The Boarding-House Page 4

  ‘Cocoa!’ said the man. ‘You’re joking?’

  ‘We have cocoa every evening,’ explained Rose Cave, ‘just about now.’

  The man laughed, thinking this amusing, but in the end he had a cup of cocoa and a couple of biscuits, while they waited for Studdy’s return.

  4

  Mr Bird had been a man of some bulk, tall and proportionally broad. His head was hairless except for a furrow of white fluff that grew at the back, from ear to ear. He wore, both inside and out and in all seasons, a panama hat, and he carried on his walks a silver-topped cane that he had found one day, twenty years before his death, in a public lavatory. On all these walks, and in fact all his lifetime, Mr Bird’s left leg had not adequately performed its function: he moved unevenly, aided in his progress by the silver-topped cane.

  Mr Bird’s face had been, and still was for a short time, pale and round and not remarkable except for its paleness and its roundness and the fact that his eyes seemed colourless. In sixty-seven years no one had ever noted and remembered the colour of Mr Bird’s eyes, not since the time when he had been in a cradle, when the noting of such details is common practice.

  How greatly they delight me!

  Mr Bird had written in his Notes on Residents.

  How complete my suburban world is now that my house is full. In the evenings I rise from meditation on my bed as I hear the first key turn in the lock and I take up an idle stance on the upper landing. Far below me something that seems at first to be a pine tree mounts the stairs: it is the pointed head and lanky body of our Mr Scribbin, bearing beneath his arm a recording of the noises made by trains. He walks fast, panting a bit, his hair on end, his clothes loose on his body. ‘Good evening, Mr Scribbin,’ I whisper over the banisters, but Mr Scribbin does not hear, and I smile, understanding that Mr Scribbin has other matters on his mind. Rose Cave comes next. She walks in briskly, to disguise her weariness. She has a deep distaste for the work she does, but she is always so gentle, so determined to be fond of a world that has given her nothing. Then it is either Venables or Miss Clerricot. How I love to watch the blood run to the face of little Miss Clerricot, so pretty she seems to me, sitting in our television lounge wrapped in her own small shame. She is embarrassed to be alive and no one on earth can fully console her. Well, at least I have done a good thing – I have brought them all together; and though they are solitary spirits, they have seen in my boarding-house that there are others who have been plucked from the same bush. This, I maintain, lends them some trifling solace. Mr Obd and Major Eele, Nurse Clock and poor Studdy: they all need comfort, as do my servants. I have kindled some comfort in their hearts; I have created a great institution in the south-western suburbs of London. Such has been my work and my vocation as revealed by Our Heavenly Father. I am Thy servant, O Lord; in Thee do I exist. That I have taken comfort as I have supplied it to others, that I have drunk at the same stream, seems to me no sin. I have prayed and been given no sign that my actions or my thoughts are wrong. I adhere to the straight and narrow: I will fear no evil.

  Several hours before the solicitor arrived at The Boarding-House Studdy sat alone in his regular public house.

  ‘One and eightpence,’ said Studdy, laying the coins out on one of the little tables in what was called the bar-lounge. ‘Now, boy, what can you serve me for one and eightpence?’

  ‘A pint of beer,’ said the barman quickly. ‘Or a Guinness or a light ale.’ He picked up an ashtray and emptied it on a tin tray.

  ‘No spirits? Not a whisky?’

  ‘Not a whisky, Mr Studdy. A whisky would be two shillings.’

  ‘Now,’ said Studdy, ‘use your ingenuity. Measure me out a whisky that is a little less than the two-shilling measure. One and eightpence is eighty-three per cent of two shillings. Measure me out a whisky that is eighty-three per cent of the two-bob measure. Do that to oblige Mr Studdy, boy. Do that to oblige a customer.’

  The barman shook his head. He knew that Studdy had further money hidden away on his person somewhere. It was a great ploy of Studdy’s to try people’s patience in this manner, hoping that in the end he’d get his drink at a cut price.

  ‘That’s against the law, Mr Studdy,’ said the barman. ‘What shall I bring you now?’

  ‘Would I owe you the fourpence? I’m a regular passenger in here. It’s not as though Mr Studdy is some fly-by-night you’ll never set eyes on again. How about an IOU?’ Studdy took his IOUs from his pocket and rapidly wrote 4d. on one. He added the landlord’s name and signed the paper with a flourish. ‘Here you are,’ he said, dismissing the matter and picking up a newspaper left by someone else.

  ‘I cannot accept that,’ said the barman. ‘Cash on the nail the rule is. You know that well, Mr Studdy.’

  Studdy, behind the newspaper, took no notice. Then, at a further protest from the barman, he sighed and said:

  ‘I have written the IOU, I have placed myself in your debt to the extent of four coppers. I cannot undo what already is done. If you are suggesting that we waste this IOU, why did you not prevent me writing it? Why change your mind at this point? I may have to see the landlord, boy.’

  ‘I am returning your IOU, Mr Studdy. I cannot accept it. How could I prevent you writing it when you did so in a flash? Be reasonable now.’

