Hangover Square (23 page)

‘Oh dear. I’m sorry. I’m afraid it’s my fault… I’m sorry.’

‘Oh no – it’s not your fault at all. We’re very glad to have you here. But we really felt they were a little too much for us. I’m sure you’ll understand.’

‘Oh yes. I do. Thank you very much. I’m afraid they were very noisy.’

‘Yes. They were, really, weren’t they? And it wasn’t only the noise, really…’ She smiled, and changed the subject. ‘Anyway, I hope
you’
ll be staying on?’

‘Oh. Yes. I think I’ll stay on. For another night, anyway… I’ll let you know… Well, thank you very much. I’m awfully sorry.’ He began to move away.

‘No, not at all. I just felt we ought to tell you…’

‘Yes. Thanks very much,’ he said, and walked in a dazed way along the hall to the front steps. Here the cheerful, friendly porter was now standing.

‘Good morning, sir,’ he said. ‘How are you, sir?’

‘Oh, I’m all right’ he said. ‘I hear my friends have been thrown out’

‘Oh, I don’t know, sir,’ said the porter, grinning shyly. They were a bit noisy, weren’t they? And I believe there were certain complaints.’

‘They didn’t leave any message with you, did they?’

‘Message, sir?’

‘Yes. Message to me, I mean.’

‘I don’t know, sir. Have you asked at the office?’

‘Oh yes. I’ve asked there. I was wondering if they left any message through you.’

‘No, sir. Not through me, sir. I’m afraid not, sir.’ And there was an embarrassed pause, in which they both looked out at the street.

‘Hullo,’ he said, noticing it for the first time. ‘It’s started to rain.’

‘Yes. It’s started now, all right sir,’ said the porter, and a moment later he said, ‘Excuse me a moment, will you, sir,’ and went away on his business.

He stood there, staring at the rain. He wondered what he did now. Up till now he had hardly reacted to this new turn of events, had made his answers to the woman and the porter automatically, in a dream. Now he had to see what thing it was that had happened, and what its implications were.

It was no use standing here, staring at the rain. He must get out and walk. He ran upstairs for his hat and raincoat.

His room was neat the bed made, ‘done’. He heard the chambermaid moving about in the room next door. (She had a mess to clear up!) He ran downstairs and out into the street.

He went down East Street towards the sea. It was pelting with rain, and the wind boxed his ears. Oh – how the summer had crashed, and he with it! Tempest and disaster lay ahead – only tempest and disaster!

He knew he would get soaked if he went on walking, but he couldn’t bother about that He had to walk. What fate was it which made him always walking, always by himself?

No message – no attempt at a message – and he was left to
pay the bill! He had thought to save his pride, but now this last, this smashing blow had been dealt it. They had just crashed down, scorned him, wrecked him, torn him to bits, disgraced him publicly in the quiet hotel he had chosen, and crashed back again. Surely this was the end: he couldn’t put up with it any more, could he?

They were a dirty lot, and Netta was the dirtiest. He felt he would like to beat her up, do her some physical damage, smash her face and tell her to go to hell. He could understand men wanting to hit women.

Unfortunately, that wasn’t his way. He wasn’t the woman-hitting type. Too late to try and do a Cagney now! But why should he have to pay the bill? Why not refuse to pay it, and let the hotel recover from them? No, that wasn’t his way, either. He had brought them down, and he was responsible. The hotel had been very nice and it wasn’t their fault.

What could he do, then? Only one thing – cut them out, never see them again. Go away somewhere – start again. But he
was
away, and where could he go?

He was on the front and the rain was impossible – impassable. He turned into a pub near the Grand. He was in a saloon lounge, with bar and tables. He ordered a bitter, and noticed that the fire had been thoughtfully lit in spite of the season. The summer had crashed. He went over and warmed his wet legs, made them steam in front of the fire.

He sipped his beer, and wondered where he was to go, what he was to do. He had got to get away, get a job – start again. But not in London, and not in Brighton.

Of course, he would have to go back to London – he had all his things there. He would go back tomorrow. But after that, where? And where could he get a job? Who could help him, who did he know? No one. Except Johnnie. Perhaps Johnnie would help him. Yes. He would go back tomorrow and ring up Johnnie. He wouldn’t see them ever again.

