Wild Geese Overhead, page 8
“Let’s go on this way,” said Will.
Joe went with him, but with the air of disliking doing a vague thing, as though time must always mean something, have a purpose.
“If he’s in a pub,” said Will, “it’s unlikely we’ll find him until the pubs close. We might then run into him coming back.”
“Something in that.”
“Tell me this,” said Will. “Does that sort of stuff have any effect on these men?”
“I used to worry about that. If it had an effect, you think they’d have risen in revolution long ago?”
“Yes.”
“And they haven’t. So what? I know. It’s difficult. You can only have a theory about it. My own is that it is having an effect, a delayed effect. There just is no doubt in my mind that it will tell in the end. In its simplest elements, it’s a form of education in economics and sociology—the only form these men are directly taught. Now it’s extremely complicated, the whole thing, because of human nature. And the human nature of these down-and-outs is more intricate than yours or mine. You believe, for example, that the world is a fine and simple place when things are going well with you. Birds singing and flowers growing and music and art and books and pretty women and good food and so on. But when things are not going well with you, when you are a down-andout and live in one room, then life is not a lovely thing. You become suspicious. You trust no one. You are like a cornered animal. You don’t even trust Bill Bailey. He’s getting money, you suspect, from some source to come and do his stuff. You listen to him—if you haven’t the money to be in the pub. You agree with him. And the more your hatred grows, and your rancour, and your madness—the more oh what the hell’s the good of spouting? You have heard all that before. You have heard all about the bursting wealth of the world. You have heard it, and your fathers have heard it, and your sons are hearing it.” Joe paused. “Think of yourself as Jamie Melvin listening to that. Look through Jamie’s eyes at Bill Bailey doing his dramatic stuff. It does not help that Bill Bailey’s stuff may be right. The rightness is merely an added poison. You don’t say, Yes, I’ll help to organize. You hate. You could act, you could throw bombs, but you’re not allowed to act now. What’ll we do? you cry to Bill Bailey. Join the socialist party, answers Bill. Jesus! So you laugh and hate. They have lost faith.” Joe added after a moment, “Not all of them. There’s the continuous trickle that join up and work. But many of these become so ruthless in their logic that they lose their common humanity. They gather the irreconcilables around them. But the great bulk want kindness and decency and humour—the old human nature—and when they don’t get it, they go sour.”
They found themselves by the river again.
“Let’s get back,” said Joe.
Will saw the illuminated sign of a pub up a street. “Come on and have a drink.”
“Feel you need one?”
“Yes.” Will looked at the glowing red and gold sign in the street’s dark tunnel. “Underground to Fairyland.”
Joe followed him in.
There was a crush of men standing deep round a curving mahogany counter, with two young barmen serving, and one older man serving also but quiet and watchful. After the misery of the night outside, the place was a gabble of sound, a crush of warmth, a thick stench of tobacco smoke, beer, and old clothes. Will began to cough, and coughed till the tears came into his eyes. “Damnation!” he said, his face holding its pallor, his eyes glittering. “What’s yours?”
“A lemon squash,” said Joe.
“A lemon squash and a large whisky.”
Joe began quietly to look around. Will also saw the faces but he couldn’t look at them, couldn’t think about them. They hurt him. Each lineament, the look in an eye, the twist of a mouth, discoloured teeth, a snigger, a laugh, a strong vindictive face, a furtive face, a lost face—instantaneously conveyed the inner story. He did not want the story. His mind felt skinned, sensitive as a raw wound. He knew their lives, how the weaklings amongst them shuffled and slept; even their secret incontinences came at him. It was too much. “Here’s how!” he said to Joe, and drank his whisky in a gulp.
“He’s not here,” said Joe.
The general topic of conversation was football. Different teams, different views, different sides. He knew the whole lingo. Hit and come again. But the talk here had an aim, an object. For here was the real home of the football coupon. The penny, the tuppenny bet. Normally he might have seen this as the poor man’s gamble, his pennyworth of fun.
