“Oh, that’s all right,” he said eagerly. “Nothing like that. We can go if you would like to. It’s only the room isn’t much . . . .”
She was beginning to move towards Edgware Road. Now that that was settled, she seemed to have lost interest in him. She walked on as if he weren’t with her.
George, tagged along behind. Of course he was excited. To have a girl like Cora in his room! He thought at least she would want to dance, or go to the pictures, or do something-extravagant.
She suddenly stopped outside a snack-bar.
“Let’s take something in with us,” she said, looking at the appetising show in the window. Without waiting for him to agree, she entered the shop.
“Two chicken sandwiches, two cheese sandwiches and two apples,” she said to the white-coated attendant behind the counter.
George planked down a ten-shilling note while the attendant packed the sandwiches and apples in a cardboard container.
“How much?” Cora asked, ignoring George’s money.
“That’ll be two and six, miss,” the attendant said, looking first at her and then at George.
“Here you are,” George said, pushing the note towards the attendant.
Cora put down one shilling and threepence. “That’s my share,” she said shortly, and picked up the cardboard container.
“I say!” George protested. “This is my show.” And he tried to give her back her money.
“Keep it,” she said, turning towards the door. “I always pay for myself.”
“You can’t do that . . .” George said feebly, but she was already moving away, and by now had left the shop.
“The sort of girl I’d like to go out with,” the attendant said wistfully. “Most of ‘em take the linings from your pockets.”
George, his face burning, snatched up his change and ran after Cora.
When he caught up with her, he said, “You really must let me pay . . . .”
“Now shut up!” Cora said. “I never accept anything from any man. I’m independent, and if I’m going to see you again, the sooner you understand that the better.”
If she was going to see him again! George stared at her hopefully. Did that mean . . . ? He blinked. It must mean that. People just didn’t say things like that if they didn’t intend seeing you again.
“Well, if you really want to . . .” he said, not quite sure how he should react to such an ultimatum.
“I do!” she returned emphatically. “Now come on, don’t stand there blocking the way.”
“We’ll want some beer,” George said, falling in step beside her. “I suppose you want to pay for your bottle, too?” He said it half jokingly, and then looked at her quickly to see if he had caused offence.
She glanced at him.
“I’m certainly going to pay for my own beer,” she said. “Does that amuse you?”
And as he looked down at her, arrogant, small but durable, it happened. He found himself suddenly, utterly and completely in love with her. It was an overpowering feeling that stupefied him, made him water at the eyes, made him weak in the legs.
They looked at each other. Whether she saw the change in him, he wasn’t sure. He felt she must be able to read his thoughts. She couldn’t fail to see how completely crazy he was about her. If she did, she made no sign, but went on, her head a little higher, her chest arched.
They bought two bottles of beer at the off-licence at the corner of George’s street. Then they went on to the boarding-house.
“I’m afraid it isn’t much,” George muttered apologetically as he opened the front door. “But if you think you’ll like it . . .” His voice died away as he glanced uneasily round the hall.
There was no one about. The sound of dishes clattering in the basement reassured him.
Cora went straight upstairs. She wasn’t a fool, George thought. She knows I’m nervous about her being here. She’s going straight up. There’s no nonsense about her.
He eyed her slim hips as she went on ahead of him. She was beautiful. There was absolutely no doubt about it. Most women looked awful in trousers. They stuck out and they wobbled, but not Cora. She was hard, slim, neat.
So he was in love with her. And he was lucky, too. Not many men would be as fortunate as he. She wasn’t going to run him into any expense. He knew what girls were like. Spend— spend—spend, all the time. They didn’t think you loved them unless you continually spent money on them. But Cora wasn’t like that. She was independent. “If I’m going to see you again . . .” It was the most wonderful evening of his life!
“Just one more flight,” he said, as she glanced back over her shoulder. “And you turn to the right when you get to the top.”
She stopped on the landing.
“In here,” he said, passing her and opening the door.
He stood aside to let her in.
“It’s not much,” he said again, seeing the room suddenly in a new light. It did somehow seem small and sordid. The wallpaper seemed more faded and the furniture shabbier. He wished that he had a bright, well-furnished room to offer her.
He saw Leo curled up on the bed.
“That’s my cat . . .” he began.
Then Leo opened its eyes, took one scared look at Cora and was gone, streaking through the open doorway, sending a mat flying. They heard it rushing madly down the stairs.
George sighed. That hadn’t happened for months.
“He’s awfully scared of strangers,” he said, apologetically, and closed the door. “I had quite a time with him at first, but we’re great friends now. Do you like cats?”
“Cats?” She seemed far away. “They’re all right, I suppose.” She put the cardboard container on his dressing-table and moved further into the room.
George took off his hat and hung it in the cupboard. Now that he was alone with her in this little room he felt shy, uneasy. The bed seemed horribly conspicuous. In fact, the bed embarrassed him: the room seemed all bed.
“Do sit down,” he said, fussing around her. “I’ll get some glasses. I’ve got one here, and there’s another in the bathroom. I’m afraid they’re only tooth-glasses, but it doesn’t matter does it?”
