A Day Off

by Storm Jameson

  Soft—that’s what she is, she thought. An impulse of dislike and suspicion started in her, with the thought that she might touch her for a few shillings. Pretend I left my purse in the house. But her impudence faltered when it came to asking—“Pay if you want,” she said brutally and turned her back on the other’s vexed face.

  Upstairs in the ladies’ toilet she saw herself in the glass, hot, creased, the powder sweated off except in the creases. A feeling of dismay shook her. I don’t look so old as that. She was alone in the small stuffy room. The curtained window was open. She banged it shut and feeling her legs weak sat down hurriedly. The first thing was to cover up the look of her skin. She wiped it with the towel she found there, and looked earnestly at the stains, then at her greasy flattened puff. At this moment the puff felt to her as a friend—she had had it before she had George and it never vexed her. There was a common glass bowl of powder on the dressing-table. She helped herself lavishly and rubbed her face until a smooth livid surface rewarded her. She wetted her eyebrows and spread a coarse bluish-red on her lips. This ritual soothed her. The room soothed her—she felt at home in it after the immense sunlit Park. Here was no mystery, no overwhelming sky. She felt safe. She took up the comb lying on the table and tidied her hair. It was a reasonably good comb and she had lost her own, so she put it in her bag.

  She was rearranging her skirt and smoothing the jacket over it when the elderly lady came in, blundering against the chair, dropping her bag, stooping for it with the gestures of one half blind, finally laid it down on the dressing-table and vanished into the closet.

  The bag lay at her elbow. With less than a second’s hesitation she took it up, thrust it under her jacket, and went out.

  Her heart shook in deep heavy strokes. When she came out of the shop she saw a 33 bus starting for Piccadilly. Pressing her arm to her side, she ran, climbed on and stood grasping the rail. The bus lumbered across the road. A lorry held it up for a moment and she shut her teeth to keep her heart in.

  The top of the bus was open—it was a survival from the days when people were simpler and did not mind getting wet occasionally if they could gallop along in full air. She lurched up the stairs, glancing back over her arm at the shop. She saw it only for a moment before the bus turned the corner. There was no one on the step, no frenzied elderly lady transfixed in the doorway. Only Shop for the Original Maids of Honour. Oh thank God that’s done with, she thought. Knocking against the seats she reached the front of the bus and sat down.

  The clasp of the bag hurt her arm. She pressed it less firmly and it fell down against her breast. She had never stolen before. Helped herself to things, yes—soap from public lavatories, and umbrellas ; in restaurants she would take lumps of sugar and pennies left there for the waitress: she chose a table that had not been cleared, and ran her fingers under the plate. She was often tempted to snatch things in the big shops, but she had been afraid.

  The bus swung along a road between high walls. Looking over one she saw a garden, with young trees, a tea-table, a girl in a white dress, and a laburnum tree in full flame. It was like a fountain of yellow fire. She felt calmed by it. When she was a child at home there was a laburnum sprang over the wall from the next yard : it had made her think of the cloven tongues as of fire that sat on the apostles. She could see it now if she closed her eyes. She closed them. When she opened them again the bus had stopped near a public house and the laburnum was out of sight.

  There was no one near her on the top. She drew the bag from her jacket and felt inside. The notes were there, together with some loose silver and the other things she had seen, and the return half of a ticket to St. James’s Park Underground. She wondered what the old lady was doing now. If she had come out of the closet she might still be looking short-sightedly about the room. I put it down here. No, here.

  A tremor passed through her body, as though a ripple from the other woman’s uneasiness had touched her. She felt momently terrified. Hearing the conductor behind her, she pushed the bag under her blouse and sat upright. I needed the money, she thought; that talking old ape can do without her new stockings and what was all that? Oh my God, forget it. Nasty-minded, I call her, she wasn’t English was she? You never know what they’re thinking, I suppose she was a spy—what was she doing here during the War if she wasn’t? I’m still sweating from it. If this bus hadn’t been waiting I was done for certain, she’d have been screeching behind me Stop, stop—like a——parrot. They should of put all of them out, run them on board a leaky boat in the North Sea and let them find their way home. I would of. There was a man wrote to the Daily Mail why not shoot a few Germans in England every time the Huns sink one of our ships, a good idea, they might of shot her. I’ve served her out taking the money from her.

