‘I think I ought to go,’ Doris said quietly.
Doreen leant over and grabbed Bill by the arm. She had to do something to attract his attention. He’d been taking no notice of her all the evening.
‘Tell her it isn’t anything to worry about,’ she said. ‘Tell her she’s just getting panicky.’
Bill thought for a moment.
‘Shouldn’t think it’s serious,’ he replied at last. ‘But it might be. You can’t tell without seeing him.’ He paused and looked across at Doris. ‘She’d better go if she wants to. There’s no harm in finding out.’
Doreen dropped Bill’s arm again.
‘I think it’s monstrous,’ she said, ‘trailing across London at this time of night, simply because someone phones.’
She was speaking louder than ever now. Her colour was higher, too. And she seemed in danger of bursting into tears at any moment. Then somebody behind her – it was Clifford, the one who could do Hitler, and was such a perfect scream with his imitations – put his arm round her waist and pulled her back down on to the settee beside him.
‘You still have me,’ he said in his Boyer voice. ‘Take life by the throat, little girl. Don’t be afraid of love.’
Doris had gone out of the room by now. Simply walked through into the bedroom and left them there. And a moment later she came back. She had got her handbag under her arm.
‘Please don’t anybody move,’ she said. ‘I’m terribly sorry breaking up everything like this.’
She’d gone halfway to the door. Then suddenly Doreen jumped up and flung her arms round her neck.
‘I’ve been a pig,’ she said. ‘An absolute pig. Of course you’ve got to go if you’re worried. We all understand.’
But she’d spoken a moment too soon. For Bill had got up too and was standing staring at Doris again.
‘I’ll come with you,’ he said.
It was touch‐and‐go for a moment. But Doreen realised that she mustn’t lose her temper in front of all those people. So she gave a little laugh instead.
‘Now I understand,’ she said. ‘It’s just a blind for you two to get off together.’
‘No, it isn’t,’ said Bill. ‘I only just thought of it.’
But Doris was already in the tiny hall, opening the yellow front door.
On the way down together they met Mr Perkiss toiling up the iron staircase. He was carrying a bottle of Scotch and a bunch of dark red roses. His patent leather shoes twinkled. But he was obviously out of condition. By the time he reached them, his mouth was hanging wide open.
As soon as he saw Doris, however, he drew himself up and tried to look like a youngster who had just come bounding up the whole flight.
‘My dea‐ah young lady,’ he said. ‘Not going? Not leaving your own party?’
‘Her father’s ill,’ Bill told him. ‘She’s just going over to see him.’
‘And a very charming visitor for a sick man to have,’ Mr Perkiss replied. ‘I only hope that if I should ever be ill…’
‘Good‐night,’ said Bill, who didn’t like Mr Perkiss.
‘I feel awful dragging you away like this.’
It was the dozenth time that she had said it since they had left the flat. And Bill made his usual answer.
‘My idea entirely,’ he said. ‘Just thought I’d like the ride.’
They were nearly there at last. The sun had gone out of the sky by now and was setting amid the smoke of Hammersmith. The whole Western quarter of London seemed to be ablaze, and the windows of Whitehall glittered back at it. Ahead of them, Westminster had caught the glare and was shining. Then when they came to the bridge they saw the river on fire; a great flaming tide flowing seawards under their feet. The walls of the Embankment had turned from grey to pink and were smouldering, and little burning wisps carried high into the air sparkled from the tops of railings and lamp‐posts. St Paul’s itself carried a lighted faggot shaped like a cross on its summit.
Bill surveyed the scene for a moment in silence.
‘Going to be a fine day to‐morrow,’ he said.
There was a pause.
‘You’d better get a bus back from the Oval,’ Doris suggested. ‘We’re not there yet,’ Bill answered.
There was something obstinately faithful about him. It was a following, dog‐like quality. He was clearly determined not to allow Doris out of his sight if he could help it.
In consequence, there was quite a scene outside the Roebuck when the bus put them down there. Doris wanted Bill to go back, and Bill wanted to come on.
