I Shall Not Want (20 page)

“I want to talk to you,” she said.

John Marco turned to her, the half ring still held in the hollow of his hand. He could see now how drawn her face was; she no longer looked even a young woman. Her hair, dragged tightly back from her head, fell between her shoulders in a tight, leaden looking plait.

“What is it you want?” he asked.

She paused. “It can't go on like this any longer,” she said at last. “It's more than any woman could bear.”

“So you regret it, do you?” he asked.

She bowed her head.

“It was sin,” she answered. “Sin, and I've been punished for it.”

“We've both been punished for it,” he replied. “And we've both paid.”

“We're both sinners,” she reminded him. “That's what still gives me hope.”

He looked at her incredulously.

“Hope?” he said. “For us?”

“Yes,” she answered. “Every sinner needs someone to bring him back to God. It is for us to be each other's salvation.”

She made a little involuntary movement with her arms as she spoke as though she were about to hold them out to him. The movement was no more than a flicker, however; it died away before it was born. And she was left there, her arms to her sides, a rigid, expressionless figure in that drab, pink silk dressing-gown.

“So you've been talking to Mr. Tuke, have you?” John Marco asked. “Those aren't your words. They're his.”

“I said nothing to Mr. Tuke,” Hesther answered. “He knows enough without my telling him.”

“Knows what?” John Marco demanded.

“That we're not truly husband and wife,” Hesther answered. “That this isn't a real marriage.”

“So he knows
that,
does he?”

“Everyone knows it.”

John Marco did not reply immediately. His lower lip was thrust out a little.

“How do they know?” he asked. “How can other people know what goes on here?”

“Do you expect Emmy to notice nothing?” Hesther replied. “Doesn't this room speak for itself?”

“If
she's
been talking,” he said, “dismiss her. I don't like having my affairs discussed by servants.”

“You needn't dismiss Emmy,” Hesther answered, quietly. “I shall take her with me.”

“Take her with you?” he repeated.

“That's what I came to tell you,” she said. “I'm going away.”

There was silence, complete silence between them. They stood there, looking at each other like strangers. Only they weren't strangers any longer. They had come face to face with each other at last, and Hesther had uttered what for three years she had refused even to admit.

“You mean you're leaving me?”

“I do,” she said.

He paused. “When are you going?” he asked slowly.

“I may be gone by to-morrow night,” she replied. “It may take longer; I can't tell.”

“Is your mind made up?” he asked.

“Yes,” she answered in that same quiet voice. “That is unless you're willing.”

“Willing?”

“Unless you'll give me a child.”

He stood staring at her. A child: so she was tempting him again. And he would refuse; of course he would refuse. But was this house nothing after all? Didn't it count for something to be an Elder and live respected within the Chapel? As a man who was separated from his wife he would even have to resign from the Synod of the Tabernacle. And old Mrs. Marco? It would be like drawing a knife across her remaining years to expect her to scrub her own kitchen again—she had been living the life of a gorgeous and pampered invalid for three years now. Hesther was still dangling Mr. Trackett's hoard before him. It could be his, all his, if he stretched out his hand for it; and the future could then lead on, magnificently as he had so often imagined it. His throat went dry and his heart began to hammer. But suddenly he stopped. In the palm of his left hand there was a single violent stab of pain. He opened his hand and, from the tiny wound where the broken ring had punctured the skin, a little trickle of blood was oozing.

As he moved his hand, the blood gathered itself into a ball and ran down to his wrist, leaving a bright trail
behind it. In the centre of his palm the mark of the half-ring where he had gripped it, still showed clearly imprinted in the flesh.

Then he turned to Hesther.

“Go away if you must,” he said. “We've never belonged to each other.”

It was Eventually to be Mr. Hackbridge's downfall that he was not an Amosite. Had he been even a Rechabite, the larger lapse could have been overlooked. But he was none of these. He worshipped in slack, desultory, Anglican fashion in St. George's Parish Church, Hammersmith; and it was typical of the laxity of his religion that he regarded alcohol as no sin. That is not to say that he drank to excess; the temperance advocate's picture of the drunkard was simply not in him. It was merely that he liked a little whisky before going home; and from time to time he would slip into the William the Fourth (which was far enough away from the shop for his entry not to be observed) to drink a solitary glass. Nothing could have been more moderate or more seemly than his behaviour on these occasions. But it was to be his undoing just the same.

