The Stars Look Down (26 page)

But the rapture went out of it comically soon, the running upstairs soon became a bore, the ripples of laughter wore themselves out and all the beautiful novelty of dearest Sally faded and was finished. “She’s changed, David,” Jenny announced sadly towards the end of the first week, “she’s not the same girl at all, mind you I never did think much of…”

David did not find Sally changed except that she might be quieter and improved. Perhaps Jenny’s effusiveness made her subdued. Perhaps the thought that she was finished sobered Sally down. She had lost her pertness. There was a new thoughtfulness behind her eyes. She made herself useful running errands and about the house. She did not ask to be amused and all Jenny’s arrangements and display merely served to shut her up. Once or twice in the kitchen, seated on the plain deal table swinging her legs before the big fire she condescended, as Jenny put it, to come out of herself. Then she chattered away sixteen to the dozen, telling them in a frank and merry way of her experiences on the Payne-Gould tour, of the landladies, the managers, the “moth-eaten” dressing-rooms, of her own greenness and nervousness and mistakes. She had no pretentiousness. She could take off people beautifully but now she took off herself even better. Her best story was terribly against herself, of how she got the bird in Shiphead—Jenny simply loved to hear that story!—but Sally told it joyfully, without a trace of bitterness. She had a carelessness about herself. She never did up, never bothered about the kind of soap she used, always washed her face in cold water, she had very few clothes and, unlike Jenny who was always altering and stitching and pressing, keeping her clothes in the most beautiful condition, she took no care of them whatever. She had one brown tweed costume and wore it nearly all the time; as Jenny remarked, that thing was never off her back. But Sally’s method was to buy a suit, wear it out, then buy another one. She had no good clothes, Sunday hats, or
adorable
fancy underwear. She wore plain serge knickers and flat shoes. Her figure was short and rather tubby. She was very plain.

David enjoyed Sally quite a lot though Jenny’s increasing petulance began to worry him again. One evening, however, it was the first of December, when he came in from school Jenny met him with a return of her old animation.

“Guess who’s in Sleescale?” she demanded, smiling all over her face.

Sally, setting the table for David’s tea, said sadly:

“Buffalo Bill.”

“Be quiet,” Jenny said. “Just because you don’t happen to like him, Miss Impudence! But really though, David, you never would guess, honestly you’d never. It’s Joe!”

“Joe!” David repeated, “Joe Gowlan?”

“Mm-huh!” Jenny nodded brightly. “And,
my
, doesn’t he look well. You could have knocked me down with a feather when I met him in Church Street. Of course
I
wasn’t going to recognise him, not me, I wasn’t too pleased with Joe Gowlan the last time I saw him, but he came up and spoke to me nice as nice. He’s improved wonderful.”

Sally looked at her sister.

“Is it cold meat for David’s tea?” she said.

“No, no,” said Jenny absently, “just a plain tea to-night, we’ll keep the meat for supper. I’ve asked Joe to drop in, I knew you would want to see him, David.”

“Why, yes, of course.”

“Not that I’m
all that
anxious myself, mind you. But I did think I’d like to let Mr. Joe Gowlan see he’s not the only one that has got on. Believe me, with my blue china and the doyleys and cold meat and heated-up peas I’ll show Mr. Joe a thing or two. Pity it wasn’t the cod we had yesterday, I could have used the new ivorine fish slice. Never mind, though, I’ll borrow Mrs. Wept’s carvers, we’ll have a pretty nice display I can tell you.”

“Why don’t you hire a butler when you’re about it?” Sally said mildly.

Jenny coloured. The pleasantness left her face. She turned on Sally. She said:

“You’re an ungrateful little hussy, you are, to stand there and talk to me like that. I think I’ve done pretty well by
you
when it comes to the bit. The idea of you standing there criticising me because I ask a gentleman to supper in my own house. The idea! And after all that I’ve done for you. You go home, my lady, if you don’t like it.”

“I’ll go home, if you want to,” Sally said. And she went to get David’s tea.

