Yet in a little while depression settled upon him. It was not because of Keogh. He had forgotten Keogh. It was a restless sense of something missing. He was troubled by all the young couples walking out. They seemed to be everywhere, hugging each other tightly round the waist or hanging round each other’s necks, all so happy.
Chas was eighteen. All the boys he had known at school had girls. Some of them were married, perhaps with children. Some walked out in a respectable way and were proud of their young ladies. Rougher boys boasted of more sordid-satisfactions, which they talked of as commonplace. Dido said they might as well be rats in the sewers the way they carried on. The less the boys had to do with them the better. The trouble was, Chas felt, that he had never been allowed to have much to do with anyone. He hadn’t got a single pal of his own. He looked at the girls, they were so nice, brazen as brass, kissing their boys, but nice girls, he could see. What chance did he have of meeting one? He’d stuck out for his rights this last couple of years — at least, when Dido wasn’t there to see. He could have a smoke, a drink, a game of billiards; he’d stroll down Whitechapel to look at the girls. To look at them, that was about the size of it. Here he was, as smart as anyone, money in his pocket, and he still didn’t know a soul outside his family. It made him feel lonely and miserable.
He was in Aldgate. He came often here of an evening when he was alone. He came because of the women in the doorways. They were all shapes and sizes, foreign mostly, and some of them were lovely. He walked slowly and one by one they leaned forward in the doorways and spoke to him.
“Fancy a short time, darling?”
“Want a bit, love?”
“Baby boy, baby boy —” This was a big blackie; so he called her, though she was the colour of milky coffee. She had wonderful teeth and flashing eyes, big feathers on her hat and a peacock-blue coat. “— you come with me, I’ll eat you right up.”
One stepped right out in front of him. She was fat, with dyed fair hair showing under a wide hat piled with flowers, and he saw gold teeth when she smiled. “Looking for a naughty girl, mister?”
His feet hurried until he was almost running. He turned into Commercial Street, crossed the road, and in no time was away from the crowds, in streets that were dark, dirty and deserted. It made him feel funny inside each time he walked past those women in Aldgate. Sometimes he felt he was going daft. There was no feeling like it. He went back as often as he could. But he only went to look. He hardly even dared to look. His neck always felt stiff. He stared straight in front of him. He only saw them out of the corner of his eye and he heard them whispering like pigeons to him. He never did anything more. He always hurried home, feeling breathless like he did now.
He turned into a deserted Rabbit Marsh. A few flakes still danced and vanished around him but the snow-storm was over. The air, however, had become more chill, damp and penetrating. He walked down the pavement opposite his home, as empty of thought as a young animal trotting towards warmth and shelter.
“Lovey —” It was a hoarse whisper from an entry.
He slowed down. He recognised the whisper. Usually when he heard it he hurried faster, as he always hurried away from the women in Aldgate.
“Have a cuddle. Keep the cold out.” His back was still to the doorway but he had stopped. No thought, no recognisable intention or emotion had stopped him. His legs had stopped on their own and his heart was racing.
“Come on.”
He turned to stare. The entry was a cave of darkness. She was a bundle in the darkness, glimmers of colour like a pile of his mother’s old rags. On top of the bundle a face was painted on the darkness, as clear as a phosphorescent death’s-head in a darkened fun-fair booth; a face as gaunt as a death’s-head, the hollow cheeks violet with powder plastered as coarse as a topsoil, slit by a lipless mouth which grinned to show a few teeth in brown clumps askew on pale, naked gums. A broken, big straw hat, filthy, a lady’s garden-party hat resurrected from some dustbin, was jammed on top of this scarecrow.
He could not move away. He could not breathe properly. His mind had stopped. He had walked away from the women. He did not know what had happened to him now but he could not walk away. She croaked, “I ain’t made a copper all night. I’ll take anything you give. Come on. ’Ave a ’eart.”
