The Furnished Room (16 page)

‘I'm glad you're here,' she said.

That completed the disappearance of the urge. She had re-established herself as a person; as Georgia who had talked about her daughter, who had been kind enough to give him a meal and drinks, and who as a final kindness had gone to bed with him.

He felt depressed. He wanted to be out of the warm bed and pleasant room. Already in his mind he was out walking the streets, where at every corner there might be something which would make him feel pleased inside. It might be a building with a street light shining on it, or a man eating chips from a newspaper in a doorway, or a match briefly illuminating a face. Whatever it was, he wanted to be out, seeing it. He wanted to smell the adventure in the night air.

He got out of bed and pulled on his trousers.

She said: ‘What's the matter? You're not going, are you?'

‘Georgia love, I can't stay. I must get back home.'

‘Why bother? It's comfy here, and the landlord doesn't live on the premises, so there's nobody to complain if you stay all night.'

‘All the same, I must get home. I've got things to do in the morning.' He heard the flat tone and lack of conviction in his voice, and thought: I am a rotten bastard.

She knew he was lying, but bowed her head in humble submission; ‘All right.' She got out of bed and went to the fireplace, extending her hands towards the artificial coal.

The firelight shone ruddy on her face, her breasts, her rounded belly. He noticed a varicose vein on her thigh and quickly averted his gaze before he could be sure.

Georgia slipped on her dressing-gown, tied the sash, and wriggled her feet into fur-trimmed slippers. ‘I'll make some tea, shall I? Sex always makes me feel thirsty; are you the same?'

‘Yes, thirsty as hell. It's the whisky, too.'

‘Yes.'

He quickly finished dressing, then followed her out into the kitchenette.

She asked in a too-casual voice: ‘I suppose you haven't seen anything of Dickie lately, have you? Dickie Dyce?'

‘I did see him once, briefly. In an espresso-bar.'

‘Oh.' She plugged in the electric kettle. ‘Did he mention me?'

‘No.' Then he added: ‘I only spoke to him for a few seconds.'

‘Oh.'

‘Can I do anything to help? Get the cups out or anything?'

‘No. No, thank you.' Pause. Then she said: ‘Dickie stayed here with me for a week.'

‘Did he?'

‘Yes.' She busied herself with the tea-making, bustling to conceal her hurt. ‘I thought he was very nice when I met him at the party. He seemed very polite and considerate and romantic. Opened doors, and helped me on with my coat, and all that sort of thing. But as soon as he moved in here he changed completely. He got very nasty. For instance, he made a fuss when his meals weren't ready exactly when he wanted them, yet I never knew when he was coming home. And he jumped on every little thing I said, and told me I was a damn' fool. I felt I couldn't do or say anything right, however hard I tried. He seemed to think I was his slave.'

‘Why didn't you tell him to clear out if he was such a boor?'

‘I don't know, really. I suppose he dominated me. He has a very masterful personality. But somehow or other, when he was here, I felt I was being forced to love someone whom I didn't even like, really. He took away my will and replaced it with his own, if you know what I mean. And also, I never really trusted him. I didn't like him being in the flat when I was out. It wasn't exactly that I was afraid he'd steal anything ... I don't know what it was. I just didn't trust him.'

Beckett said: ‘Well, anyway, you're well out of it now.'

‘Yes. By the way, you don't know where he's living now, do you?'

‘No, Georgia, I don't.'

‘He hit me once, and gave me a black eye. That's the sort of brute he was.'

Watching her bend over the teapot he felt a sort of impatience at her humbled shoulders in the dressing-gown, her disordered hair. He could understand Dyce ill-treating her. She had a masochistic element which incited violence.

She continued: ‘And, also, he seemed to be a pathological liar. I mean, he was always telling tall stories and boasting about his adventures, and somehow I never knew whether it was truth or lies. In a way I don't think he really knew either.'

‘Pathological liars are impossible to live with.'

‘Yes. What causes it, do you know?'

‘Not really. I suppose it's the desire to make life more exciting for themselves. A liar creates exciting circumstances, rather like a backcloth for an actor. And a good liar, like a good actor, believes in his own act.'

