by John Harris
Something in his eyes made me suspicious, and I put my shoulder against the door. “Come on, Pat,” I said, “hand it over.”
“I tell you I ain’t got it,” Pat was saying, endeavouring to push me out. “It isn’t here. It’s – it’s at me office.”
I knew he was lying and it antagonised me. It seemed as though his whole organisation was trying to place obstacles in my way, from its top to its shabby bottom.
“Listen, Pat,” I said, just about ready to land him one. “I know you’ve got that gear, see, and I know it’s here, and I’m goings to get it if I have to fetch a cop. This is urgent, man.
Pat appeared to be thinking quickly. “Oh, Christ, come on, then,” he said, and his voice sounded harsh and angry. “Let’s get it over with.”
Inside the flat he moved swiftly across to one of the doors that led off the main lounge and, as he spoke, he was turning the key in the lock. Then he moved towards a desk and fished in a drawer.
“Here,” he said, “that’s his wallet.” He tossed the leather case on to the table. “Nothing in it. Never is with these old bums. Only photographs and bills.”
He dived a hand in his pocket and withdrew a bunch of keys. “Here.” He threw them on to the table after the wallet. “Help yourself. It’s in the garage somewhere. You’ll have to find it yourself. I’m busy. Now clear off.”
He came to the door with me – all the time between me and the rest of the flat, I noticed, and I guessed he had a woman in there with him. In the hall were two or three suitcases.
“You going away, Pat?” I queried.
Pat gave me a sidelong glance as though I were joking, then he laughed shortly. “Just for a bit,” he said. “That’s all. You know – naughty weekend.” He winked and nudged me. “How’s Minnie, Jess? Is she OK?”
His eyes were sly as he spoke, and I had a feeling, as I always did when listening to Pat’s conversation, that dirty paws were turning over my private possessions. Then the night air touched me as Pat opened the door for me and I was grateful for its cleanness.
“Business ain’t been paying lately,” he said. “These ’ere war savings campaigns is putting me out of business. I’m going up to Blackpool to see what’s cooking. Plenty of money up there since all the London firms shifted their offices.”
“Hadn’t thought of joining up?” I grinned.
He flashed me a sour look. “Not me, mister,” he said. “I got a business up in Blackpool to take over when I can arrange things. I’ll be all right. They’ll not get me. This place won’t see Pat Fee again once I’m good and ready to go.”
He half pushed me through the door as he spoke. “Shove the keys through the letter-box,” he said. “I’m going to bed.”
The door had half closed behind me when I heard a handle rattle in the flat. It belonged to the door Pat had locked and it rattled again, sharply, noisily, demanding attention. Pat gave me a quick flickering look, then a woman’s voice from beyond the locked door yelped, “Hey, Pat Fee, what’s the idea locking people up in bedrooms?”
Pat glanced sharply at me, then suddenly he put his weight behind the door he was holding. But I half turned and gave it a violent shove so that it hit him in the face and sent him reeling backwards, clutching at his nose. Then I bounded past him across to the bedroom where the door-handle was still rattling.
“Open this blasted door, Pat Fee!” the woman beyond was yelling as I turned the key in the lock.
The door was violently wrenched open from inside as the lock slipped back and she burst out straight into my arms. She was dressed in a blowsy-looking kimono and apparently nothing else.
“What’s the big idea?” she was demanding. “What’s–?”
Her gaze absorbed my unfamiliar clothes, then her eyes travelled upwards to my face.
“By God, you’ve got a nerve, Pat!” I breathed, half admiring him despite myself.
She’d stopped dead, her mouth open, then she wrenched herself free and clutched the kimono to her.
“I got wet, Jess,” she babbled. “It rained and it’s a long way to the Steam Packet. And a girl’s got to dry her clothes.”
Three
The three of us stared at each other for a moment, then Pat picked himself up from the corner where my shove had sent him.
“See here, Jess,” he said, licking the blood from his lips. “Don’t go jumping to conclusions.”
I took no notice and went on looking down at Minnie.
“I thought you was dead, Jess,” she said desperately. “People kept saying you was dead. Gospel, they did.”
