I nodded.
“I expect so.” I didn’t want to go back into it. “I never meant to upset her, Johnny, but. . . . You didn’t get any letters from me, I suppose? I wrote two or three, long ones.”
“No, Frank, I never ’ad no letters from you.”
“I stuck one inside a book not long ago. You didn’t get that either? Bulldog Drummond the book was called.”
“No, I never ’ad nothing from you.”
“They were all the same letter anyway, so someone must have got bored reading them, if they were read at all.”
“What was they about?”
But no, no! I couldn’t bear to go back into it all!
“Johnny,” I said earnestly, “are things going to be all right between us now?”
“Of course they are,” he replied smiling.
“As it was before?”
“I said so, didn’t I?”
“Johnny, I’m frightened.”
“Don’t be silly.” My eyes fell. “Was your letters about Evie?”
My hands began to tremble and I clasped them between my knees.
“I’ve been trying to tell you about her for months.”
“What about’er?”
I tried to focus.
“About her not going out.” It sounded awfully lame.
“Tom said ’e took ’er.”
“He didn’t, Johnny,” I said wearily. “It was a lie. No one took her but I. She was a prisoner like you. Didn’t Megan tell you? I asked her to.”
“She said you ’ad ’er over to Barnes and was worried about ’er.”
“Ah, then you did know.”
“But what could I do? I couldn’t do nothing in ’ere.”
“Couldn’t you have let me send her into the country, like I asked?” I said dully.
“’Ow could I? It wouldn’t ’ave been fair on them. Perhaps it was a mistake to put ’er there in the first place, only I didn’t know what else to do with ’er. But I couldn’t take ’er away from them again after they’d ’ad the trouble of ’er and got fond of ’er, now could I?”
“Millie always said she was such a nuisance,” I murmured.
“That’s only Mum’s way of talking. She didn’t mind. She likes ’aving ’er there, and so does Tom. ’E thinks the world of ’er.”
Was it the phrase? Was it the phrase? At any rate I suddenly saw her, clear as crystal, bright as dawn, her strange eyes fixed intently upon me.
“He thrashed her and never took her out!” I cried aloud. “Was that fair on the dog?”
Johnny looked down at his hands, which were resting on the table.
“I told ’im not to ’it ’er,” he mumbled in a low thick voice. When he raised his eyes again they were brimming with tears.
“Well, he did hit her!” I said brutally. “He took off his belt to her, the swine! And although she begged him to take her out, he was too bloody lazy!”
“ ’E ain’t been ’isself lately, that’s where it is. ’E gets a bit irritating at times. That trouble ’e ’as with ’is back passage, Mum says the doctors say now it’s bad, it’s a growth.”
“Don’t!” I said angrily. To have my hatred of Tom so unfairly undermined was too much.
“Mum says Evie’s all right,” said Johnny, glaring at me through his tears.
“Is she?” I said more gently. “I find it hard to believe, but I don’t know.”
“’Aven’t you seen ’er lately, Frank?”
“No, they wouldn’t let me. They said you didn’t want me to. Oh, Johnny, you never said that, did you?”
“No, Frank.” Then he added mildly: “They didn’t like what you said about the R.S.P.C.A.”
Scandalized I exclaimed: “Megan must have told them!”
“No, it was Rita come out with it.”
“Ah, Rita!” I said, with a bitter laugh. “I might have known!” So something had been said up at Millie’s after all, in spite of Megan’s denials. I reflected for a moment. “I’m sorry, Johnny. I’m afraid I’ve been tactless over all this and made things worse for you than they were. But your dog was so pretty and so lonely.”
“Did Mum write you? I told ’er to and to say you was to ’ave Evie for your ’oliday.”
I smiled at him.
“I’m keeping the rest of that for you now, Johnny. Do you remember what you said?”
“Of course I do.”
“Does it still hold good?”
“Of course it does,” he said laughing. “I promised, didn’t I? Did Mum write you?”
“Yes, she did, Johnny. I’m afraid I didn’t answer.” After a moment I added: “The good-hearted old geezer was a bit browned off.”