  She felt easier now that she had found an excuse for the thing done. Her feet hurt less—she pulled her skirt up quickly and loosed a suspender that was cutting the flesh—for what we have received, she murmured, with a bold smile. She daren’t tell anyone what she’s lost—the dirty cat, she was keeping the money back. Perhaps it’ll teach her to be honest.

  The bus was crossing Barnes Common. Clouds gathering in the zenith sent flying columns to the four quarters. In the west, where the sun rallied his forces, the columns fell back, except for a few ragged companies that kept on into the heart of fire and now, cut off from their base, held out sullenly for the oncoming night. She looked up at these clouds and drew a vague comfort from the thought of darkness. In London, in streets lighted at night, there is nothing higher than the street-lamps or the tops of lighted buildings. A fish gliding under a bank from the brightness of wide water may feel as she felt. She thought with quiet relief that she now had money enough for three or four weeks. I shall sell the bag to Mr. Gapalous, she thought, and with that she drew it out again and examined the gold clasp. It was very thick and heavy. She opened the bag. The lining was as worn as the leather and when she pulled at it she felt a card underneath. She found the rent in the silk and dragged the card out roughly. There was nothing on it but “With love. 1909,” written there in a neat firm hand. Husband gave it to her, I suppose. For what, for a birthday? She tore the card into small pieces and dropped them over the side of the bus. For some reason she hated the other woman more after reading it. Why didn’t she sell the rotten bag if she wanted money, she thought angrily : I’ve no patience with keeping their bally presents.

  She examined the handkerchief for a name and slipped it with the glasses and the bottle of coffee mints into her pocket. Someone came into the seat behind her and she pushed the bag hurriedly out of sight. For a moment a chill of fear touched her, but nothing happened, no hand came round her shoulder. She drew a ragged breath.

  The bus stopped in Piccadilly. She got down and hurried towards the Underground.

  In the lavatory she got rid of the letter and transferred the money to her own bag. Then with the stolen bag over her heart she started out to call on Mr. Gapalous in Gerrard Street.

  She strolled along in great happiness and content, in spite of her feet, which had begun to ache again as soon as she put her weight on them. The day’s warmth had thickened into an almost palpable veil of dust and smells, the fumes from engines and the sour smell of clothes and bodies. A rich yellow light, the brightness gone from it, spilled everywhere, to the tops of the buildings. Piccadilly was a mere conduit for this light, which was like tepid water against the eyes after the day’s glare.

  As she turned into Gerrard Street she saw a woman signalling to her from the other street. Who’s that it is? Her hand flew up to her mouth in the fraction of time before she recognised a friend. Oh. She doesn’t mind the show she makes of herself, like a windmill, she thought angrily. But think now. I wanted her for something—what—oh the letter. I shan’t need that. The promise to herself to begin a new life departed as vaguely as it had come. The other woman joined her on the pavement. “Where are you off, dearie?”

  “I’m not,” she said, with a loud laugh
. The clasp of the bag, pressed by her arm, touched bare flesh. Get rid of her before I—“You’re starting early,” she said grudgingly. The younger woman’s smooth face cruelly irritated her.

  “First come first serve,” Lily said. She looked at her friend’s dress and feet. “Your shoes don’t want dusting, do they? Where you been then?”

  “Richmond Park,” she said shortly.

  Lily’s smile broadened. “Whatever for? Oh keep it to yourself if you want to. I’m going into West’s for a drink.”

  I might as well, she thought. Following Lily into the bar parlour she saw herself in a long glass, hat askew, skirt stained with green. I oughtn’t to have told her that, she thought anxiously. Suppose they advertise for it—stolen, in Richmond. “Where d’you think? I’ve been in Brixton seeing a friend, and walked back.”

