Delphi Collected Works of W. Somerset Maugham (Illustrated)

by William Somerset Maugham

  ‘Give us a song, old cock,’ she said.

  ‘I can’t,’ he answered. ‘I’m not a singin’ sort.’ At which Blakeston got up and offered to sing again.

  ‘Tom is rather a soft,’ said Liza to herself, ‘not like that cove Blakeston.’

  They repaired to the public-house to have a few last drinks before the brake started, and when the horn blew to warn them, rather unsteadily, they proceeded to take their places.

  Liza, as she scrambled up the steps, said: ‘Well, I believe I’m boozed.’

  The coachman had arrived at the melancholy stage of intoxication, and was sitting on his box holding his reins, with his head bent on his chest. He was thinking sadly of the long-lost days of his youth, and wishing he had been a better man.

  Liza had no respect for such holy emotions, and she brought down her fist on the crown of his hat, and bashed it over his eyes.

  ‘Na then, old jellybelly,’ she said, ‘wot’s the good of ‘avin’ a fice as long as a kite?’

  He turned round and smote her.

  ‘Jellybelly yerself!’ said he.

  ‘Puddin’ fice!’ she cried.

  ‘Kite fice!’

  ‘Boss eye!’

  She was tremendously excited, laughing and singing, keeping the whole company in an uproar. In her jollity she had changed hats with Tom, and he in her big feathers made her shriek with laughter. When they started they began to sing ‘For ‘e’s a jolly good feller’, making the night resound with their noisy voices.

  Liza and Tom and the Blakestons had got a seat together, Liza being between the two men. Tom was perfectly happy, and only wished that they might go on so for ever. Gradually as they drove along they became quieter, their singing ceased, and they talked in undertones. Some of them slept; Sally and her young man were leaning up against one another, slumbering quite peacefully. The night was beautiful, the sky still blue, very dark, scattered over with countless brilliant stars, and Liza, as she looked up at the heavens, felt a certain emotion, as if she wished to be taken in someone’s arms, or feel some strong man’s caress; and there was in her heart a strange sensation as though it were growing big. She stopped speaking, and all four were silent. Then slowly she felt Tom’s arm steal round her waist, cautiously, as though it were afraid of being there; this time both she and Tom were happy. But suddenly there was a movement on the other side of her, a hand was advanced along her leg, and her hand was grasped and gently pressed. It was Jim Blakeston. She started a little and began trembling so that Tom noticed it, and whispered:

  ‘You’re cold, Liza.’

  ‘Na, I’m not, Tom; it’s only a sort of shiver thet went through me.’

  His arm gave her waist a squeeze, and at the same time the big rough hand pressed her little one. And so she sat between them till they reached the ‘Red Lion’ in the Westminster Bridge Road, and Tom said to himself: ‘I believe she does care for me after all.’

  When they got down they all said good night, and Sally and Liza, with their respective slaves and the Blakestons, marched off homewards. At the corner of Vere Street Harry said to Tom and Blakeston:

  ‘I say, you blokes, let’s go an’ ‘ave another drink before closin’ time.’

  ‘I don’t mind,’ said Tom, ‘after we’ve took the gals ‘ome.’

  ‘Then we shan’t ‘ave time, it’s just on closin’ time now.’ answered Harry.

  ‘Well, we can’t leave ’em ‘ere.’

  ‘Yus, you can,’ said Sally. ‘No one’ll run awy with us.’

  Tom did not want to part from Liza, but she broke in with:

  ‘Yus, go on, Tom. Sally an’ me’ll git along arright, an’ you ain’t got too much time.’

  ‘Yus, good night, ‘Arry,’ said Sally to settle the matter.

  ‘Good night, old gal,’ he answered, ‘give us another slobber.’

  And she, not at all unwilling, surrendered herself to him, while he imprinted two sounding kisses on her cheeks.

  ‘Good night, Tom,’ said Liza, holding out her hand.

  ‘Good night, Liza,’ he answered, taking it, but looking very wistfully at her.

  She understood, and with a kindly smile lifted up her face to him. He bent down and, taking her in his arms, kissed her passionately.

  ‘You do kiss nice, Liza,’ he said, making the others laugh.

  ‘Thanks for tikin’ me aht, old man,’ she said as they parted.

  ‘Arright, Liza,’ he answered, and added, almost to himself: ‘God bless yer!’

  ‘‘Ulloa, Blakeston, ain’t you comin’?’ said Harry, seeing that Jim was walking off with his wife instead of joining him and Tom.