I ignored her obvious groping for an excuse and locked the hall door and pushed the key into my pocket.
“My God,” I said slowly, “you’ve got a nerve, Pat! ‘How’s Minnie? Is she OK?’ I’ll say she is.”
“Listen, Jess,” Pat said, his voice harsh and frightened. “Don’t start getting ideas into your head!”
Ideas into my head! I almost laughed aloud. But inside me there was no humour, only a cold, bitter desire to knock that ingratiating look off Pat’s face. I’d been right all the time, through all those months of my marriage. Minnie and Pat were lovers, and if the truth were known, had been ever since they were old enough to understand the meaning of sex.
They were both addressing me now, talking wildly, their words falling over themselves.
“Listen, Jess,” Minnie was saying. “I keep telling you I thought you was dead. They said your ship had gone down and you’d been drownded. And there’s nothing to stop a girl going off with other people when she thinks her husband’s dead, is there?”
“Did you think I was dead the last time, too?” There seemed to be no anger in me, only that cold, horrible loneliness again. “I was going home, Minnie,” I went on. “I was itching to go home – to you. I was about busting my boilers to get home and straighten things out.”
“Was you, Jess?” Minnie said, and there was a foolish expression of affected interest on her face, an expression that had an idiot quality as she clutched the kimono in front of her. “My, you’re early, though, aren’t you? We – I didn’t expect you.”
“I can see that.”
Minnie came towards me and tried to put her arms round my neck. There seemed to be no coherence in anything she did or said – as though finding me there had shocked her into stupidity. “Jess,” she said. “I’d never – if I’d only known. I never knew. They said you was dead,” she said again in a foolish repetition.
There was a smell of stale perfume about her, a musty, feminine odour that revolted me. I unlocked her hands from behind my head as she tried to kiss me in an eager, fawning effort to be loving that sickened me. Then I pushed her away angrily and she stumbled over the suitcases in the doorway and sat down heavily, her plump white legs in the air.
“Jess,” she said despairingly, her voice cracked and breaking, “they told me you was dead.” Even then I reckon she was thinking more about the licence of the Steam Packet than about me.
I turned from her to Pat and he edged away hurriedly.
“Now then, Jess Ferigo,” he said, his back against a table. In his voice there was a quality of bluster that showed how frightened he was. “Open that door. Let’s have no larks or I’ll call a bobby.”
“By God,” I said through my teeth, “just you try!”
Pat was silent for a second, then he grinned sheepishly. “Now, there’s no harm done,” he insisted. “Nothing that can’t be put right by a little chinwag and a few quid. Don’t you go and be ’asty, Jess.”
“Pat,” I interrupted, “I’m going to give you the biggest walloping of your dirty life. I tried once before, but I didn’t quite manage it. This time I’m going to knock the smell of the bedroom off you, and all those filthy stinking ideas out of your head.”
“See here, Jess.” Pat’s eyes were flickering round the room. “You’re talking soft. You’ve got a screw loose, man.”
“I’ve been talking soft for years now.” My words came s
lowly and they felt as chilly as ice. “I should have done this years ago.”
Minnie was grovelling beside me on her knees, pulling at my arm, either to reconcile me to her or to attract my attention from Pat. I don’t know which.
“Jess,” she was saying desperately. “Just let me get me things together and we’ll go right home. Everything’ll be all right. Just me and you.”
I shook her off. “Get away from me!” I almost shouted. “Get away from me, you dirty little bitch! You got what you wanted. Don’t come whining back again.”
I turned to Pat, calm once more.
“Pat,” I said, “you’d better know why I’m going to give you this walloping. It isn’t because you’ve taken Minnie. You can have her, and I hope she does you as little good as she’s done me. No, it’s not that. It’s because of all those things that happened in the past. All those dirty things you said, and all those shabby ideas in that grubby little mind of yours. All those filthy tricks you’ve played on me, all those little swindles you’ve practised. They’ve been waiting a long time, Pat, but they’ve caught up with you at last.”
As I was speaking Pat was edging away from me, nearer to the fireplace. “Me and you’s got a bit of settling up to do,” I went on. “A few accounts that want clearing.”