  “Did y’see Grace?” Lily asked.

  “Who’s Grace?”

  “You remember her, don’t you? She was that black-haired girl, married an Italian fellow and went to live in Brixton. You were thick enough with her in the War, before she married.”

  “I remember,” she said. But actually she remembered nothing except a rich laugh and the deep colour of an arm laid along a table. The woman herself had disappeared. It’s too long ago, I wouldn’t have known if she was dead; God, how old I’m getting, it’s awful, awful.

  “Here,” Lily said, jerking her elbow. “Who’s crossed you in love? You do look a sight nowadays. Why don’t you buck up? “She stared with professional, not unkindly interest. “You’re letting yourself go. That fellow of yours has dropped off, hasn’t he? Someone said as much.”

  “He’s coming Saturday. I’ve had a letter from him.”

  “Smarten yourself up, then,” Lily said. She finished her stout and sat twirling the empty tumbler. “I’ll tell you what I’ll do. Come round to my room to-morrow and I’ll lend you a dress. You can give it back to me afterwards. I can’t bear the sight of you in that one, I tell you, it’s going so under the arms.”

  She raised her left arm slightly and peered at the stain. That’s right, it’s going. I’ve had the wear out of it, though—“How long’ve I had this skirt and jacket?” she demanded.

  “Years. Since the year dot,” Lily giggled.

  “I don’t want your——lendings,” she said, without any feeling of bitterness. But her friend’s next words vexed her.

  “Why be proud?” Lily said. “We’ve all got to come to it. You’re older than you were and it shows. What you’ve got to do is to marry, before you’re past it and before you know. I mean t’say what else can you do, what’s going to come of you? Hold him off, you must, I know what I’m talking about.”

  “Ho, you do, do you? “She stared angrily at the younger woman. Her pride was sorely hurt by Lily’s blunt speech—she thought it mean and indecent. Without knowing exactly why, she felt that she had been damaged by this baring of her own fears. It was one thing to be feeling old, and another to be spoken to about it like that. Through this hole Lily had made, much would run out. “Ho, you do!” she repeated, at a loss.

  “Don’t mind me, dearie,” Lily said. “Have another Guinness and see life. Here!” She called the potboy over and paid him for what they had had. Her quick, pale eyes saw through her friend as easily as they saw through men. She had no illusions and no generosity—though she would lend out her frocks and buy food and liquor for a friend. She had no patience with softness or with calling things by other than their right names, but she hated waste, and that was why she was interfering now, to prevent what she saw was going to be an untidy end to a life. She said good-bye, shook out her skirt, and went, walking with a professional swagger.

  Alone, the other looked sourly at her drink. She felt that she had been injured. She could not find a word for what had been done to her, but she was angry and dispirited. Her back ached, too, with all the walking she had done. She sat and brooded. She hated Lily and hoped that soon she would have a misfortune.

  After that drink she ordered another. Her hatred of Lily changed into pity for herself. She was old, friendless. The more she thought about it the more piteous she seemed to herself. But it was not in the least like the horrible fear that came in spite of her and made her sweat and turn cold. This feeling sorry for herself soothed her in the same way that things she imagined before she slept soothed her. She began to think of a proud dignified woman, alone in the world, reserved for a mysterious fate. Perhaps she was fated to save the life of some wealthy man and marry him. Or she would discover a fabulously valuable painting. Would that picture in my room be worth anything? It was brown and very dirty and she had scarcely looked at it during the years she had lived in the room. She made up her mind to examine it that night.

  Slowly the sting of Lily’s words wore out. She finished her drink and remembered that she had been on her way to get rid of the bag. That, and the thought of the money, restored her confidence. She gave up resenting Lily : the fears that had made her sweat and groan in the quietness of the Park drew off—she thought for good. Before she went out she fingered her money.

  Mr. Gapalous lived at the end of Gerrard Street, in the basement of a house he owned and let out in bedrooms. His wife served breakfasts to the tenants and advised them to get their other meals at Mr. Gapalous’s brother’s restaurant in Frith Street. They had one child.