Helpless, all his body throbbing now with fear, he took one step nearer. Dirty Aggie. He knew her. Everyone knew Dirty Aggie, the old brass for the old down-and-outs who only had a few coppers to spare. In doorways and in yards among the dustbins. The entry breathed its close night tenement smell at him and in it were mingled woman odours, sweat, dirt, he did not know what, and the cloy of cheap powder through it all, sweet as sewer stink. Ill, repelled, he swayed towards it, wanting to cry. He had run away from handsome women and something was pushing him towards the horror of Dirty Aggie.
The nightmare ended in the second that the hand came down on his shoulder, hard and cruel. It was dispelled by a new nightmare, fear riving through him as all in one second he waited for the impact — oh, he had forgotten Keogh! Here in the silent street he had walked careless and let himself be trapped — the impact of boot, fist or club. All in a second, flesh cringing —
“All right. Get on home.” A hard, low voice. Not Keogh’s. It was Dido. A new shock pierced him. The shocks paralysed him. “Get on home. Go on.”
He took a few steps. His legs were weak. He heard Dido, “Clear out, you.”
The woman’s querulous croak, “You leave us alone.”
Weak with relief that it was not Keogh, weak with relief that he had been saved from the woman, Chas watched, a few yards off.
“Go on or you’ll get my boot.”
She was out of the doorway, a shuffling bundle, a pallid violet face pocked and scarred in the lamplight. “Talk to a woman like that?”
“Woman, Bag o’ worms. Muck. I don’t want you here. Go on. God ’elp you if I see you here again.”
She began to move off but she croaked, “’Oo are you givin’ orders?”
“You know who I am. I’ve warned you. You take notice.”
“You ain’t the law.”
“Ain’t I? I catch you in my street again, you’ll find out.”
Stubborn with misery, but sidling away, she moaned, “Not a bleed’n’ copper. All night on me feet. I’m freezin’. Give us a copper at least. ’Ave pity.”
“Pity for you? My boot’s all you’ll get. I could see you burned an’ sleep easy.”
She went away muttering her griefs. Chas walked home and he heard Dido walking in silence behind him.
They stopped outside Number 34. While Dido reached for his key Chas waited for the onslaught about Dirty Aggie. Instead Dido eyed him and said, “Where’d you get them togs?”
“Bought ’em.”
Dido stood there, as if considering. Then, “That old bag. I tried to keep you a decent boy. Find you with that old bag.”
Chas kept silence. Dido’s voice belaboured him. “Rotten. Didn’t you know that? Everyone knows. She’s rotten. Know what you’re askin’ for, goin’ with that ol’ brass?”
The words battered upon Chas’s mind but they only increased his confusion. He felt more reliant upon Dido than ever, utterly grateful for having been saved from that dreadful, mystifying nightmare. At the same time he wanted to cry out that he was not a kid any more, that his life was his own. Without seeing anything clearly he felt a lump of accusation at the core of his mind, that Dido was to blame. Meanwhile he said nothing.
Dido was saying, “They’re no good. I told you. Women. Not till you find the right one.”
He wanted to ask how that could ever come about while he was kept away from them, but all he could murmur was, “The right one?”
Dido was studying him again. “Bought ’em, did you? What with?”
For a moment Chas did not follow. At last, “Money.”
“Don’t come the old acid. Where’d you get money?”
Chas was dumb; but he could never lie to Dido
. At last “Where you got it.”
“What are you talking about?” Dido sounded genuinely puzzled.
Chas indicated the row of shuttered shops. “Off them.”
“Off the shops?”
“Same as you.”
“Are you mad?”
Chas was silent. Dido said, “You been round the shop gettin’ money because I got it?”
“That’s right.” A touch of defiance now in Chas’s voice.
“What d’you reckon I get it for?”
“Lookin’ after ’em.”
“That’s right.”
Defiance asserted itself more. “Same as I do.”
“You?” Dido opened his mouth wide in a derisive “Ha!”
“That’s what you keep me off work for, ain’ it?”
Dido was peering at him, busy with thoughts. “You been at this all the time?”
“That’s right.”
“Since last June?”
“Since you coshed Ginger. What else you keep me off work for? We’re the guv’nors in this street, ain’t we?”