  ‘Na,’ he answered, ‘I’m goin’ ‘ome. I’ve got ter be up at five ter-morrer.’

  ‘You are a chap!’ said Harry, disgustedly, strolling off with Tom to the pub, while the others made their way down the sleeping street.

  The house where Sally lived came first, and she left them; then, walking a few yards more, they came to the Blakestons’, and after a little talk at the door Liza bade the couple good night, and was left to walk the rest of the way home. The street was perfectly silent, and the lamp-posts, far apart, threw a dim light which only served to make Lisa realize her solitude. There was such a difference between the street at midday, with its swarms of people, and now, when there was neither sound nor soul besides herself, that even she was struck by it. The regular line of houses on either side, with the even pavements and straight, cemented road, seemed to her like some desert place, as if everyone were dead, or a fire had raged and left it all desolate. Suddenly she heard a footstep, she started and looked back. It was a man hurrying behind her, and in a moment she had recognized Jim. He beckoned to her, and in a low voice called:

  ‘Liza!’

  She stopped till he had come up to her.

  ‘Wot ‘ave yer come aht again for?’ she said.

  ‘I’ve come aht ter say good night to you, Liza,’ he answered.

  ‘But yer said good night a moment ago.’

  ‘I wanted to say it again — properly.’

  ‘Where’s yer missus?’

  ‘Oh, she’s gone in. I said I was dry and was goin’ ter ‘ave a drink after all.’

  ‘But she’ll know yer didn’t go ter the pub.’

  ‘Na, she won’t, she’s gone straight upstairs to see after the kid. I wanted ter see yer alone, Liza.’

  ‘Why?’

  He didn’t answer, but tried to take hold of her hand. She drew it away quickly. They walked in silence till they came to Liza’s house.

  ‘Good night,’ said Liza.

  ‘Won’t you come for a little walk, Liza?’

  ‘Tike care no one ‘ears you,’ she added, in a whisper, though why she whispered she did not know.

  ‘Will yer?’ he asked again.

  ‘Na — you’ve got to get up at five.’

  ‘Oh, I only said thet not ter go inter the pub with them.’

  ‘So as yer might come ‘ere with me?’ asked Liza.

  ‘Yus!’

  ‘No, I’m not comin’. Good night.’

  ‘Well, say good night nicely.’

  ‘Wot d’yer mean?’

  ‘Tom said you did kiss nice.’

  She looked at him without speaking, and in a moment he had clasped his arms round her, almost lifting her off her feet, and kissed her. She turned her face away.

  ‘Give us yer lips, Liza,’ he whispered— ‘give us yer lips.’

  He turned her face without resistance and kissed her on the mouth.

  At last she tore herself from him, and opening the door slid away into the house.

  6

  Next morning on her way to the factory Liza came up with Sally. They were both of them rather stale and bedraggled after the day’s outing; their fringes were ragged and untidily straying over their foreheads, their back hair, carelessly tied in a loose knot, fell over their necks and threatened completely to come down. Liza had not had time to put her hat on, and was
holding it in her hand. Sally’s was pinned on sideways, and she had to bash it down on her head every now and then to prevent its coming off. Cinderella herself was not more transformed than they were; but Cinderella even in her rags was virtuously tidy and patched up, while Sally had a great tear in her shabby dress, and Liza’s stockings were falling over her boots.

  ‘Wot cheer, Sal!’ said Liza, when she caught her up.

  ‘Oh, I ‘ave got sich a ‘ead on me this mornin’!’ she remarked, turning round a pale face: heavily lined under the eyes.

  ‘I don’t feel too chirpy neither,’ said Liza, sympathetically.

  ‘I wish I ‘adn’t drunk so much beer,’ added Sally, as a pang shot through her head.

  ‘Oh, you’ll be arright in a bit,’ said Liza. Just then they heard the clock strike eight, and they began to run so that they might not miss getting their tokens and thereby their day’s pay; they turned into the street at the end of which was the factory, and saw half a hundred women running like themselves to get in before it was too late.

  All the morning Liza worked in a dead-and-alive sort of fashion, her head like a piece of lead with electric shocks going through it when she moved, and her tongue and mouth hot and dry. At last lunch-time came.

  ‘Come on, Sal,’ said Liza, ‘I’m goin’ to ‘ave a glass o’ bitter. I can’t stand this no longer.’

  So they entered the public-house opposite, and in one draught finished their pots. Liza gave a long sigh of relief.