Pat had put a cigarette to his lips with shaking fingers, and tearing a strip from the newspaper he twisted it into a spill and bent with it as though to switch on the electric fire in the hearth. His back was to me for a moment and he grabbed for the poker and whirled round again.
“No, Pat, for God’s sake!” Minnie’s scream split the tension. “You’ll kill him!”
I leapt aside as Pat’s arm came down and the poker struck me across the shoulder with a sickening blow that numbed it. Then I snatched the weapon and flung it clattering across the room with one hand as I brought the other round in a great scything blow. Pat went sprawling into the fireplace, all arms and legs, his feet sending the electric fire flying. He scrambled up again, his face livid, and the two of us wrestled together in the middle of the room, turning chairs over, while Minnie stood in the corner, still half-naked, yelling for the police in a hard, dry scream that seemed to rasp in her throat.
As we crashed against it the table teetered and fell on its side, sending a bowl of fruit flying across the room, apples and oranges rolling under the settee. Pat had lost none of his old skill, but he was soon panting heavily. He was far from fit, with too many cigarettes and women and too much booze to blame for it, I reckon, and the cold fury I felt made me heedless of his blows. We hadn’t been at it long before he shoved me away to get his wind. He was bleeding from a cut lip and he spat out a tooth as he leaned for a second on a chair, trying to catch the breath that whistled into his lungs through his heaving chest.
“You bloody bully!” Minnie was screaming, trying to snatch at my arm. “Leave him be!” I flung her aside again as Pat made another rush at me and I brought him up sharp with a smack in the face that split my knuckles. But I felt a savage delight in the pain as the blow jarred home and Pat’s head clicked back. He staggered against a standard lamp that crashed to the floor with the pop of an exploding bulb, recovered himself with an effort, and stumbled forward on buckling knees. I sent him reeling away again to the wall. A flying elbow – mine or Pat’s, I don’t know whose – swept the clock from the mantelpiece, then desperately, with a swing of his arm that was more a shove than a blow, Pat brought me to my knees and fell on top of me.
I heaved myself up and dragged Pat’s heavy body after me. One-handed it was, in a great muscle-cracking heave. With an effort that gave me a bitter pleasure I slammed him back into the fireplace again.
The room was wrecked by this time, and Pat was beginning to look the worse for wear. He fought for breath in great wrenching gasps, his mouth hanging open, saliva mixed with the blood that was smeared across his cut lips. One eye was closed and his nose was bleeding badly.
Minnie was still dancing on the edge of the fight, her kimono torn in the struggle, and she turned again on me. Her hair was round her shoulders, her breasts bare, and there was an almost savage light in her eyes. She had the look of a witch about her as her lips mouthed obscenities and her fingernails clawed at my cheeks.
Pat came at me again and, exulting, a vast orchestra pounding out a brassy song of triumph inside me, I drove my fist savagely into his battered face. He staggered back, tottering, and I went after him, fiercely, joyously driving him backwards again until, at last, his knees gave way and he toppled forward on to his face, writhing, the blood and saliva bubbling through his lips.
“I’ve ’ad enough!” he moaned. “Take ’er away! Take the bitch out of me sight!”
I brushed the hair from my eyes and wiped the perspiration from my face. I stared down at Pat, all the meanness of the past wiped away, all the unhappiness gone in one tremendous demand on my strength; then I bent among the wreckage, seeking the belongings which had fallen out of my pockets in the struggle. I stuffed Old Boxer’s wallet away first and stooped to retrieve its spilled contents.
Minnie was kneeling in the hearth by Pat, hugging his half-unconscious head to her breast, kissing him frantically, turning to curse at me, naked and unashamedly rotten, common and cheap and vulgar, and impudently faithless.
“You bloody bully!” she was sobbing. “You dirty swine! He hadn’t hurt you. God, you dirty dog, if I’d known I’d never have married you! I only married you to make sure the pub was safe, anyway. I always wanted Pat, you bloody rat! I never wanted you. I was Pat’s – I always was – before I married you and ever since.”
I went on stuffing things into my pockets – keys, papers, photographs, money – hardly noticing the stream of obscenities and filth that were wrenched from Minnie’s writhing mouth. I picked up a bunch of photographs and stood staring at them, dazed and dizzy, still struggling for my breath.