Without waiting for her to reply, he left the room and hurried to the bathroom on the next floor. He was glad to be away from her for a moment. In fact, he would have been pleased if she had suddenly changed her mind about spending the evening with him. He was finding her a little overpowering. The experience of falling in love with her like this was a bit shattering. He needed quiet to think about it.
He was nervous of her too. There was something cynical and cold and cross about her. He felt that if he said the wrong thing she would be unkind to him. He wanted to avoid that at all costs. So far, apart from the faux pas about the Dorchester—that had been a dumb, brainless suggestion—he had managed fairly well up to now. But he was losing his nerve. It was like walking a tight-rope. He had had one narrow escape, and now, out on the rope with a sheer drop below, he was rapidly getting into a panic. What was he to talk about? How could he hope to amuse her for the next hour or so? If only she had asked to be taken to a movie! How simple that would have been! All he would have had to do was to buy the tickets—and anyway, she would probably have insisted on paying for herself—and the film would have taken care of the rest of the evening.
He mustn’t keep her waiting, he thought, as he took the glass from the metal holder. He hurried back, hesitated outside the door and then went in.
She was sitting on the bed, her hands on her knees, her legs crossed.
“There we are,” George said, with false heartiness. “Let’s have a drink. I’m hungry, too, aren’t you?”
“A bit,” she said, looking at him as she might look at some strange animal at the Zoo.
“Have the armchair,” George went on, busying himself with the drinks. “It’s jolly comfortable, although it looks a bit of a mess.”
“It’s all right,” she said. “I like beds.”
He
felt his face burn. He was angry with himself for being self-conscious about the bed, also conscious of the double meaning. He was sure she didn’t mean it in that way. It was just his mind.
“Well, so long as you’re comfortable,” he said, handing her a glass of beer. “I’ll unpack the sandwiches.”
He kept his back turned to her so that she should not see the furious blush on his face. It took him a minute or so to recover, and when he turned, she was lying on her side, propped up by her arm, one trousered leg hanging over the side of the bed, the other stretched out.
“Take my shoes off,” she said. “Or I’ll make the cover dirty.”
He did so, with clumsy, trembling fingers. But he enjoyed doing it, and he put the shoes on the floor under the bed, feeling an absurd tenderness towards them.
Although the window was wide open, it was hot in the little room. The storm-clouds had now blotted out the sun, and it was dark.
“Shall I put the light on?” he asked. “I think we’re going to have some rain.”
“All right. I wish you’d sit down. You’re too big for this room, anyway.”
He put the sandwiches on a piece of paper within reach of her hand, turned on the light, and sat down by the window. He was secretly delighted to hear her refer to his size. George was proud of his height and strength.
“Why don’t you do something better than selling those silly books?” she said abruptly.
“It suits me for the moment,” George returned, startled by this unexpected reproach; and feeling he ought to offer a better explanation, added, “It gives me a lot of free time to make plans.”
“There’s no money in it, is there?” Cora went on.
“Well, your brother made nine pounds this week,” George said, munching with enjoyment.
“As much as that?” There was a sharp note in her voice.
George studied her. The blue smudges under her eyes, her whitish-grey complexion, her thin, scarlet mouth fascinated him.
“Oh yes. It isn’t bad, is it?”
She sipped her beer.
“He never tells me anything,” she said in a cold, tight voice. “We haven’t had any money for ages. I don’t know how we live. Nine pounds! And he’s gone off for the evening.” Her hand closed into a small, cruel fist.
“Of course, he mayn’t be so lucky next week,” George went on hurriedly, alarmed that he might have said something wrong. “You can never tell. There’s a lot of luck in the game, you know.”
“I could kill him!” she said viciously. “Look at me! I’ve been in this stinking outfit for months. That’s all I’ve got!”
“You look marvellous,” George said, and meant it. “It suits you.”
“You’re all alike,” she returned. “Do you really think a girl ought to live in a get-up like this?” Her lips twisted. “I haven’t another rag to my name.”
Pity stirred in him. “I say—I’m awfully sorry . . .”
She finished her sandwich, her eyes brooding and bitter.
“So long as Sydney gets what he wants,” she said after a pause, “he doesn’t care a damn about me. He doesn’t care what I’ll do tonight.” She suddenly shrugged. “Well, never mind. It’s early to worry about that now.” She pushed a wave of hair back from her cheek and then rubbed her temple with one finger. “Tell me about Frank Kelly.”
“Who?” George flinched away from her.
She bit her knuckle and looked at him over her hand.
“Sydney told me. You and Frank Kelly. At first I didn’t believe it, but now I’ve seen you . . .”
George emptied his glass and got up to refill it. There was a glint in her slate-grey eyes that could have meant anything: curiosity, admiration, desire . . . .
“Seen me? I don’t understand.”
“You don’t have to pretend with me. I’m sick of men without spine. At least, you’re a man.”
George slopped a little of the beer on the carpet. A surge of emotion crawled up his back.