To-night, Friday night, it had a heat, an earnestness, a wild sarcasm, a lust. Hunger and greed at the core of it.
They were drinking draught beer with thin frothy bubbles on top. But just behind his right shoulder were three or four fellows drinking wine. Will blew out a long stream of smoke from his newly lit cigarette and gave them a side glance.
Dark heavy Empire wine, full of alcohol, four-pence a large glass. The stuff that, with a dash of meth., was called Red Biddy. One of these, with a chaser of beer, and a fellow could be well on. They were not having chasers. They were sticking to the wine. Taking it in little mouthfuls, and discussing—film stars. Will could not believe his ears. Not young lads. Men of over thirty, over forty. Yes, they were discussing a film that had been, a film that was coming, and the stars concerned. “Ay, she’s grand.” “I’ll tell you what I thought was awful good. Remember that time when he came in and she was——” Pale-faced, bright-eyed film-addicts, living a dream-life on the dole, with sixpence twice a week for the pictures and a little more for Empire wine.
A buzzing of blood went into Will’s ears. Never in his life had he been assailed by the pathetic in this frightening way. In comparison, Bill Bailey and his listeners were he-men.
“Want another?” Joe asked.
“One minute,” said Will and he looked around. “Where’s the lavatory?” he asked the barman.
“Through that way.”
Will edged his way through, was involuntarily stopped by his nostrils on the threshold, held his breath, and went into the latrine. Men’s backs and shoulders; one or two swaying in their drink. The fellow next to him was leaning forward, supported by the forehead which pressed against the flag-stone wall. All at once the horizontal pipe a few inches above the man’s head noisily gushed out water through its small perforations. The water descended upon his cap, soaked it, and trickled down his face. His whole body convulsed and his mouth ejected a violent gush of vomit, which hit the flag-stone and spat back upon Will’s clothes. Will let out a harsh grunt of disgust and began wildly brushing the stuff off with his naked hand. Slowly the face twisted round at him. Black burning eyes. The eyes held him, torture drawn to fine points. The face drew back from the wall, slowly, and steadied, concentrating on Will in a demoniacal satire and hatred. Only as the body squared up did Will notice that the right arm was missing.
Before he could be assaulted, Will turned away, re-entered the bar, and went up to Joe. “He’s in there,” he said.
“Who? Jamie?”
“Yes.”
Joe looked at him. “Feeling sick?”
“Yes.” Will kept wiping his left side. “Must get some fresh air.” He turned abruptly and pushed his way out. The cold raw night hit him in the face. Two policemen were standing on the opposite pavement a few yards down. It was near closing time. He turned up the side street hurriedly. One policeman slowly moved up after him. He strove to keep his sickness down, going on blindly. He could not keep it down. He moaned aloud in agony and the sickness came in a spate through his teeth. He groped for the wall and steadied himself. His legs began to tremble; his head went icy cold. A hand with metal fingers gripped his shoulder. “What’s this?” But he could not get breath. His legs were giving way. He got breath and moaned: “Leave me.” The policeman shook him and said roughly: “Come on!” He did not mind the policeman, because now the fainting sensation was ebbing, casting the thing that was himself high and dry again.
He slowly straightened up. “Sorry, constable.” He gasped, for some bitter stuff had got into his wind-pipe.
The policeman stooped and looked into his face. “Who are you?” The voice was gruff and suspicious.
Will did not answer. Deeper than his human sense of shame, than his hatred of the animal mess, was this feeling that he was coming all right. For there had been one terrible drawn-out moment when he had felt himself shooting into a black abyss. The policeman shook him. His strong fingers bit the shoulder bone. Will lost his balance, but the policeman held him upright. “Come on!” The policeman began to drag him away.
“One minute,” said Will. “For God’s sake, listen.”
“What’s that?”
“I’m not drunk. There’s something wrong. Listen to me.”
The policeman was all attention now and looked shrewdly into Will’s face.