‘Can’t drag a chap all this way and then send him home again,’ he kept saying. ‘’Tisn’t good enough.’
The trouble was that Doris couldn’t explain why she didn’t want him. There were two reasons. In the first place, she was worried about her father. And secondly, she was worried about her mother. She had planned to take Bill over at the flat sometime, and she didn’t want him dropping in unannounced like this when everything was bound to be a bit upset anyhow. She hadn’t forgotten that awful evening when Doreen had paid her first visit to Dulcimer Street.
Dulcimer Street itself looked unusually drab and shabby when they got there. Now that the commotion of the sunset was over and done with, the whole of London was glowing no longer. It was grey. And south of the river greyness seemed thicker and more opaque. There was none of the pearly greyness of early morning about it. It was a flat, dirty grey that seemed compounded of equal degrees of soot, nightfall and the littleness of man’s ambition. After the clear air of Primrose Hill it was too abrupt, this descent into the gathering darkness of the London jungle.
They had reached the house by now. And Doris suddenly repented. She held out her hand to him.
‘It was ever so sweet of you to come with me,’ she said. ‘It was really. I’m sorry I was so cross.’
‘Hadn’t I better come in and see if I can do anything?’ Bill enquired hopefully. ‘Bit of medical advice and all that.’
Doris shook her head.
‘Some other time,’ she said. ‘Not now. Mother’s sure to be worried.’ Bill remained there silent for a moment. The faithful dog‐like expression was more noticeable than ever. Then something crossed his mind. He gave a little grin – a mere tremor of the tail as it were – and thrust his hands into his pockets.
‘Tell you what,’ he said. ‘I’ll wait outside. Just in case I’m needed. You may want something from the chemists. I’ll give you a quarter of an hour and then if you haven’t sent for me, I’ll go home.’
‘Good‐night, Bill,’ she said to him. ‘Good‐night, Doris.’
‘He’s asleep at the moment,’ Mrs Josser was saying. ‘Just dropped off before you got here.’
‘But how is he?’ Doris asked.
Mrs Josser drew in her breath.
‘Not himself,’ she answered. ‘He doesn’t complain much because he isn’t that sort. But he’s not himself. You can see for yourself he isn’t.’
Just as they reached the bedroom door, Mrs Josser laid her hand on Doris’s arm.
‘Try and get him to see a doctor,’ she said. ‘I’ve been on at him all day. He may take more notice of you.’
Mr Josser was awake again by the time Doris got to the bedroom. He was propped up by so many pillows that he seemed to be almost leaning forwards. And there was something anxious and staring – frightened even – about him. His eyes were scared. And across his forehead the beads of perspiration were standing out.
‘Doris,’ he said faintly. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘How are you, Dad?’ she asked, trying to keep her voice level and casual sounding.
She went over to the bed and bent down. His face felt rough and burning as she kissed him. And, as Mr Josser raised his lips to hers, she was aware of something oddly disturbing about it. His kiss was at once passionate and feeble. It was as though he had been carefully saving up just enough strength for that one kiss and even then had found that it was too much for him. The kiss died away befo
re it could come to anything.
Then Mr Josser smiled. The odd frightened look disappeared for a moment from his face, and then returned.
‘Just my old chest playing me up again,’ he said. ‘Just something wrong with the bellows.’
Because he felt that it was expected of him in front of Mrs Josser, he attempted a little laugh as well as the smile. But it was a mistake. It made him cough. And it was a violently painful cough. He held his hand to his side as though he’d been wounded. When he had recovered, the beads of sweat on his forehead were reinforced with new ones.
‘That’s the second time this evening,’ Mrs Josser reported. ‘He was like this earlier.’
‘I… I’m all right if I sit up,’ Mr Josser assured them. ‘It’s only that it catches me sometimes.’
‘Hadn’t we better get the doctor?’ Doris asked him.
Mr Josser shook his head.
‘Not to‐night,’ he said. ‘Not as late as this. Wait till Dr…’
‘But you’ve got a temperature,’ Doris told him. ‘You’re ever so hot.’