‘Yes, I suppose so.' She poured tea into marigold-patterned cups. ‘I hope I haven't been boring you with my troubles.'

‘Not at all, of course not.'

‘I don't really want to live like this, you know, sleeping with any man who turns up.'

‘No.'

‘I really want somebody steady, somebody I can love and take care of. But whenever I meet somebody I think will fit the bill, it turns out he doesn't really want love and care. He only wants one thing. And when he's had that, he leaves, and despises me into the bargain.'

Beckett felt embarrassed.

She said: ‘So you're with Ilsa Barnes?'

‘Yes.'

Her face was veiled by her chestnut hair. She looked down at the fur trimming of her slippers. ‘My trouble is that I'm too old.'

‘You're not old, honey.'

‘Old enough to husband-want, to want a father for my little girl.'

‘There's no reason why you shouldn't get one.'

‘There is. It's a fault in myself. I'm too eager, and that puts men off. But don't worry about me, Joe. I'm like a cork, you know, that keeps bobbing up. Life just can't keep me down.'

It was a timeless Sunday. The thousands who lived alone in bedsitters had nothing to do. Some read the papers, others strolled round the block, more sat in pubs or coffee-bars. Beckett went for a walk. He heard a gramophone from an attic window; a woman blues singer. The woman had an adult, disillusioned voice. He imagined her, a Negress, sitting on a barstool facing a desert of empty glasses, singing the blues to the disillusioned dawn. She sang straight and honestly, without gimmicks.

The music hung like the summer sky over Tewkesbury Road.

The combination of the sunshine, a tree against a house, and the music, touched Beckett, making him feel happy. It was as if the music formed a centre, and everything fell into place around it. He was suddenly rested and at peace, giving his consent.

He became aware that a red sports car was kerbcrawling beside him. He recognized Dick Dyce at the wheel.

Dyce asked: ‘Where are you headed for?'

‘Home. I've just been to get the Sunday papers.'

‘Feel like a drink? I think we can just beat the closing time.'

‘Okay.' Beckett got in the car and they drove off.

Dyce said: ‘Well, what do you think of her?'

‘The car? Smashing. Is it new?'

‘Almost. It's this year's model. How much do you think I gave for her?'

‘No?'

‘Three hundred quid.'

‘You're joking. You must have paid more than that.'

‘Not a penny more.' Dyce's manic laugh was hoisted like a triumphal banner. ‘It's a stolen car. Man I met in a club gets these stolen cars, alters the numbers on the engines, chassis, etc., gives them new number-plates, paints them up, and provides faked log books. He sold me this one for three hundred, but I could have had a cheaper car for only one hundred.' There was a bursting exuberance in Dyce's voice, as if he delighted in challenging fate by not only buying stolen cars, but by boasting about it.

Beckett said: ‘Well, it's all right if you can get away with it.'

Dyce laughed again.

‘There's a pub round this next corner.'

The pub windows were frosted glass with a pattern of cherubs in plain glass. They went inside. Green plastic-covered benches lined the walls and a tray advertising Guinness screened the fireplace. The place was full of Irishmen, out from Mass in the nearby church, with royal-blue best suits, Brylcreemed hair, and fresh, ruddy complexions. The two young women with them were stately swans in babyish dresses and angora cardigans, holding gin-and-oranges between gloved genteel fingers. Cigarette smoke and fumes of slopped beer swirled round the full-moon globes which lit the saloon. There was a thud of darts from the partitioned public, and the banshee voice of an Irishman howled the
Rose of Tralee
into a microphone.

‘I saw Georgia the other day.'

‘She's a very silly girl,' Dyce said. ‘What are you having?'

‘No, I'll get them.'

‘Nonsense, old boy, I invited you.'

‘Well, thanks then. I'll have a brown ale.'

‘Have a short.'

‘No, I'm all right with beer.'

‘One brown, one whisky-and-soda,' Dyce ordered, batting his newspaper on the counter.