“Now, now, you don’t want to take no notice of that. I didn’t mean nothing by that. You can ’ave Evie for your ’oliday if you like, Frank, so long as you bring ’er back at the end of it.”
“Thank you, Johnny. What are you going to do with her when you come out?”
“I shall fetch ’er ’ome to mine. It’ll be the first thing I do.”
“Oh do! Oh do!” I said earnestly. “Don’t leave her there a second longer than you can help!”
“Of course I’ll ’ave to let them ’ave ’er back from time to time.”
“You’ll send her back to that yard!” I cried aghast.
But he was equally vehement:
“’Ow can I ’elp it? I can’t do nothing else. You don’t understand. It’s the same with Dickie. I can’t just go and take ’im away from them. They’re stuck on ’im now, and Megan says ’e thinks more of Mum than ’e do of ’er. So what can I do? I don’t want them to ’ave ’im, any more than I want them to ’ave Evie. I want me family and me dog with me. But I can’t take everything away from Mum as soon as I come out and leave ’er with nothing, now can I? They don’t ’ave much in their lives and they’ve been good to me while I’ve been inside. I’ll ’ave to be fair to them.”
“Leave the child and take the dog,” I said gravely. “The child wants to stay, the dog doesn’t.”
“I’ll ’ave to see,” he muttered, gnawing his nails.
“Where did you get her, by the way?”
“I bought ’er,” said Johnny with a grin. “It was the first thing I done when I’d made a bit of money screwin’. Of course I didn’t tell them that, for they knew I didn’t ’ave the cash, so I said she was give me.”
“Why did you buy her?”
He looked at me in surprise.
“I wanted ’er. I saw ’er in a shop winder, and I meant to ’ave ’er. I put down a deposit on ’er, and then I screwed the first ’ouse to get the rest. I’m mad on them dogs, didn’t you know? I ’ad one when I was a kid. Didn’t Mum tell you? I thought the world of ’er, I did. ’Er name was Evie too. I done me nut when she died. She ’ad some thing went wrong with ’er insides. Oh, I done me nut! You ask Mum. I wouldn’t eat. I never ate for days. Oh, I went mad! Mum’ll tell you.”
I nodded, looking at his flushed face, flushed with the sentimentality of self-dramatization. Then I connected.
“Was that why you asked me for a loan, then? To buy this Evie?”
He shot me a brief glance, sharp, amused.
“Well, she come in.”
“And how much did she cost?”
“I give fifteen quid for ’er. She’s good, she is. I mean to breed from ’er when I get out.” Then he added: “Megan told me you wanted to buy ’er, Frank. But I wouldn’t sell ’er. I’ve thought of ’er every day since I’ve been in ’ere. Every day! I wouldn’t sell ’er to no one, not for nothing. I wouldn’t sell ’er for a thousand pounds!”
“That’s all right, Johnny. I wasn’t going to ask again. But you’ll never be able to keep her. You’ve no idea. She’s a wild beast.”
“I’ll manage some’ow. Would you like ’er for your ’oliday, Frank? Shall I tell Mum to write you again?”
I shook my head.
“Bring her to see me when you come out.”
“All ri
ght. I’ll bring ’er along as soon as I’ve got ’er. And I’ll stay with you the ’ole day. That’s a promise.”
A bell rang for us to go.
“’Ave you got my fags on you?” he asked in a rapid, urgent whisper.
“Don’t be silly, Johnny! It’s too dangerous!”
“Come on!” said he, turning on all his charm like a light. “They won’t take no notice.”
His eyes, tearful a moment ago, were now fairly dancing.
“Johnny, I can’t!” A notice on the wall forbade visitors under penalty of prosecution to pass anything to the prisoners, and a large screw—Millie’s perhaps—was standing almost at my elbow. Johnny observed the furtive glance I cast at him.
“That’s all right. I know ’im. ’E’s cushy.”
“Anyway I’ve only Turkish.”
“Christ!” said Johnny with disgust. “Never mind. They’ll ’ave to do.”
I fumbled in my pocket and, coughing and sweating in an excitement which, I afterwards thought when the recollection of it amused me, was probably no less pleasurable than his own, I passed my packet under the table. Johnny’s slender hand closed firmly and unfumblingly upon it.