She was fondling his hand as she spoke. It was a dry rasping sort of hand.
‘We’ve had all that out earlier this evening,’ Mrs Josser said grimly. ‘I tried to take it, but he wouldn’t let me.’
Mr Josser looked from one to the other imploringly.
‘It’s nothing,’ he explained with a little gasp in between the words. ‘Just being shut up in this room all day.’
As he finished, Doris got up and faced him.
‘Well, I think it’s something,’ she said. ‘You’ve got to see a doctor and I’m going for him.’
Mr Josser roused himself for a moment and tried to stop her. But the pain in his side was too sharp and he had to sit quiet again. He muttered something about a lot of women fussing over him.
Mrs Josser turned to Doris.
‘You go right along,’ she said. ‘And don’t come back without one.’
2
From behind the long hanging curtain in the front room, Percy stood staring down through his squint into the roadway below him. He had seen it twice already. And, as he waited he saw it again. A young man – a heavily built young man – in flannel trousers and a sports coat was patrolling up and down outside the house, going two doors in one direction and then turning and going two doors on in the other. Every time he paused, the street lamp outside lit him up like an actor on a stage.
‘That’s Them,’ he said helplessly. ‘They’re watching me. They’re playing cat‐and‐mouse. That’s what They’re doing. Cat‐and‐mouse. They know it’s me and They’re waiting. There’ll be someone there all night just to make sure of me. And when They’re ready They’ll pounce. That’s Them. They’re watching me.’
3
Bill was still there when Doris got back down to the street again. He had the manner of someone who was prepared, if necessary, to stop until morning. Even so, he didn’t seem surprised when Doris came up to him.
‘Want some throat lozenges?’ he asked cheerfully.
But Doris wasn’t a bit cheerful.
‘Oh Bill,’ she said. ‘I’m worried. I’ve got to get a doctor. Quick.’ ‘Me come too,’ Bill said, and fell into step alongside her. ‘What’s gone wrong?’ he asked.
‘I… I don’t know,’ Doris answered. ‘I think it’s pneumonia or something.’
‘Who’s your doctor?’ Bill asked.
‘Oh, he’s away or something,’ Doris told him. ‘I’m just going to get the first one I can find.’
‘What about me?’ Bill suggested.
‘But you’re not qualified.’
‘I’m as good as.’
Doris paused.
‘Would you know what to do?’ she asked.
‘Can’t tell unless I see him,’ he said. ‘Better let me have a look.’
He took hold of Doris’s arm as she spoke, and steered her back round in the direction of the house.
‘Nothing to worry about in pneumonia nowadays,’ he assured her. ‘M. and B. ’ll fix him.’
Bill took a bit of explaining to Mrs Josser when they got back. He didn’t look in the least like any doctor she had ever seen. The whole thing seemed like a put‐up job to her. And she remained suspicious and unconvinced. But as Doris had brought him straight into the bedroom there wasn’t much that she could do about it.
What was more, Bill had taken matters into his own hands. He was over by the bed talking to Mr Josser. The two of them seemed to have developed a rapid and intimate friendship. They were whispering together and Bill was doing something to the top button of Mr Josser’s pyjama jacket. This only made things worse in Mrs Josser’s eyes. She had always regretted her husband’s readiness to make friends with anyone. First of all Percy. And now this strange young man with the baggy flannel trousers and the extraordinary tie.
When Bill had lifted Mr Josser’s pink and white pyjamas, he got round behind him and pressed his ear against his back. As he did so, Doris noticed how thin her father was. His backbone made a hard knobbly ridge with the hot skin stretched over it.
‘Just take a breath as far as it will go,’ Bill was saying. ‘Don’t strain at it.’
Mr Josser drew in his breath and winced as he did so.
‘Ah,’ Bill said approvingly as though the pain had been his own idea. ‘Do it again.’
Mr Josser sucked in the air again – his mouth was hanging open slightly all the time from the strain of breathing – and again he winced before his lungs were half full.
‘That’ll do for now,’ Bill said.