“Give me a minute,” said Will. “Let me lean against the wall.” The policeman helped him to the wall. Will shut his teeth against an overpowering desire to sit down. “It happened in there. I have only had one drink to-night. You know I’m quite sober.” Any one could see he was sober. “Only one drink. I was in there. The atmosphere—cut it with a knife. I went into the lavatory. A fellow spewed over me. It turned my stomach.”
“What were you doing in there?”
“My job. I’m a journalist.”
“Oh, a journalist, are you?”
“Yes. I work on the Evening Star. Special articles—social conditions. You know. God, I’m feeling sick yet.”
“So you’re a journalist?”
“Yes. Give you my card.” A weak smile came to his face. “I thought I was tougher. It was the way the stuff—oh heavens!” Will had brought his hand up to open his coat and now began brushing the breast of it with sickening distaste.
“It isn’t a very nice thing to do on the street,” said the constable in a mollified tone.
“Don’t rub it in! I’ll make a contribution—to the scavenging department.” The weary humour was a friendly effort.
“How would you like, if you were living here, and came out in the morning, and slid on that?”
“Hush—or I’ll do it again.”
“You better not,” said the constable.
Will felt assailed by a humour wild and fantastic as the night, the black convoluting horror of the night. Something in the policeman’s voice was faintly reminiscent of Don, too. The Highland accent! The tangle of the Isles! The cheekbones protruded like stem or sternpost of a small boat. Smashing green seas and white spray.
He had got hold of his pocket-book, when an uproar arose from the pub. “Come along,” said the policeman, taking Will in tow.
As they reached the spot, Joe and Jamie came clattering through the doors, as if they had been forcibly ejected. Some men followed, but when they saw the policemen they backed away. Joe seemed to be doing his best to hold a one-armed maniac, whose language was foul. It was a strange, terrifying, agonizing foulness. Some youngsters, who had been following Will and the policeman, listened to it with frightened faces. Normally they would have listened like connoisseurs, with the general assessment: “Jesus, hasn’t he got a—skinful!” But now they were silent, the eyes in the pale faces glistening with a queer dread. Nothing on the normal plane of social horror was strange to them; but this was pushed off that plane into the abyss where there is no footing, only the cry coming back.
Joe had said a few hurried words to the policeman, who was now helping him, and both of them began dragging Jamie away. The constable, who was with Will, strode forward, had a word or two with his colleague, and turned back, meeting Will.
“Good night, constable—and thanks,” said Will.
Their eyes met. In a slow grim way the policeman nodded. “Good night.”
But Jamie wasn’t beaten yet. For he wanted back. He wanted back to the warmth of the pub; to the light and the warmth, to the obliterating crush of bodies, drinking, drinking, all drinking. He wanted back. The children at a little distance heard him cry: “For Christ’s sake, let me back! Let me back! Let me back!” his voice rising to a roar, then choking in his throat as he dug his heels in. It looked as if his captors were taking him to torture, not ordinary bodily torture, but some other hellish and unthinkable torture. It was this note that troubled the children.
Will followed a few yards behind, as if he were leading the children. After a time, unable to stand this isolation, he quickened his pace and came beside Joe. “Can I help?”
“No,” said Joe. “It’s all right.” Every now and then Jamie roared aloud and struggled, fighting drunk. But Joe and the policeman had him firmly. The children were darting about now in their excitement. They were getting used to the underlying terror, as they would get used to the sight of a mad young bull, roped, being led to the shambles. Their instinctive fear made them more active than birds. Grownups, back against the walls, stood and stared.
When they came to the corner of the street where his home was, Jamie made his great struggle. The policeman, losing patience, told him to shut up or he would bash him. He manhandled him a little and a thin screaming note pierced through Jamie’s harsh throat.
“It’s no use,” said the policeman, who apparently knew Joe. “I’ll have to lock him up.”
“We can’t do that,” said Joe. “It’ll ruin him for good.”
“Not a bit of it. It’s what he damned well needs.”