Sitting at the corner table, Dyce continued: ‘A very silly girl. Man-crazy. Wants stability, of course — cheers — but can't get it. Anyway, she provided me with somewhere to stay temporarily, which is all I was concerned with. I've got a flat now, bloody good place, costs me a packet.' He took a card from his pocket. ‘Come round and see the place sometime.'

‘Thanks, I will.' Beckett read the address: Flat 34, Grosvenor Court Gardens, SW1. He put it between the pages of his notebook.

‘Georgia made a terrible fuss when I told her I was leaving. “Dickie, don't go ...” all that sort of thing. The trouble is, she's such a spaniel that, after much of her company, one gets an overwhelming urge to hit her. Know what I mean?'

‘Yes. She's pleasant enough, but masochistic.'

‘What's your attitude to women?' Dyce asked.

‘I suppose my ideal would be to press a button and find a beautiful blonde in my room. And then afterwards press another button to make her disappear.'

‘Ah, that would be ideal indeed.'

‘When I'm sex-starved I can't think of anything else but sex. I get excited by looking at a pin-up girl like the one on the Clayton's Ginger Ale ad over there. Or by seeing girls' thighs when they slide down a fairground chute. But this desire is often an inner state not caused by a particular girl in the same way that hunger is an inner state, not necessarily caused by seeing a café window.'

‘Although the café window certainly helps.'

‘Oh yes. But what I mean is, my desire is for sex, not for a specific woman. And the push-button idea appeals to me immensely. It's certainly better than having some girl hanging round expecting breakfast when I want to get rid of her.'

‘I know that feeling,' Dyce said. Then he stretched, flexing his muscles, and yawned. ‘I must tell you a story. Something that really happened. Want to hear it?'

‘Okay.'

‘I was about fifteen at the time. During the summer I went hitch-hiking with my cousin Clive, who was several years older than me. We hitched up North and at one in the morning we were stuck on the road above some industrial town or other. They had a blast furnace there, and the sky was lit up by its glow. I rather fancied myself as a socialist at that time, and I was mentally composing a speech about the poor buggers sweating away day and night shifts for the cruel capitalists, plus some calculations as to wages in relation to supporting a family, beers, instalments on the telly, shoes for the kids, fish-and-chips, etc. I'd got all this lined up in my mind and was just about to start spouting and impress Clive, when he suddenly pointed to the sky and exclaimed: “Look at all that money lighting up the sky!”

‘This completely took me aback. I refrained from saying my piece while I took in this new angle. I'd automatically identified myself with the workers, you see. It wasn't until Clive's remark that it occurred to me to identify myself with the bosses. It was the turning point in my thinking. Until then, my interest had been with the underdogs. Afterwards, my interest was in ensuring that I would be a topdog.' Dyce grinned. ‘Well, that's it. You thought I was going to tell you some sexy story, didn't you?'

‘What happened to your cousin? Did he become an industrialist?'

‘No. Like thousands of others, he lost his purity of ambition, and resigned himself to a humdrum life. But I didn't lose my purity of ambition.' Dyce's slit eyes scanned a horizon. ‘That ambition was born in me that night, a penniless boy stranded on an open road. It was never to be stamped down into the ranks of the underdogs. At the moment I'm an adventurer. I climb and fall just for the hell of it. But one day I shall play, no longer for experiment, but for keeps. And from that last game I intend to emerge as a top-dog.'

Beckett glanced at the clock. It was almost closing time. The public bar was singing ‘When Irish Eyes Are Smiling'. He drained the rest of his beer and asked: ‘Have another?'

‘No, I've got an appointment. Let's go and I'll run you home.'

Dyce preceded Beckett through the swing door. ‘Damn' ugly barmaid in that place. Wonder why they employ such old hags. I suppose the poor fool of a publican is married to her.'

Dyce's verbal cruelty made Beckett feel slightly uncomfortable. ‘Don't run me home if you've got an appointment, I can easily walk.'

‘Nonsense, old boy. The appointment can wait.'

In the street they noticed that a small crowd had collected some fifty yards away, and they walked over to investigate. As they approached, Beckett pointed out a stationary car, which was wrenched round at an unnatural angle on the wrong side of the road. There were skid marks behind it and the driver's door hung open.