“What do you mean?” he asked, putting the glass on the mantelpiece. He tried to control the huskiness in his voice without success.
“You’ve lived dangerously. You’ve killed men, haven’t you? That means something to me.”
George faced her. There was nothing in her eyes now. They were like drawn curtains. He stared at her, suddenly afraid.
“Who told you?”
“I don’t have to be told. I’m not a fool. I know men. When Sydney told me about you, I thought you were one of those ghastly little miscarriages who boast about what they have done: who lie, cheat, and brag because they haven’t the guts to live like men. But Sydney told me I was wrong. Even then I wouldn’t believe him. He told me you had a gun, and I said you were lying.”
George found perspiration was running down his face. He took out his handkerchief and mopped himself. He realized that if he wanted her admiration—and he wanted that more than anything else in the world—he could not admit that he had been lying to Brant. He was caught in his own trap; but, oddly enough, he didn’t care. What possible harm could it do if he did pretend that he was a big-shot gangster? She wouldn’t tell the police about him. And just suppose she did? He could always say that he had been pulling her leg, and he could prove that he had never been out of the country. All right, if she thought he had lived dangerously, if. she thought he had killed men, and if, knowing that, she admired him, he would give her the opportunity to admire him even more.
“I don’t talk about that side of my life,” he said, picking up his glass. “It only sounds like bragging; but if you really want to know . . . well, I suppose I’ve had as exciting a life as most men.”
“Men are such liars,” she said calmly, leaning down to put her glass on the floor. “I still think you could be lying . . .”
George bit his lip. What was she up to now?
“Show me your gun,” she said. “I’ll believe you if you really have a gun.”
He hesitated. Some instinct warned him not to show her the gun. He had never shown it to anyone. It was his secret. He had never intended sharing it with anyone.
She was watching him now, her eyes cold and cynical.
“Bluffing?” she asked, in a contemptuous, amused tone.
He went to his drawer and took out the cardboard box.
“You mustn’t tell anyone,” he said, putting the box on the bed.
She pushed his hand away and took off the lid. She had the gun now. It was odd, but it looked right in her hands. It looked as right in her hands as a scalpel looks right in the hands of a surgeon. She sat up and examined the gun. Her face was expressionless, but there was an intent concentration in her eyes that worried him.
“Is it loaded?” she asked, at last.
“Oh no,” George said. “Now let me put it away. I don’t know why you should be interested in it.”
“Show me how to load it,” she urged. “Where are the cartridges?”
Without waiting for him to show her, she slid off the bed, went to the drawer and found the little wooden box.
“No,” he said, surprised at his own firmness. “You leave those alone. Put them back.”
She was looking at the shiny brass cylinders.
“Why?”
“I don’t want any accidents. Please put them back.”
She shrugged impatiently; but she put the box back and sat on the bed again. She picked up the Luger and pressed the trigger.
“Why doesn’t it work?” she asked, frowning.
“It’s stiff,” George said. “You have to pull very hard.”
She tried again, but she still couldn’t pull back the trigger.
“Here, I’ll show you,” George said, taking the gun from her. “Like this.”
He exerted his great strength, and the hammer snapped down.
“It wants adjusting really, only I haven’t bothered. I’ll never use it here. At one time it had a hair-trigger, it would fire at the slightest touch; but it’s a little out of order now.”<
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“How do you adjust it?” she asked, taking the gun from him and curling her slim finger round the trigger. By holding the gun in both hands and pressing very hard, she managed to raise the hammer an inch or so. “Phew; it is stiff! How do you adjust it?”
George sat on the bed by her side and explained the trigger mechanism to her.
“It’s simple; only I prefer to keep the trigger stiff, just in case of accidents.”
“You’re scared of accidents, aren’t you?” There was a mocking note in her voice. “Even when the gun isn’t loaded, you’re scared.”
“It’s better to be safe than sorry,” he returned, and took the Luger from her. His hand touched hers, and for one brief moment he felt a flame shoot through him: a burning desire to take her in his arms.
He got up at once and put the gun away.
“Now perhaps you believe me,” he said, with an embarrassed laugh.
“I believe you,” she returned, stretching out on the bed. “Give me an apple, will you?”
He gave her an apple, and took the other himself. He went back to the window, feeling that it was too disturbing to be so close to her.
“I say!” he said, looking into the street. “It’s beginning to rain.”
“Oh, hell!” She raised her head. “Hard?”
“I’m afraid so.” He leaned out of the window, feeling the rain on his face. “It looks as if it’s set in for the night. I can lend you my mack, of course, but I’m afraid you’ll get wet.”
As she didn’t say anything, he glanced over his shoulder. She was lying flat on her back, staring up at the ceiling.
“This bed’s comfortable,” she said, as if speaking to herself. “I think I’ll spend the night here. It doesn’t seem much sense going out in the rain, especially as Sydney won’t be back until late. Besides, I’m tired.”
George realized that his breath was whistling through his nostrils. He felt his blood moving through his veins: it was a most odd sensation.
1946 - More Deadly than the Male Page 9