Joe dropped in about seven o’clock. He wore his light brown suit, his watch-chain, that really impressive derby, and an air of affable simplicity. He was not loud, nor boisterous, nor full of brag, he was nothing that David might have feared. Joe had really been forced to come home and, though Joe could never look that way, Joe was quite a bit under the weather. In plain truth, Joe was still out of a job. He was turning over in his mind the idea of going back to Millington’s; after all hadn’t Stanley Millington promised to give him a lift up, hadn’t he now, the big sod? Yes, he would go to Millington’s all right. But not yet, not just yet. There was something else, something on Joe’s mind that Joe didn’t
enjoy. Joe was worried about himself, worried about something. God, what a fool a fella could be, but maybe it wasn’t something, maybe it was nothing after all.

The general effect of this bodily and spiritual uncertainty was to throw an air of subdued virtue about Joe, to establish him as a man who had at last returned to see his aged father and was modestly reticent about his obvious success in life. And he was so pleased to see David, so deeply touched to see his “ole pal” again! It was quite affecting.

Towards Jenny, Joe was very humble, apologetic and subdued. He praised her china, her doyleys, her frock, her food. He ate, for one prosperously acquainted with a richer diet than cold beef and peas, a considerable supper. He was struck, oh, immensely struck by the improvement in Jenny’s social setting.

“By gum,” he kept repeating, “I must say this goes one better than Scottswood Road!” His manners were quite elevated. He no longer foraged with his knife for errant peas. He “helped” the ladies. He was handsomer than ever and his tone was almost reverent.

It was honey to Jenny, her formal “company” manner slowly slid from her, she became pleasantly arch, condescending, chatty in a lady-like way.

Not that Joe talked much to Jenny. No, no! It was clear that Joe had little time for “wimmen” now—his interest in Jenny was merely friendly and polite. As for Sally, he never looked at her at all. Joe was all for David, full of questions, interest, admiration. It was great that David was sitting his BA. in a fortnight, those week-ends of study with Carmichael were certainly a brain wave of the first degree. Always the lad to have brain waves, eh, Davey ole man? Joe and David talked long after supper and Jenny kept slipping in and out, humming pleasantly and graciously inquiring from time to time how they were getting on. Sally was washing the dishes, with a certain restrained vehemence, in the scullery.

“It’s been fine seeing you again,” David said at last as Joe rose to go.

“No more nor seeing you, ole man,” Joe said. “Believe me it’s the whole cheese. I’ll be here a week or two, I expect, we got to see more of each other. Walk down the road with me now. Ah, come on. It’s early yet. By the bye,” Joe paused, twiddling his watch-chain, a candid amusement in his eye. “I almost forgot, Davey, I cleaned myself out over the old
dad this afternoon, gave him a packet, a regular packet, everything I’d got, felt sort of generous like seeing him again I suppose. You couldn’t lend us a couple of quid or so—just till I hear from the bank? Just an ole couple of pounds.”

“A couple of pounds… Joe?” David stared at Joe, taken aback.

“Oh, never mind, then.” Joe’s smile departed, he looked hurt, offended; “palship” and decency outraged suffused his shiny face. “Never mind if you don’t want to… it’s nothing to me… I’ll get it easy somewhere else.”

“Well, Joe…” Joe’s wounded expression cut David, he felt mean, horrible. He had about ten pounds tucked away in the chest of drawers in the bedroom, money saved for his examination expenses, and it was money that had taken some saving. He said suddenly: “Of course I’ll lend you it, Joe. Hold on…” He dashed upstairs and took three pounds and came back and offered them to Joe.

“Right, Davey.” Joe’s belief in humanity was mercifully restored. He beamed. “I knew you’d oblige an ole pal. Just till the end of the week, you understand.”

As they went up the street together Joe cocked his hat a trifle. His good night to David rang like a benediction.

David turned down Cowpen Street. He had meant to go up to see his father to-night, but it was getting towards ten o’clock now. Joe had kept him longer than he expected, and Martha had a way of frowning upon him when he slipped in late as if the very lateness of his visit were a slight on her. He walked along Freehold Street, meaning to cut through Bethel Street, when suddenly he saw his brother Hughie coming through the darkness, running swiftly down the crown of the road in his shorts and singlet. David called:

“Hughie! Hughie!” He had to call quickly, Hughie was going so fast.

Hughie stopped and crossed over. Although he had run three miles his breath came easily, he was in perfect condition. When he saw that it was David he gave a whoop and promptly fell upon his neck.

“Davey, you son of a gun!”

David disentangled himself.

“For heaven’s sake, Hughie.”

But Hughie for once was irrepressible.