This interview, when the emotional pleasure of seeing Johnny had worn off, left me feeling unaccountably tired and flat, and as my thoughts, in the succeeding days, reverted to it and wandered dully among its shoals and shallows, I found myself afflicted by a despondency which had nothing to do with the perception that I had been put, to a large extent, in the wrong. Say what one might against these people, their foolish frames could not bear the weight of iniquity I had piled upon them; they were, in fact, perfectly ordinary people behaving in a perfectly ordinary way, and practically all the information they had given me about themselves and each other had been true, had been real, and not romance, or prevarication, or the senseless antics of some incomprehensible insect, which were the alternating lights in which, since it had not happened to suit me, I had preferred to regard it. They simply had not wished to worry Johnny, and, it was plain enough, he had had much to worry him already; he had cared about the fate of his dismal wife and family, as Millie had cared about Dickie, and, for all I knew, Tom about Evie; the tears Johnny had shed over his dog had been real tears and, there was no doubt of it, he had terribly missed his smokes. Their problems, in short, had been real problems, and the worlds they so frequently said they thought of each other apparently seemed less flimsy to them than they had appeared to me when I tried to sweep them all away. It was difficult to escape the conclusion, indeed, that, on the whole, I had been a tiresome and troublesome fellow who, for one reason or another, had acted in a manner so intemperate that he might truly be said to have lost his head; but if this sober reflection had upon me any effect at all, it produced no feeling that could remotely be called repentance, but only a kind of listlessness as though some prop that had supported me hitherto had been withdrawn. Yet Johnny had been perfectly nice; what better proof of his affection could I have than the thought that had come to him in the solitude of his cell of calling his new child by my name? And I could have his dog. And soon I should have him. . . . Indeed, I had everything, except the sense of richness, and when the phrase “I ’ad to do me best to please everyone” recurred to my mind, I wondered why so admirable a sentiment made me feel so cross. Beneath such a general smear of mild good nature, I asked myself, could any true values survive? Where everything mattered nothing mattered, and I recollected that it had passed through my mind while I spoke to him that if the eyes that looked into mine took me in at all, they seemed to take me for granted.
Soon afterwards, into my now almost somnambulistic life, a letter from Millie came, an abject, begging letter. Since she had been unable to keep Dickie he had had to be returned to his mother who was now out of hospital; but the child was terribly unhappy, he did nothing but cry all day and would not eat, would I be so kind as to help her? The letter moved and shamed me; I should not have reduced her to that. Poor Millie; I had no desire to see her again, but she was a good creature and I had made her a promise. How could I expect other people to keep their promises to me if I did not keep my own? I sent her a friendly note and enough money to cover the arrears and take her up to the day of Johnny’s release. Besides, I reflected, was I not perhaps doing something for Evie too, for if the Winders were able to retain the child it might be easier for Johnny to abstract his dog.
And then, weeks later, he himself phoned, wildly elated; he was just out, was off to fetch Evie at once and would be over to see me soon. Instantly, with the sound of his voice, the exhaustion, apathy almost, that had clogged my spirits for so long, vanished and the old nervous, anxious excitement took its place. Johnny! Johnny and Evie! “Soon” dragged itself out to a week, and how I managed passively to wait I do not know, but I had, after all, been receiving lessons in patience, and wait I did. Then he rang again; it was a Friday evening. “I’ll be bringing Evie over tomorrow, Frank. Be with you at two. Okay?”
