

  “No you haven’t. I’ve known you a long time, Jack, dear, and I know when a man loves me, and I’ve never seen a spark of it in you.”

  “What? Look, years and bloody years — I ain’t clever, I —”

  “We’re both together in a bedroom, and you’re still all full of me, and you think you’ve loved me since the day you were born. I know, I’ve felt like that myself. Too often. The more you give away to it, the bigger the bump you’ll come down with afterwards. You take my word for it.”

  “Bloody expert advice she’s giving me now!”

  “Jack, let’s part happily, or everything will be wasted, and we’ll spoil our memories of each other. You feel nice, and easy, and happy now, and all that bad time you’ve been having is wiped out. You’ve got all your good times with Joyce to look forward to. Go away in that mood. You’ll forget me in the morning.”

  “It’s all right for you! Love ’em and leave ’em. Bang the bloody cash register and take on the next one. You’re a one to sit there telling me about love! Never ’ad someone workin’ on your bloody tripes with a cold chisel. Don’t know what it means —”

  “Don’t shout, Jack!”

  “Think everyone’s the same as you! Don’t care what’s on the bed so long as it’s warm. ‘ ’Ad a sample off me, now go and get the goods from Joyce.’ That’s what I call cool, that is —”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake!” She jumped to her feet, slipped on her dressing gown and tied the girdle violently. She was humiliated at having been driven into this vulgar quarrel, naked, face to face with a half-dressed man, like some cheap prostitute with a client. She was sick with disappointment at herself for having become the slave of events. “Go away, will you, please. I don’t know what I’ve done to deserve all this, and I’m sick and tired and disgusted, and I want to be left alone.”

  “What’s the matter!” Fury made him loud and vicious. “Expecting someone else?”

  She was too dejected to have any more consideration for him. “Maybe. Now go away.”

  “I should ha’ guessed. Simple Simon, that’s me, Charlie Cheesecake, Dopey Joe! Rosie loves me — ah-way! — too bloody blind with joy to use my loaf. Rosie only loves the cash customers. Charity boy, that’s me. Orphanage bloody brat. Give him a toy for Christmas, good deed for the year, now shove off, sonnie. Give him a cuddle buckshee and sling him out.”

  She was near to weeping. “Oh, go away!”

  “Well, you ain’t dealing with a charity boy no more. Here’s a feller can pay his way with the next man. Don’t let no bastard spit in my eye, I can tell you. Here!” He threw a handful of notes down on the bed.

  All her control was gone. She picked up the notes, threw them back at him and screamed, “You wretched little beast! Get out, and take your filthy money with you. And don’t let me see you again. My stomach won’t stand it.”

  “Gah way!” He pushed the money back towards her with his foot. His raucous laughter made her feel dizzy. “I know the old proud stunt. ‘Wouldn’t touch your money!’ Not much you won’t. Leave it on the floor till I’ve gone, then pick it up and put it in with all the rest you’ve earned on your bloody back. Well, there it is, you’re welcome to it.”

  She was overwhelmed with shame, not at his words but at the memory of her own voice a few moments ago, shrill and stripped of all the modulations it had so carefully acquired. She pressed her lips together to contain her anger, picked up the money, strode to the gas fire and held the notes to it. She could feel Jack’s stare on her as she crouched, trembling, her cheeks hot with blood, her eyes blazing. She dropped the ashes in the grate and hissed, “Now get — out!”

  He did not move. He watched her with the look of a beast uncertain whether to spring or to take flight.

  She turned her back on him, hurried to the window, pulled back the curtains and flung the window open. She leaned out and breathed deeply. He was still watching her. Ignoring him, she crossed to the bathroom, and went in, leaving the door open so that he could see her turning on the taps and emptying bath salts recklessly into the water. She heard the front door bang, and the scutter of his footsteps as he ran downstairs.

  Chapter Four

  Joyce had for weeks been trying, in her immature and artless way, to overwhelm Jack with her love, to atone for having rebuffed him, to bind him beyond the possibility of escape in the silken cords of her womanhood. Perhaps she was puzzled at his apparent lack of response, but she did not dream that she had achieved a result opposite to that which she had intended — she had driven him to another woman. However, she need not be pitied, for in the long run, and also without her knowledge, her efforts acted on Jack in his private crisis and saved him from disaster.

  When he left Rose he was capable of anything. He might have fled from London, for there was a part of him that was utterly humiliated. He might have turned back and done murder, for there was also the stuff in him from which explosions of passion are ignited. He did neither of these things, because there was also in him the capacity to make the most of what shreds of satisfaction he possessed; and Joyce’s attentions, however little he had consciously noticed them, had accumulated in a kind of reservoir of memory from which he was able to draw, when he most needed it, the assurance that there was someone on earth who wanted him, someone who valued him at his full worth and in whose presence he could feel big instead of little. In short there was Joyce, and he hastened back to her.

  Twenty-four hours after he had met Rose in Oxford Circus he sat down to supper with Joyce.

  When he had left Rose’s flat, he had walked blindly for hours, h
is limbs driven by an undefined violence of emotion. He was conscious of nothing but the desire to run as far as he could from the scene of his humiliation, and he walked northwards, impelled vaguely by the idea of reaching the Great North Road and catching a lorry out of town. He let his mind play with the notion in a dark, melodramatic way, without any firm intent, while his thoughts recalled to him, in a stream of self-pity, all the defeats and disenchantments he had suffered since his return. He wanted to run away not only from Rose, but from all these difficulties. When he had walked for two hours and tired his emotions out, he took a taxi home, went to bed and slept soundly.

  He awoke refreshed the next morning, and all day at work relieved his love for Rose and his anger against her in an intensity of rage that had previously been quite outside the range of his emotions. Rose was the blackest, the foulest, the most hideous creature on earth. She had subjected him to the most unbearable tortures, the most cruel injustices, that any man had ever undergone. He had sometimes read, in a spirit of unsympathetic ribaldry, the reports which abounded in the Sunday papers of crimes of passion committed in poor homes, and he had muttered, “Must ha’ been daft,” or, looking at a photograph, “Little runt like that, wouldn’t think he had it in him.” Now he understood what had driven them, and fed himself on dreams of violence. However, if the rages of real life are as towering as those of literature, there is one saving difference about them — they usually fizzle out. At the end of the day’s work, Jack not only forgot the fury which had been consuming him for hours, but even felt better for having worked it off. He was ravenously hungry.