Dido pondered. “You reckon you’re a guv’nor, do you?”
“You an’ me. We showed the Murchisons off, didn’t we?”
“Well,” Dido said. “I’ll tell you what, guv’nor. You did all this ’cause I kept you off work, you’ll go back to work, Monday.”
The last words took Chas completely by surprise. He echoed, “Work?”
“Monday morning. Straight back to the timber yard. An’ no talkin’ yourself out of it this time.”
Chas managed to say, “What for?”
“Devil finds mischief. That’s what for. Back to work Monday.”
“’Ow will you manage?”
“Better without you under me feet. The trouble’s over an’ done anyway.”
The memory of Keogh came back to Chas. He was still trying to steady his mind to tell Dido when Dido said, “Where’s the rest of it? The money?”
Chas gave Dido three sovereigns and a handful of silver. Dido gave him back the silver and dropped the sovereigns into his own pocket. “I won’t ask you how much you’ve spent, from now on you’ll give mother your wages and get your pocket money like a respectable boy. And another thing. I want you dressed respectable tomorrow. Not like a corner boy.”
“This is what they all wear —”
“Not in this house. And not tomorrow.”
“What’s special about tomorrow?”
“You didn’t flog your Sunday suit in that shop?”
Chas was indignant, “What you take me for?”
“You’ll wear your Sunday suit tomorrow. Look a gentleman.”
“What for?”
Dido ignored him and went in. Chas followed into the kitchen. Mother was there, sewing under the gas. The canary was covered up. The fireplace shone black and empty. Chas said, “Bli! What’s up, ma? It’s freezin’.”
She said, “Dido is bringing a young lady home tomorrow.”
Chas could not speak. He looked from one to another of them. Dido’s mouth was clamped and mother was at her sewing again as if neither of them wanted another word. He managed to breathe another “Bli!”
Dido said, “Get to bed. Up early tomorrow. You’ll ’ave a good hot wash, all the way down.” He turned to Mrs Peach.”
“’E’s goin’ back to work Monday.”
She turned her vague look on Chas for a moment, then said, “I’m glad of that.” She peered at a stitch. When she had pulled the needle through, she faltered. “Are you thinking —?”
Dido said, “Thinkin’ of what?”
Her voice became like her unfocused eyes. “I was — I don’t know. Back to work? I —”
Dido said, “You can get a lad in to work the mangle instead o’ Chas. ’E’ll do to push the barrow as well when Shonny finds a post.” He noticed Chas was still gaping. “You go to bed.”
It was not till Chas was between the sheets, next to the sleeping Shonny, that among the whirl of his thoughts he again remembered Keogh and wondered if he should have told Dido about him.
“Glass of port?”
“Only a tiny drop, please.” Dido poured and Grace, sitting upright with her bottom perched on the edge of the sofa, took the glass daintily. He poured for Chas and himself, and filled a thumbnail glass as a privilege for Shonny. He said, with a touch of pride, “Mother’s T.T.”
“Forty-three years ago I took the pledge,” Mrs Peach said. “I’ve never regretted it.” She sat on a bentwood chair by the table. She wore a shiny black dress with a bib of frills sewn on the front and a snowy white lace collar. With her hair pinned up neat and shining and her hands in her lap she looked a real lady. So did Grace in her beige costume. They looked a pair of ladies, both sitting upright. The best cloth was on the table, decorated with needlework, and there was a fine show set out, the best cups and plates, a big plate of buttered bread, three jars of jam richly shining red, green and orange, some of mother’s fairy cakes smelling oven-hot, a hock of bacon, milk in a little flowered jug and sugar in a bowl, the way mother used to lay for her lady’s tea when she was in service, a cake studded with candied fruits and the port which Dido had brought home. Mother had spent most of the sovereign on dainty crockery. Dido’s mood had been changing all the afternoon but at the moment he felt gratified. This scene was what he wanted life to be.
“My auntie was very strict,” Grace said. Her voice was as careful as if she was reading. “She brought me up very strictly.”