He would ring up Johnnie and perhaps Johnnie would help him get a job – a job somewhere else – away from London. Then he would get well. He ordered another beer and came back to steam his legs again.

To get away – that was all he could think of now. But where was there, apart from London and Brighton? The ‘country’… What was the country? Somerset?… Devonshire?… Cornwall?… Hampshire?… Yorkshire? Or down the river somewhere, where he had been when he was a boy, and his sister Ellen was alive… Shepperton, Cookham, Maidenhead?…

‘Maidenhead’… A faint, rather funny feeling came over him as he mentioned Maidenhead to himself – a feeling as though he had been reminded of something – as though there was something he ought to remember about Maidenhead… It was like one of those sensations you had when you went into a strange room, or a strange place, and felt you had been there before… (And people said it was reincarnation or a trick of the brain.) ‘Maidenhead’… What was it?… He puzzled for a little, and then gave it up, and went on thinking and steaming his trousers.

He had four beers altogether, and then went out on to the front. The rain had stopped now, but the wind was thundering madly all over the streaming esplanade, and he sought the shelter of the town. In a side street he passed a sports shop, and, seeing some sets of golf clubs on display, stopped to look at them.

He could never resist looking at golf clubs in a window, and he remembered his sixty-eight of yesterday. Yes, it was only yesterday, incredible as it seemed after all he had been through… Then he had felt well, then he had planned to become a golfer again. Now he was a ruined man, drinking beer in a summer which had crashed over a seaside town.

He had planned to become a golfer, to start again. Well, wasn’t he planning to start again now? Then why not get some clubs and start his new life with golf – the one thing at which he was any good? No – that was absurd – he couldn’t afford clubs. But why not buy a club – just one club – to remind him of golf? A number five, say, and take it back with him and perhaps play on the little approach course – what did they call it? – at Holland Park at the top of the Earl’s Court Road, opposite the Kensington Cinema?

Golf. The one thing you could do. He went into the shop, and came out a few minutes afterwards with a number seven. He
had decided that a number seven, on the whole, was the best thing for Holland Park.

He felt astonishingly cheerful. The club was wrapped in brown paper – a sort of brown-paper bag made specially for golf clubs – but he knew how sweet and gleaming and sticky-gripped it was underneath, and he saw the shots he was going to make with it. He approached holes and made the shots as he walked along. You couldn’t be anything but cheerful with such a thing under your arm.

He was so cheerful he decided to have lunch, instead of having any more drinks, and then to go to a cinema.

He had lunch at the restaurant on the first floor of the Regent, and then went into the cinema below, carrying his brown-papered club.

He was out at six and had a few more drinks and went to bed at ten. So his holiday at Brighton ended. He slept well. In the morning he packed, and tipped the cheerful porter, and took a taxi for the 9.5 to London. It was not until he was nearly halfway to London that his head clicked again.

Chapter Four

He was reading his newspaper…

‘
It was only when Miss Fields herself pleaded “Please make way”
, he read, ‘
that she was able to enter Broadcasting House
.

LOOKED EXHAUSTED

‘
She looked pale and exhausted when she reached the vestibule
.

‘
Miss Fields said to listeners: “My goodness, it is wonderful to be back at this old microphone again and to be able to speak to and thank you all wonderful people for the great love and affection you have shown to me during what has been the most dreadful ordeal of my 41 years
.

‘ “Thank heaven and Mr Searle, the surgeon, and all those wonderful sisters and nurses at the Chelsea Women
’
s Hospital
.

‘ “I want to say
‘
Thank you
’
to the Bishop of Blackburn. The day he came to see me was I think the most critical day of my illness. I felt that all the life had gone out of me and I could feel myself slipping back
.

IT WAS WONDERFUL

‘ “After your prayers, dear Bishop – if you are listening – a miracle seemed to happen. I felt myself slowly gaining strength again. It was wonderful
.

‘ “Now I want to say
‘
Thank you
’
to all you wonderful people from all over the world, who have written me such beautiful letters, and for all the wonderful flowers, telegrams and presents
.