Ever since Mr. Morgan's private talk he had been a little above himself. He no longer came immediately the assistants uttered their shrill “Sign please”; he came instead in his own time, keeping both the assistant and the customer waiting long enough to show that he was a person of some importance. And his signature had changed. Always sprawling, it was now flamboyant. As often as not the point of his pencil went right through the sheet and ripped up the carbon paper underneath as well. His manner, moreover, towards the other assistants had altered appreciably; it had deteriorated. He now bullied unmercifully. And the young ladies, always faintly apprehensive, now went in fear of him. He would wait until the department was empty and then pounce on an error in addition, or point to a box lid that had not been shut down properly, and shout at them about it.

It was only John Marco that he left unmolested. He was not sure enough of him; there was something about John Marco that warned Mr. Hackbridge not to interfere. Not that there was anything that
could
be found fault with. John Marco's departments, even the subsidiary Fancy Goods one that was difficult to keep tidy, were models of what retail departments should be. Mr. Hackbridge, indeed, was gratified to think that he would have such a key assistant under him. He was also gratified to think that it would soon be in his power to humble the younger man. For nearly four years now it had been of the gall and wormwood of his life to think that while he lived in one of a row of inferior dwellings John Marco should reside in a mansion. He looked forward with delicious anticipation to getting his social superior to run messages for him.

It was one evening just as he was about to slip in for his drink that he saw John Marco. He looked again and saw how drawn his face was; as he walked he was staring down at the pavement in front of him. He's got something on his mind, something that's eating him up inside, Mr. Hackbridge said to himself; perhaps he's quarrelled with that rich wife of his. And he saw in this the opportunity that he had been waiting for. It would be something else on John Marco's mind to learn that soon he would be serving under Mr. Hackbridge.

He crossed the road and tapped John Marco on the shoulder.

“Just a moment, young man,” he said.

He was quite surprised, however, at the way John Marco turned round on him. He looked so angry, so positively angry. Mr. Hackbridge drew away a little.

“What is it you want?” John Marco asked.

“I've got something to tell you,” Mr. Hackbridge said. “Something that may make you sit up a bit.”

John Marco stood where he was.

“Very well, then,” he replied. “Tell me.”

Mr. Hackbridge was taken aback.

“Not here, I can't,” he said. “Let's go in somewhere.”

He took John Marco by the arm and began to lead him towards the glass frosted doors of the public house.

“In here,” he said. “I'll tell you over a drink.”

But on the threshold John Marco stopped.

“You forget I'm an Amosite,” he said.

Mr. Hackbridge looked surprised.

“What's that got to do with it?” he asked.

“We don't drink,” John Marco replied.

At that Mr. Hackbridge pursed up his lips.

“I see,” he said. “It's all right for me to go into a public house, but it's not good enough for you, is that it?”

John Marco nodded: he did not seem in the least concerned to hear Mr. Hackbridge's secret.

But Mr. Hackbridge was disappointed.

“Not so hasty,” he said. “It's very important what I've got to tell you.”

“Then why don't you say it?” John Marco asked.

Mr. Hackbridge put his hand on John Marco's shoulder.

“Come inside like I asked you to,” he said. “You don't have to drink just because you're in a public house.”

They went in together and Mr. Hackbridge ordered whisky. John Marco himself drank something non-intoxicating; it was a sparkling glass full of juvenile rubbish that the barman had put before him.

“I expect you've noticed that there's been something on,” Mr. Hackbridge began.

John Marco nodded: he had no notion of what Mr. Hackbridge was talking about.

“Well, Mr. Morgan's retiring: that's what's on,” Mr. Hackbridge told him.

John Marco's face did not express any surprise. Mr. Hackbridge looked hard at him to see him lift his eyebrows when he heard the news, but he was cheated.

“Is that what you wanted to tell me?” was all John Marco said.

Mr. Hackbridge took a deep drink and sat on in silence for a moment.

“You're the only other person who knows,” he remarked.