“Your auntie brought you up?” After the first stunning shock had worn off, Mrs Peach was all anxiety for Dido. She still did not know her own feelings; except that she had not yet experienced the joy she had expected; but she was so anxious it made her want to scream. She looked at the girl all the time. She tried not to look too hard. The girl avoided her eyes but kept looking at her, and each time Mrs Peach made a little smile so as not to be caught looking.
“My auntie in the country. Sittingbourne in Kent.”
“Kent is very pretty,” Dido’s mother said.
“Yes, it is very pretty. My auntie had a pension from the Government. Her late husband was in the post office.”
“Your auntie?” The woman’s eyes were grey like Dido’s. They rested on Grace, vague yet speculative. “Did she bring you up?”
Grace knew what she was getting at. She looked straight back. She had nothing to be frightened of; she could deliver her credentials. “Mother’s sister. She was two years older than mother. Mother and father died when I was little. They died of the typhoid. They were married at Sittingbourne though father went to work in Chatham.” So there! Who did this woman think she was? Wouldn’t be surprised if she wanted to see mother’s marriage lines. Grace heard herself rattling on, “Auntie was very good to me. She always went to church till her rheumatism got bad. C. of E. we were. I never missed a week Sunday School.”
“All the boys went to Sunday School. We are Wesleyan of course.”
“I know. The vicar says there are many mansions in God’s house. The vicar at our hostel. That’s because we have different denominations there. The parson at Sittingbourne found me a post in London. It was him got me into the hostel. He said he wouldn’t let a young lady go to London else. That was after auntie died. I looked after her till I was eighteen After I left school she was a cripple with her rheumatism. I was all pretty in the country and peaceful and we didn’t know anyone. I hate people, they make me frightened, that was my happiest time, when I was a little girl with auntie. My auntie was like a mother to me.”
“I’m sure she’s happy with God,” Mrs Peach said. “And your dear parents. You will see them.” She sighed. “I don’t think there’s any happiness on earth.”
“You see,” Grace said, “my employers engaged me on the parson’s recommendation. They only take young ladies of approved background.”
Grace vaguely heard herself. She was astonished at her own assurance. She couldn’t remember ever having had so much to say for herself.
And she was speaking up as if she wasn’t going to let anybody come between her and this chap. That was the strange thing. After all, what was she doing in this room? In a few weeks an extraordinary change had come over her life. She had not wished for it. She had not wished for this chap. It was all just happening to her. Yet she had been as frightened before coming here as if her life depended on it. Walking down the street with him she had felt so heartsick, so disappointed, because it really was a slum, there was no getting away from it. But here she was telling herself that appearances weren’t everything, he was in business, he was his own master, and it paid to live on top of your work. Mrs Dowll the manageress had said, “Where there’s muck, there’s money.” The room smelt of carbolic.
They had cold bacon and pickled onions for tea, and a bread pudding hot from the oven. Offering the butter dish, Mrs Peach said, “I’ve always given the boys real butter. I’ve always managed.”
“I can see they’ve been well brought up. When Mr Peach first came to the teashop I thought to myself, he does seem a gentleman. We didn’t speak to each other for ever such a long time and then only out of politeness. You can always tell when there’s a good home.”
The girl spoke nicely and ate daintily enough. Mrs Peach felt a certain relief. She still could not make up her mind.
Grace, too, felt easier. The mother spoke quite nicely. Dido spoke a bit roughly, but not as bad as the real Cockneys. It must be the mother’s influence. Really if he tried he could make something of himself. The two boys sat and stared at her. They were ever so stiff but they looked nice boys, with those shining red, clean faces, and they were neat enough for church in their dark suits and spotless stiff collars. She rather wanted to go to the lav but there wasn’t an earthly of whispering to the mother.
Mrs Peach was wondering about the same thing. She was no longer terrified that some unscrupulous harpy had got hold of her boy. She was glad she had made a good show for Dido. But what would the girl think of them if she had to go to that freezing brick shed outside that was smelly in spite of all the disinfectant they poured down it?
King Dido Page 17