  When she knocked at the door of the house it was opened by this child, a boy with a large head and large pale eyes. He was studying his lessons for the morning and he never took his eyes off the book, reading it as he walked in front of her down the dark stairs to the basement. Still reading, he opened a door and spoke to his mother.

  She was pleased to see that Mrs. Gapalous was alone. She had known her for a great many years—since the War—and she was as near fond of her as she would ever be of a woman. Yet it was not liking she felt for this particular woman, so much as strong likeness with her. When she felt cruelly down she would sometimes call on Mrs. Gapalous, and then it was as though she were talking to herself. Things came into her head and she said them, and a moment later she could not feel certain whether she had asked the question or answered it. It was not of the slightest importance and she was comfortable and happy in the underground room. Light came into it from a slab of glass over the narrow area; and it was as warm and as quiet as the grave. This Mrs. Gapalous was not easy like Lily, she never lent a dress, and if you were poor or in trouble she avoided helping you.

  She knew that when she came to her last penny, Lily would help her once or twice (even if she then tired of it) but Mrs. Gapalous would let her starve in her room. Yet she disliked Lily and thought of Mrs. Gapalous as her only friend.

  She went in and sat down.

  Mrs. Gapalous was kneading bread. She was a small pale woman, brown-eyed, with hands that no amount of hard work cracked or spoiled. No one knew where she came from, except that it was somewhere in the Levant, but she and her husband who was a Greek had been living obscurely in England before the War. During the War they prospered by letting their rooms to officers on leave and it was in the company of a young officer that she had first met Mrs. Gapalous. They took to each other at sight. Later she discovered that her friend’s husband had another trade beside his ostensible one of landlord.

  It was in his second capacity that she had brought him the stolen bag. She asked after him and laid the bag on the table. Mrs. Gapalous dusted her hands and looked at it curiously. “You have had it some time?”

  “A friend gave it to me in 1909,” she said. “I haven’t had any use of it lately. It’s too shabby, but the clasp is gold.”

  “He’ll be in soon,” Mrs. Gapalous answered.

  She shaped the dough into cakes, drew a cross on each with her knife, and set them down at the side of the fire. Then she drew two chairs close to the window and sent her son into the back kitchen to finish his lessons.

  When he had gone the room was quite still. A delicious yeasty smell came from the rising bread-cakes
. What with that and her long day in the sun she felt pleasantly sleepy. Her friend’s voice roused her.

  “Have you been busy lately?”

  She knew what that meant. Her friend had heard that she was alone and might need money—and she meant to defend herself against appeals. She felt slyly in her bag. The faintly oily surface of the new notes gave her fresh confidence. A fat lot you care what comes of me, I’d know better than to ask you for money if I was starving for it, she thought, but without resentment.

  “I’ve had worries,” she said easily. “George has been laid up, in what d’you call that place, Stockport—he’s written and sent the money, though—bless’m.”

  Mrs. Gapalous did not believe it. She nodded.

  “You can rely on some men as long as they want you,” she said, crouching to turn a loaf that had swelled too quickly at one side. “After that God help you. An old woman’s better dead, unless she has money. And then you may be sure that at least one person wants to see her out of the way.”

  As often happened when Mrs. Gapalous spoke to her she felt comforted by what were actually uneasy words. She might never grow old. There were women—if you could believe what you read—who scarcely changed. Looking at her friend carefully, she saw few marks of age on her. She must know of something. Excitement made her squeeze Mrs. Gapalous in the thigh. A mistake—the other woman did not like to be touched.

  “Isn’t there anything you can take—to keep you going? You know what I mean.”

  “To keep young, you mean.”

  “Something of that.”

  “I know of nothing,” Mrs. Gapalous said, after a pause.

  “But I’ve read about it, I tell you. You can have something done.” She rubbed the back of her leg, where it ached. “I got a chemist to give me some stuff once—he guaranteed that it would put breath back in a dead body. I don’t know it did much for me.”