“You dirty dog!” Minnie was moaning. “You’ve half killed him, you swine!”
I wrenched my torn jacket straight with my free hand, still staring at the photographs in my hand. Minnie was swearing quietly at me, like a cat, spitting and mouthing, hissing the words venomously; then Pat shuffled to his knees and shoved her away from him.
“Get away from me!” he said. “You’ve fetched me into a nice old mess, you have!”
“Pat!” Minnie’s word was a scream, and she’d forgotten me immediately. “Don’t say that! Don’t say that, Pat! You can’t leave me now!”
“Can’t I, though?” Pat was swaying on his feet. “Can’t I? I’ve ’ad enough trouble with you, missis. I’ll get meself a bird without a husband next time. Go on! Scram!”
“Pat, you swine!” Minnie leapt at him, her fingers clawing at his face. “I was good enough in bed for you and now you’re yellow!”
Pat grabbed her wrists and, thrusting her aside, stumbled towards the bathroom. Minnie was on her knees grovelling after him, trying to kiss his feet, pleading with him.
“Pat! Patty darling! You can’t leave me now! Where are you going?”
“I’m going to wash meself,” Pat said. “And then I’m going to scarper.”
He placed his foot on her shoulder and gave her a shove so that she rolled over and lay sprawling. Then he slipped into the bathroom and closed the door. Even as Minnie scrambled after him, still on all fours, I heard the bolt click on the inside.
“Oh God, Pat!” she wailed. “You can’t leave me now! You rat, you can’t go without me!” Her moans turned into a fierce spit of hatred, then back again into a wail. “Pat, Pat! Oh, Pat, answer me!”
There was only the sound of a tap running on the inside.
Minnie scrambled to her feet, clutching the torn remains of her kimono about her; then she whirled, looking for me, her eyes sharp and bright and plotting again.
“Jess,” she said, then she stopped dead.
I was just leaving, and the door of the flat was gaping open. Even as she stared at me I saw the hall porter and his wife come u
p behind me.
“Oh, my God!” Minnie squealed and dived for the bedroom.
Four
Midnight had chimed from the Town Hall clock when the little ships cast off from Wiggins’ wharf and headed for the Eastern Channel. There was no excitement and very little comment. Just a few shouted “Let go’s” and a deeper note in the drum of the idling engines, then one by one the bows began to swing out and head into the river. I remember seeing Dig, who was standing by the forepeak, silhouetted against the silvery grey of the river as the sharp nose of our boat swung out into midstream. Then, with a naval launch to lead us, we left the harbour in groups of two, each group following the stern lights of the boats ahead, downstream, round St Andrew Head and east-nor’-east.
My face felt tense and set in the darkness as we hit the seas beyond the point and the boat began to bump. Suddenly she became alive with a chorus of protesting creaks and groans. I could see the bow rising and falling, its black silhouette circling the bright dot of light ahead that was a stern light. I felt better with the breeze on my face. It was like a sedative to me and soothed my raw spirit, and I thanked God for the pleasure I could get from the smell of the sea and the stars above my head.
I could hear no talking, though “Shenandoah” came filtering through the steady drumming of the engines and the swish of the water around me. The wake was churning the sea into a phosphorescent road that trailed away behind us, writhing and tumbled, like some silvery ribbon to the west.
Though we knew nothing of it then, all round the country convoys like ours were butting their way out of rivers into the open sea, most of them manned by crews like ours.
I held the wheel of a big passenger-carrying motor-launch, built like a Brixham trawler. Broad in the beam as a cart-horse, she was, sturdy and reliable, with a high wheelhouse. She was clumsy, though, and I was glad I’d handled boats at Wiggins’ often.
Dig crouched stiffly behind a hatch cover, half invisible in the darkness. Yorky was in the engine-room, sitting between the thundering engines, oblivious to the noise. Now and again he wiped them with loving care, leaning heavily on the slow-moving rag as he worked. In the cabin, stretched on one of the cushioned seats, Old Boxer was fast asleep and snoring – drunk.