‘ “I tell you that you have made me cry. I have been so overcome by your devotion
.

‘ “Maybe you would like to hear the old voice – they haven
’
t been mucking about with that. I am going to sing some verses of a song that you all know. The words express all that I… ” ’

Click!
…

Click… Here it was again. He was sitting in a damp, stuffy, third-class compartment, reading his newspaper, and it had happened again.

He tried to read on.

‘She sang, “I Love the Moon
…
” At the end of her song she said,
“Thank you, Mr
B.B.C.
Good night and God bless you…” Miss Fields will leave for Capri today. It is expected…’

But he couldn’t make any sense of the words. He could only think of what had happened in his head.

He looked slyly around, over his newspaper, at his fellow-passengers, to see if they had noticed what had happened, observed some change in his appearance, but they didn’t seem to have done so.

He sat there, very, very still, pretending to read his newspaper. He looked like one seized in public with a sudden pain which he endeavours to hide – an earache, a toothache, colic. Like such a one his eyes strayed furtively, and then became fixed… strayed again, and again became fixed, thoughtful, dead.

He was, he realized, in a train on his way from Brighton to London. A moment ago such a realization would have had some
comprehensibility and point, now it was merely a dead grey thought in a dead grey world…

The third-class compartment, the people in it, the sky splashing drops of rain on to the pane, the newspaper in front of him, all were grey and dead. But he had something to do. The wheels clicked and rumbled beneath him, and he waited to find out what it was…

Lulled by the sound of the wheels, he went into a sort of doze for a few minutes, and when he came out of it he knew all about it. He had, of course, to kill Netta Longdon. Netta Long-don and Peter. He was probably on his way to do so now, he couldn’t quite remember.

Yes – that was right. He remembered working it out as he walked that morning along the Brighton front to Portslade. He had at first thought of doing it at Brighton, but then as he had walked he had decided that that wouldn’t be safe, first of all because there wasn’t a really useful private place to kill them in in Brighton, and secondly because he would be too far from Maidenhead. He would have to journey up to London before he could get there, and the police might get him, they were so quick. Why, they might have arrested him on the train! He had been one too clever for them. You had to be careful. He kept on forgetting you had to be careful.

And now where was he? He was on the train, very wisely having not killed them. And where were they? Oh yes – they were back already: they had left early in the morning yesterday – turfed out of the hotel. Everything fitted in wonderfully. He had decided not to kill them in Brighton, and they had most obligingly gone back to London for him at once. And now he was following them back to Earl’s Court, where he had arranged to do it at once on his return. He had worked out his plan on the walk to Portslade. He couldn’t quite remember the details, but he knew he had arranged to do it at once on his return.

‘At once.’ Did that mean now – today? That was a bit stiff, wasn’t it? He ought to have some time to think about it.

No – there he went again! Putting it off - vacillating, delaying! What was wrong with today – it was as good as any
other day, wasn’t it?… And go to Maidenhead tonight?… What a funny idea. But wasn’t his bag packed? Wasn’t everything ready? It looked like fate.

Maidenhead! Tonight! Peace! A thrill ran through him such as he had never quite felt before. Maidenhead tonight – away from everything – the whole bloody thing which had been going on too bloody long! Maidenhead, peace, the river, an inn, a quiet glass of beer, and safety, utter safety… Maidenhead, where he had been with poor Ellen, the river in the sun, in the shade of the trees, his hand in the water over the side of the boat, the sun on the ripples of the water reflected quaveringly on the side of the boat, his white flannels, tea in a basket, the gramophone, the dank smell at evening, the red sunset, sleep! Tonight!

Curse it, it was raining… But it would be fine tomorrow. It was still summer. He would get up early and would be down in a punt at Cookham by midday. And the sun would shine, and he would get under the trees, and there would be no Netta, and no policemen, and no killing and sordidness. It was on! It was a date!

There was just the sordid thing to be done. Well, he had never shirked a duty. ‘Yes, I’ll admit that you have a certain – er – torpid conscientiousness of sorts, Bone,’ old Thorne had once said. Which meant that he was a plodder, that he got things done, in his own dull way. Well, he would show old Thorne he was right. He would get the thing done before dark.