  ‘That bucks you up, don’t it?’

  ‘I was dry! I ain’t told yer yet, Liza, ‘ave I? ‘E got it aht last night.’

  ‘Who d’yer mean?’

  ‘Why, ‘Arry. ‘E spit it aht at last.’

  ‘Arst yer ter nime the day?’ said Liza, smiling.

  ‘Thet’s it.’

  ‘And did yer?’

  ‘Didn’t I jest!’ answered Sally, with some emphasis. ‘I always told yer I’d git off before you.’

  ‘Yus!’ said Liza, thinking.

  ‘Yer know, Liza, you’d better tike Tom; ‘e ain’t a bad sort.’ She was quite patronizing.

  ‘I’m goin’ ter tike ‘oo I like; an’ it ain’t nobody’s business but mine.’

  ‘Arright, Liza, don’t get shirty over it; I don’t mean no offence.’

  ‘What d’yer say it for then?’

  ‘Well, I thought as seeing as yer’d gone aht with ‘im yesterday thet yer meant ter after all.’

  ‘‘E wanted ter tike me; I didn’t arsk ‘im.’

  ‘Well, I didn’t arsk my ‘Arry, either.’

  ‘I never said yer did,’ replied Liza.

  ‘Oh, you’ve got the ‘ump, you ‘ave!’ finished Sally, rather angrily.

  The beer had restored Liza: she went back to work without a headache, and, except for a slight languor, feeling no worse for the previous day’s debauch. As she worked on she began going over in her mind the events of the preceding day, and she found entwined in all her thoughts the burly person of Jim Blakeston. She saw him walking by her side in the Forest, presiding over the meals, playing the concertina, singing, joking, and finally, on the drive back, she felt the heavy form by her side, and the big, rough hand holding hers, while Tom’s arm was round her waist. Tom! That was the first time he had entered her mind, and he sank into a shadow beside the other. Last of all she remembered the walk home from the pub, the good nights, and the rapid footsteps as Jim caught her up, and the kiss. She blushed and looked up quickly to see whether any of the girls were looking at her; she could not help thinking of that moment when he took her in his arms; she still felt the roughness of his beard pressing on her mouth. Her heart seemed to grow larger in her breast, and she caught for breath as she threw back her head as if to receive his lips again. A shudder ran through her from the vividness of the thought.

  ‘Wot are you shiverin’ for, Liza?’ asked one of the girls. ‘You ain’t cold.’

  ‘Not much,’ answered Liza, blushing awkwardly on her meditations being broken into. ‘Why, I’m sweatin’ so — I’m drippin’ wet.’

  ‘I expect yer caught cold in the Faurest yesterday.’

  ‘I see your mash as I was comin’ along this mornin’.’

  Liza stared a little.

  ‘I ain’t got one, ‘oo d’yer mean, ay?’

  ‘Yer only Tom, of course. ‘E did look washed aht. Wot was yer doin’ with ‘im yesterday?’

  ‘‘E ain’t got nothin’ ter do with me, ‘e ain’t.’

  ‘Garn, don’t you tell me!’

  The bell rang, and, throwing over their work, the girls trooped off, and after chattering in groups outside the factory gates for a while, made their way in different directions to their respective homes. Liza and Sally went along together.

  ‘I sy, we are comin’ aht!’ cried Sally, seeing the advertisement of a play being acted at the neighbouring theatre.

  ‘I should like ter see thet!’ said Liza, as they stood arm-in-arm in front of the flaring poster. It represented two rooms and a passage in between; in one room a dead man was lying on the floor, while two others were standing horror-stricken, listening to a youth who was in the passage, knocking at the door.

  ‘You see, they’ve ‘killed im,’ said Sally, excitedly.

  ‘Yus, any fool can see thet! an’ the one ahtside, wot’s ‘e doin’ of?’

  ‘Ain’t ‘e beautiful? I’ll git my ‘Arry ter tike me, I will. I should like ter see it. ‘E said ‘e’d tike me to the ply.’

  They strolled on again, and Liza, leaving Sally, made her way to her mother’s. She knew she must pass Jim’s house, and wondered whether she would see him. But as she walked along the street she saw Tom coming the opposite way; with a sudden impulse she turned back so as not to meet him, and began walking the way she had come. Then thinking herself a fool for what she had done, she turned again and walked towards him. She wondered if she had seen her or noticed her movement, but when she looked down the street he was nowhere to be seen; he had not caught sight of her, and had evidently gone in to see a mate in one or other of the houses. She quickened her step, and passing the house where lived Jim, could not help looking up; he was standing at the door watching her, with a smile on his lips.