“But, man, can’t you see——”
“All I can see is he’s dangerous. I can’t take the responsibility of letting a man in his condition near a woman or a child. He’s capable of anything. Can’t you see he’s fighting mad?” The Highland accent was very strong.
But Jamie had gone suddenly still and silent. He was staring at Will. Hatred focused to torture points. He let out a low throaty growl and, if the policeman had not had a lock on his arm, he would have broken free.
The impetus of Jamie’s rush started them up the street. Will fell behind, his heart beating in a suffocating way. A deep bitter shame, a self-shame, overcame him, a conviction of worthlessness drawn out and lost in the outer dark of the night.
Opposite the close leading to Jamie’s home, Joe paused and made his desperate appeal. But Jamie did not listen, and it became very clear that this close was for him the gangway to his final torture.
Joe could do no more, and actually as they went up the street Jamie grew much quieter. By the time they reached the police office, he was walking silently between them. Will saw him enter without offering any resistance. The three of them disappeared, and he was standing alone on the street.
Not a soul on the street but himself, no darting children here or staring men and women, as if all the world avoided this office. A profound sensation of the emptiness of the world, of life, of himself, came upon Will. Like a plague street in a dim-dark foreign town under an empty sky. All dead—except for that office, where Jamie was being charged. He moved slowly down the street, turned, and came back. A tall dark helmeted figure came out of the police office, looked at him with slow deliberation, and walked quietly away.
Will went along the pavement again, saw a tall dark figure coming towards him, and turned back. The figure came up behind. Will could feel it looking at him. It did look at him, slowly round and into his face, as it passed on, with quiet strides, and entered under the solitary light above the doorway.
The dark upright watchers of night in the underworld. Islesmen, cheek-bones like blunt timber-ends, straight-stemmed, unyielding, going out into the dark, returning from the dark’s dark fishing with catches of strange tragedies. How fantastic the drama of destiny!
Will felt a cold bodiless fantasy getting hold of him. This touched him with fear, as though his normal mind were slipping. At last Joe came out.
“Still here?” he said, in his usual voice. But there was a quietness about him now, and he stood silent for a little while. “It’s a pity,” he added, “but there seemed nothing else for it.”
“No.”
“I couldn’t take him home. And, anyway, he wouldn’t have come.”
“No. He wouldn’t want to be with friends.”
“Suppose not.”
They were silent again. In view of the accomplished fact of Jamie’s imprisonment, there was nothing to say. The weight of it pressed down on them. Nothing to say—or too much; too much, in anger and bitterness and defeat.
“What about your bus?”
Will tried to read his watch.
“About a quarter to eleven,” said Joe.
“I could just make it.”
“Right. I’ll go back and have a few words with Mary.” He spoke quietly.
“Don’t suppose I could be of any use?”
“No. You get home. I told the sergeant I’d be here before eight in the morning. I’ll see then how Jamie is taking things. We’ll straighten him up somehow. Well, thanks for your company. Good night.”
“Good night, Joe.”
They parted, but after twenty yards, Will swung round and called: “Joe!” Joe came to meet him.
“What about ready cash? Will Mary have anything?”
“She can’t have much,” said Joe.
From his pocket-book, Will took out a pound note. “Would that be any use?”
“It’s far too much.”
“Good,” said Will, handing it to him.
“Thanks very much,” said Joe.
“Needn’t say it’s from me.”
“All right. Sometimes you have to make an excuse or other. I can honestly say it’s not mine!” He smiled in friendly weary irony.
Will smiled back, and they said good night again.
Joe always made Will think of the brotherhood of man. In his large strong body, in his forbearance, his capable handling of any event, his quiet understanding, his tendency always to act rather than to talk, Joe was the brotherhood of man. And to-night, too, in this matter of feeling, of sympathy, Joe had been subtle. It was as if he had learned the need for feeling with his head. Having work to do, he could not let anything touch him too closely. He thereby not only kept action intact but assisted those who had lost hold on action.