There was another pause.

“What's going to happen to the shop?” John Marco asked.

Mr. Hackbridge smiled a slow superior smile.

“Wouldn't you like to know?” he said.

“I thought you were going to tell me,” John Marco answered.

Mr. Hackbridge raised his glass and drained it.

“I've been pledged to secrecy,” he said.

“I see,” replied John Marco quietly.

Then he looked towards Mr. Hackbridge's glass.

“Will you have another drink?” he asked.

“If you do,” Mr. Hackbridge replied.

“Very well,” John Marco answered. “Another whisky and a ginger ale. ...”

“I said a drink,” Mr. Hackbridge interrupted. “A real one. Not that stuff.”

John Marco hesitated. He knew perfectly well what the challenge meant: if he accepted it he would be the first Amosite ever to touch liquor in public, perhaps the first Elder ever to touch liquor anywhere. It would be the betrayal of a vow; the committing of the eighth deadly sin. He had seen men turned out of the Chapel for less. But he had to know Mr. Hackbridge's secret. And he did not doubt for a moment that Mr. Hackbridge had brought him in simply to break it to him.

“Very well,” he replied. “Two whiskies.”

“Now you're talking,” Mr. Hackbridge said admiringly.

He sipped the drink that John Marco had brought for him and gazed dreamily into space. “Would it surprise you,” he said at length, “if I told you that Mr. Morgan had appointed me as manager?”

This time Mr. Hackbridge was not disappointed. John Marco drew in the corners of his mouth sharply.

“Is that so?” he said.

Mr. Hackbridge smiled unpleasantly.

“Why do you think I should be telling you if it wasn't?” he asked.

John Marco did not answer. He sat back and stared at the rows of casks and bottles opposite. So that was it! Mr. Morgan, the elderly Mr. Morgan, who couldn't even check over his own stock-room accounts without getting him in to help, had passed him over, had passed him right over and given the prize to this fool in a frock-coat, this whisky-drinker. His anger mounted inside him so that he could not trust himself to speak; there was nothing now that remained of his prodigious future.

Mr. Hackbridge, however, did the speaking for him.

“If you mind your p's and q's,” he was saying, “I may be able to do something for you.”

“For me?”

“Yes, I may be able to put you in the way of a bit of promotion. How would you like my job? How would you like to be shop-walker instead of me?”

“I'll think about it,' John Marco answered.

The answer annoyed Mr. Hackbridge.

“Oh no you won't,” he said. “You won't do anything of the kind. If I want you to be a shop-walker you will be. And if I don't you won't.”

He finished up his drink and tapped loudly on the counter with a florin.

“Same again,” he said. “And hurry up with it.”

Then he turned to John Marco.

“You don't seem to realise who you're talking to. I tell you I'm going to be manager. I'm going to have things done my way in future.”

He sat back as he said it and thrust his thumbs through the arms of his waistcoat. His top hat was tilted a little over one eye and his face was flushed.

“When is this change going to take place?” John Marco asked.

“Whenever I bloody well want it to,” Mr. Hackbridge replied. “Whenever I choose to go to Mr. Morgan and raise my little finger.”

John Marco left him. It was still evening outside. A pale yellow light filled the sky and the chimney-pots were like gold. He walked away rapidly; walked at random without any destination. Even the streets were better than going back to Hesther. And no doubt she had already told Mrs. Marco of her decision—there would be two women now, not one, to face when he got back.

The street which he had taken led him in the direction of the park. It was quiet there, dark and silent under the trees. The lights of London showed simply as so many fairy lamps set round the boundaries of this open wilderness. In front, away from those lights, a man might lose himself; it was somewhere that did not belong to this world at all. He set his feet towards this mysterious inner darkness and walked on. He was not alone, however. Women spoke to him. He saw their shadowy faces, smelt the cheap reek of their scent. The whole air seemed full of powder and patchouli. He brushed past them and went on. He did not stop until he came to the great sheet of water that lay in front of him. In the gloom it stretched out like a great inland sea, and came lapping lazily at the pavement beneath his feet. It pacified him. He stood there, and his thoughts started to unravel: he began to see the future again. An hour later when he came away, his mind was made up.