  ‘I didn’t see yer, Mr. Blakeston,’ she said, as he came up to her.

  ‘Didn’t yer? Well, I knew yer would; an’ I was witin’ for yer ter look up. I see yer before ter-day.’

  ‘Na, when?’

  ‘I passed be’ind yer as you an’ thet other girl was lookin’ at the advertisement of thet ply.’

  ‘I never see yer.’

  ‘Na, I know yer didn’t. I ‘ear yer say, you says: “I should like to see thet.”’

  ‘Yus, an’ I should too.’

  ‘Well, I’ll tike yer.’

  ‘You?’

  ‘Yus; why not?’

  ‘I like thet; wot would yer missus sy?’

  ‘She wouldn’t know.’

  ‘But the neighbours would!’

  ‘No they wouldn’t, no one ‘d see us.’

  He was speaking in a low voice so that people could not hear.

  ‘You could meet me ahtside the theatre,’ he went on.

  ‘Na, I couldn’t go with you; you’re a married man.’

  ‘Garn! wot’s the matter — jest ter go ter the ply? An’ besides, my missus can’t come if she wanted, she’s got the kids ter look after.’

  ‘I should like ter see it,’ said Liza meditatively.

  They had reached her house, and Jim said:

  ‘Well, come aht this evenin’ and tell me if yer will — eh, Liza?’

  ‘Na, I’m not comin’ aht this evening.’

  ‘Thet won’t ‘urt yer. I shall wite for yer.’

  ‘‘Tain’t a bit of good your witing’, ‘cause I shan’t come.’

  ‘Well, then, look ‘ere, Liza; next Saturday night’s the last night, an’ I shall go to the theatre, any’ow. An’ if you’ll come, you just come to the door at ‘alf-past six, an’ you
’ll find me there. See?’

  ‘Na, I don’t,’ said Liza, firmly.

  ‘Well, I shall expect yer.’

  ‘I shan’t come, so you needn’t expect.’ And with that she walked into the house and slammed the door behind her.

  Her mother had not come in from her day’s charing, and Liza set about getting her tea. She thought it would be rather lonely eating it alone, so pouring out a cup of tea and putting a little condensed milk into it, she cut a huge piece of bread-and-butter, and sat herself down outside on the doorstep. Another woman came downstairs, and seeing Liza, sat down by her side and began to talk.

  ‘Why, Mrs. Stanley, wot ‘ave yer done to your ‘ead?’ asked Liza, noticing a bandage round her forehead.

  ‘I ‘ad an accident last night,’ answered the woman, blushing uneasily.

  ‘Oh, I am sorry! Wot did yer do to yerself?’

  ‘I fell against the coal-scuttle and cut my ‘ead open.’

  ‘Well, I never!’

  ‘To tell yer the truth, I ‘ad a few words with my old man. But one doesn’t like them things to get abaht; yer won’t tell anyone, will yer?’

  ‘Not me!’ answered Liza. ‘I didn’t know yer husband was like thet.’

  ‘Oh, ‘e’s as gentle as a lamb when ‘e’s sober,’ said Mrs. Stanley, apologetically. ‘But, Lor’ bless yer, when ‘e’s ‘ad a drop too much ‘e’s a demond, an’ there’s no two ways abaht it.’

  ‘An’ you ain’t been married long neither?’ said Liza.

  ‘Na, not above eighteen months; ain’t it disgriceful? Thet’s wot the doctor at the ‘orspital says ter me. I ‘ad ter go ter the ‘orspital. You should have seen ‘ow it bled! — it bled all dahn’ my fice, and went streamin’ like a bust waterpipe. Well, it fair frightened my old man, an’ I says ter ‘im, “I’ll charge yer,” an’ although I was bleedin’ like a bloomin’ pig I shook my fist at ‘im, an’ I says, “I’ll charge ye — see if I don’t!” An’ ‘e says, “Na,” says ‘e, “don’t do thet, for God’s sike, Kitie, I’ll git three months.” “An’ serve yer damn well right!” says I, an’ I went aht an’ left ‘im. But, Lor’ bless yer, I wouldn’t charge ‘im! I know ‘e don’t mean it; ‘e’s as gentle as a lamb when ‘e’s sober.’ She smiled quite affectionately as she said this.