But he hadn’t finished. Laying his hand on Mr Jesser’s back, he began percussing him. There was an intent, absorbed look on his face that Doris had not seen before. He seemed for the moment someone apart from the rest of them, someone remote and vastly important. When he had done, he tucked in Mr Josser’s pyjamas carefully all round as if he were arranging a baby, and wiped his hands which were sticky. Then he stepped back.
‘Just you sit up and enjoy yourself,’ he said, ‘and I’ll tell you what’s the matter with you.’
‘Is it… is it bad?’ Mrs Josser asked.
She caught Mr Josser’s eye as he said it and then looked away again as if ashamed of herself for asking.
‘Not if we do something about it,’ Bill told her. ‘You’ve got a touch of pleurisy. That’s all it is. You’d better let me do a paracentesis…’
‘What’s that?’ Mr Josser demanded.
‘Just tap the left lung and let the fluid out. That’s what’s causing the pain.’
But it was not so easy as all that. Mrs Josser came over to Bill and stood in front of him.
‘Are you qualified, young man?’ she asked.
Bill paused, and hoped that Doris wasn’t going to say anything. ‘Yes,’ he answered.
‘Hm.’
Mrs Josser was obviously still dubious. But she didn’t say anything. Instead, she went across to the bed and began stroking Mr Josser’s forehead.
‘Don’t worry, Fred,’ she told him. ‘You’ll be all right.’
There was something protective in her attitude, as though she were defending him from any rash assault that Doris’s young man might attempt upon him.
And Bill took advantage of it.
‘That’s right,’ he said. ‘Keep the patient comfortable while I go and collect my bag. Back again inside half an hour. Not too much excitement, mind.’
Outside the door, Doris caught hold of Bill’s arm.
‘Oh Bill, are you sure you can do it?’ she asked. ‘Are you certain that he’ll be all right?’
And because it was dark on the landing and because she was close to him, he kissed her. It was a rapid, clumsy sort of kiss. A kiss hastily inserted into the momentous business of the evening.
She followed him downstairs without speaking. ‘Don’t get run over, Bill,’ she told him.
In the end, he was away for nearly an hour. First he tried a friend at St Thomas’s which was near. But the frie
nd was away somewhere. Then he tried the Westminster where he vaguely knew the house‐surgeon. But the house‐surgeon was unimpressed by the whole proposal. He recommended calling in another doctor and rang off. So there was nothing for it but to go right over to Charing Cross where he belonged. And there was a night‐sister there who gave him what he needed. She was a calm, sensible sort of woman.
‘And if anything goes wrong, don’t forget that you came in and took the things when my back was turned,’ she said. ‘I don’t want to go losing my job because of you.’
Bill smiled at her.
‘Sister,’ he said, ‘I’ll make you matron one day. And now have you got an attaché case or something? I can’t walk about London looking like an emergency.’
He blew two shillings on a cab on the way back, and Doris was waiting for him down in the street when he got there.
‘Oh Bill,’ she said. ‘Do hurry. He looks so awful.’
When Bill had got on his long white coat Mrs Josser seemed more ready to believe in him. But by now Bill had ceased to take any real notice of her. There was that intent, absorbed look on his face again. He asked for a saucepan of water and stood there impatiently while it was brought to him. And then, without asking Mrs Josser’s permission, he lit the gas‐ring by the fireplace and placed the saucepan on it. Then he unpacked his case, thoughtfully, counting out the contents.
‘One hypodermic,’ he was saying to himself. ‘One bot. iodine; one packet swabs, one pump, suction; one vacuum jar; one bot. novocaine; one trocar; one pair surgical forceps.’
He took up the hypodermic syringe in the forceps – it was noticeable that here was a kind of expert daintiness about him now, quite unlike his usual clumsiness – and lowered it into the saucepan. Then, again without asking permission, he went over to the wash‐basin and started scrubbing his hands. He looked more professional still, as he stood there. And he was certainly more authoritative. He turned to Mrs Josser.
London Belongs to Me Page 30