“It’s happened, Davey. It’s happened at last. Did you know? I had the letter this afternoon. I got it when I came
out the pit. They’ve asked me, Davey. Oh, help, isn’t it great!”

“Asked you what, Hughie?” asked David, bewildered. He had never seen Hughie like this, never, why… if he didn’t know Hughie, he’d have sworn Hughie was drunk.

The silent Hughie was drunk, intoxicated with delight.

“Asked me to play for Tynecastle! Could you believe it, man! They were watching the match last Saturday and I never knew a thing about it… and I scored three goals… I did the hat trick, Davey… and now they’ve asked me to play a trial with the reserves at St. James’s Park on Saturday week. Oh, heavens, isn’t it great. If I do all right I’m signed, Davey… signed for the United, Davey,
the United
!” Hughie’s voice cracked amongst delirious heights.

David understood: it was here at last, Hughie’s hoped for, longed for, impossible dream. Not for nothing had Hughie martyred himself, bound himself to monkish ways, steeled himself against those glamorous glances, that so often sought out his in Lamb Street on Saturday nights. Suddenly David felt glad, a rush of genuine happiness came over him, he held out his hand in congratulation.

“I’m delighted, Hughie.” How comically inadequate words were to express the real joy he felt.

Hughie went on.

“They’ve had their eye on me for months. Did I tell you that before? I can’t think what I’m saying. But you may be sure of one thing. I’ll play the game of my life on Saturday week. Oh, Davey, man, isn’t it wonderful!” That last ecstasy seemed to bring Hughie to himself. He coloured and stole a look at David. He said: “I’m fair sloppy to-night. It’s excitement.” He paused. “You’ll come to the match though, Davey?”

“I’ll be there, Hughie. I’ll come and shout my head off.”

Hughie smiled: his old diffident smile.

“Sammy’s coming too. He says if I don’t score six he’ll wring my neck!” He balanced on his heels for a minute in his familiar style, then he said: “I’d better not catch cold. I’m not taking any chances now, lad. Good night, Davey.”

“Good night, Hughie.”

Hughie went off, running, disappearing into the darkness of the night.

David returned home, with a sense of warmth about his heart. He let himself into the house. Sally was alone, sitting crouched up in a chair by the fire with her legs tucked in
and her lips drawn down. She looked very small and silent. After Hughie’s elation it struck David that she was sad.

“Where’s Jenny?” he asked.

“Gone to bed!”

“Oh!” He paused, disappointed. Right away he had wanted to let Jenny know about Hughie. Then, smiling again, he began to tell Sally.

Crouched there, she studied him, watching him steadily with her face masked by the shadow of her hand.

“Isn’t that grand?” he concluded. “You know, not so much what he’s got… but because he was so set on getting it.”

She sighed. She was silent. Then she said:

“Yes, it’s pretty nice getting what you want.”

He looked at her.

“What’s the matter?”

“Nothing.”

“You don’t look like it was nothing. You look upset.”

“Well,” she said slowly, “I’ve been rather stupid. Just before you came in I had a row with Jenny.”

He looked away quickly.

“I’m sorry about that.”

“Don’t be sorry. It’s not the first and I’m afraid it’s been coming for a long, long time. I shouldn’t have told you. I should have been noble and just smiled myself away tomorrow all polite and self-sacrificing.”

“Are you going to-morrow?”

“Yes, I’m going. It’s time I was getting back to Alfred. He doesn’t get his place in the house and he smells of pigeons but I’m rather struck on old Alfred for all that.”

He said:

“I wish I understood what the trouble was.”

She said:

“I’m glad you don’t.”

He stared at her doubtfully.

“I don’t like you going this way. Please don’t go.”

“I must go,” she said. “I didn’t bring a change of lingerie.” She gave a short laugh and then burst straight into tears.

He simply didn’t know what to make of her.

She stopped crying at once. She said:

“Don’t pay any attention. I’ve been slightly unstuck ever since I came to bits on the prima donna act. I don’t want any sympathy. It’s better to be a has been than a never was. I’m quite cheerful and I think I’ll go to bed.”

“But I am sorry, Sally.”

“Shut up,” she said. “It’s high time you stopped being sorry for other people and started being sorry for yourself.”

“What on earth have I got to be sorry about?”

“Nothing.” She got up. “It’s too late to be soulful. I’ll tell you in the morning.” Abruptly, she said good night and went to bed.