I had always in the past made elaborate preparations, frequently wasted, for his reception; now I made elaborate preparations for them both. Besides the drink and food, and the present of money I knew he would be glad of, which I gathered together for him, I set the flat lovingly for her as well. Her bowl, her ball, her biscuits, her blanket, everything was put back as it had been before; I stood for two hours in a queue to procure her a succulent piece of horsemeat, and I stocked the vegetable basket with all manner of vegetables for which I had no personal use. And when the time of their arrival drew near, I went out on to my verandah so that I might steal from Time the extra happiness of watching them approach. I knew that he would walk her and the way that he would come, down the towing-path and along The Terrace, and since this stretched below me in all its length, curving away, as the river curved, as far as the eye could reach, I should be able to see them at a considerable distance making, from their respective prisons, their returning way into my life. If Johnny came at all he was always late, and today was no exception; half-past two struck, and “Not this day,” I said aloud, as though someone stood beside me under the great arch of the sky. “Take all my other days, but not this one.” And then, suddenly, there they were, emerging from among the trees and elder bushes of the towing-path, tiny like figures seen through the wrong end of a telescope, Johnny and Evie, or rather Evie and Johnny, for before they reached the end of the path where it turns into road, I saw him bend and attach her to her lead, and then she came as I remembered her, the pretty sable-gray sprawling bitch, spurning the ground and dragging after her the sturdy, backward-bent figure of her master. With bated breath I watched them approach, growing larger and larger, until they were almost beneath me: and Johnny never looked up. How strange, I thought as I gazed down at them, drawing them towards me with my eyes, that he did not look up. “Ah, Johnny, look up!” I murmured, but he did not look up, and I recollected then that he never looked back at parting either; it was as though I existed for him only at the point of contact. But if there was nothing in his bearing to suggest that the particular direction in which he was moving had for him more interest than any other, Evie, to whom my gaze shifted, gave another impression. And “She remembers!” I said to myself. “I’m sure she remembers!” They reached the entrance to the flats. Craning over the balustrade I watched them arrive. “Now!” I whispered. “Now!” and she turned into the doorway without hesitation, pulling Johnny in after her.
I hurried out to await them on the landing. Johnny made no attempt to use the lift; I heard them plodding and scuffling up the four flights of stairs.
“Evie! Evie!” I cried, and either he released her or she tore herself out of his grasp, for she came bounding up towards me trailing her lead.
If it was true, as Millie had once touchingly suggested, that Evie, in the first instance, had mistaken me for Johnny, it did not look as though she had afterwards mistaken him for me. There seemed no confusion in her mind now, and if the joy with which she greeted me lacked som
ething of the wild abandonment of her Easter welcome, that was no doubt due, I thought, to the fact that here, upon my ground, her enthusiasm was less concentrated, more dispersed; there was my flat as well as myself with which to renew acquaintance. Into this, after she had kissed me, she hurried, re-entering all its rooms and finding again the toys and paraphernalia she had had before; when Johnny and I followed her into the sitting-room she was already in occupation of what she used to regard as her arm-chair, as though she had never left it.
It was the most enchanting, if imperfect, day; it contained all the ingredients, desirable and undesirable, that had long been part and parcel of my friendship with this boy. He was excited, he was affectionate, he was gay; he behaved not merely as though there were something he couldn’t sufficiently thank me for, but as though there were something he could never quite make up; he was so much the same as he had been in the beginning, when he and I were all that counted, that the difference, when it appeared, that what he was now doing was simply and still his “best to please everyone,” hardly seemed to tell. For he soon declared that he could not stay as long as he had hoped, not more than three hours, Megan was unwell, she had been poorly since her confinement and had come over dizzy, he explained, not meeting my eye; but he would make up for it by bringing Evie again very soon, that was a promise; and then, of course, there were the allusions to financial difficulties which I had foreseen and provided for, and which I now welcomed as I must welcome anything that could help to bind him to me. Happiness had to be paid for. But the four hours—I managed to extend them to four—that he spent with me were so delightful, making up as they did, it seemed to me, for all the frustrations and sorrows of the past and whatever frustrations and sorrows were to come, that he could have had the very shirt off my back, which, indeed, soon joined his upon the floor. It was now, as the rest of our garments followed, that Evie began to exhibit an increasing perturbation as though whatever was happening before her eyes was having, upon the confidence she had hitherto shown in the distinctness of our identities, a confusing effect. Uttering little quavering cries of doubt and concern, she sat first upon our mingled clothes, gazing at us with a wild surmise, then upon our mingled bodies, excitedly licking our faces as though she would solve her perplexing problem either by cementing them together with her saliva or by forcing them apart. She lay with us throughout the afternoon, her fur against our flesh, and we talked of her most of the time.
We Think the World of You Page 13