  ‘Reasonable? Who is being reasonable and who is not? Examine this matter between us and you will fast discover that reason is liberally on Mr Studdy’s side. Declare to God, I’ve never known a man to be so difficult. Think of it, it is a question of four pennies.’

  ‘You know the law, Mr Studdy; you know the rules of the house–’

  ‘Be damned. Give over now. Serve me with a Scotch whisky and have done with it.’

  ‘Two shillings, Mr Studdy.’

  Studdy handed the man a ten-shilling note and groaned to deprecate the barman’s folly. It angered him that there was more and more of this to-do as the years passed; nowadays whenever he asked anyone to oblige him there was all this fuss about nothing.

  ‘Eight shillings change,’ said the barman, passing over the glass.

  Studdy had wished to keep the half note intact. He hated having to reduce a note to a jangle of coins.

  ‘Where’s my IOU?’ he asked the barman.

  ‘I gave it back to you, Mr Studdy.’

  ‘Gave it back? Be damned, you did no such thing. Produce that IOU now and no further nonsense.’

  ‘I haven’t got it. You put the paper in your waistcoat pocket.’

  ‘You know I never did that. I gave it to you and you cunningly took it off, charging me as well. That whisky has cost me two and fourpence.’

  ‘I can’t stand here, Mr Studdy. I have my work to do. I haven’t got your IOU.’

  ‘Then you must have placed it in the till. I shall have to see the landlord. Most certainly I haven’t got it. Why should I? Why would I write an IOU and then place it in my waistcoat pocket? That would not make sense at all. You may examine me if you wish.’

  ‘I have my work to do.’

  ‘And I have my thoughts to think. I notice you do not suggest an examination of yourself. I am open to that; yet you are not. Now, to a neutral observer, where would the guilt lie?’

  ‘You are off again, Mr Studdy.’

  ‘I am not off anywhere. I warn you, you cannot get out of your unenviable predicament simply by saying I am off. There is a net of suspicion tightening in around you. Think carefully now before you speak. Do not give yourself away with some glib denial. I see it in your eyes: a host of assorted petty thefts and the guilt thereof. You’re blushing like a schoolgirl; your hand is forever in that till.’

  ‘Now, Mr Studdy, that’s no kind of talk. You know I gave you back that IOU.’

  ‘Boy, it has gone beyond the IOU by now. What is four-pence? A trifling sum that would buy you but an inferior chocolate bar. Yet you could not resist even that. You who have been helping yourself to the crackle of five-pound notes from that till could not resist the opportunity to rob a simpl
e man by means of a trick. You could not pass it by. You could not see that a grain of seed may trap an eagle. You Irish are all alike.’

  ‘It is you who are the Irish one, Mr Studdy. There’s no Irish blood in me at all.’

  ‘There is Irish blood everywhere, and if I were a hard type of man I would have the police in here and we would see Irish blood spurting like a fountain as they sought to capture you.’

  The barman shrugged and went away. Studdy read the newspaper through; after glancing at the clock, he took his leave.

  Studdy was a red-haired man of fifty-three. He was tall and heavy, and he wore, winter and summer alike; a thick, black, double-breasted overcoat with a large grip on its belt. Stuck into the left lapel was a small religious badge, the emblem of the Sacred Heart.

  He walked slowly away from the public house. His big hands were deep in his pockets because he possessed no gloves. He was thinking about this now, his lack of gloves and the shame it induced, even in August; he was considering how he might without effort come by a pair. He mounted the stairs to Mrs Maylam’s two-roomed flat, turning the problem over in his mind.

  ‘Chilblains,’ said Studdy to Mrs Maylam. ‘In the winter of forty-six I was lucky to keep the right hand.’

  ‘Green ointment for chilblains. I had a son had chilblains.’

  ‘I’ve tried everything, Mrs Maylam. There isn’t a cure known to modern science that hasn’t been practised out on Mr Studdy’s hands. Come February and I can do nothing with them. Isn’t that the queer tale for a working man? Long splits from fingertip to wrist. I swear to God, it would turn your stomach.’

  ‘I never knew that,’ said Mrs Maylam, who had not heard him correctly. ‘I thought you only had chilblains on feet and hands.’

  ‘By dad, sir, they’re everywhere. Could you loan me forty bob for a good pair of gloves?’

  ‘Will I turn on the radio?’ said Mrs Maylam. ‘There’s a music hall on the Light Programme.’

  ‘Please yourself about that. I have to be on my way. I believe Mrs Fitz is giving a party on Saturday afternoon. She was wondering would I like to attend. Sure, it’d be something to do.’

  ‘The bloody old hound. You’d never go, Mr Studdy?’

  ‘Excuse me now, Mrs Maylam, while I just slip over and tell her to put out another cup and saucer. A party’s not in my line at all, but I’d never like to disappoint old Mrs Fitz. I think she’d loan me the little sum for the gloves.’

  ‘If ever there was evil in a woman’s soul it’s the case with Mrs Fitzgerald. She and that bloody strumpet who comes with the dinners. “Is your bed made?” she said to me. They have their noses everywhere.’

  ‘D’you know that barman down at the Arms? I just had an altercation with that fellow. Oh, there’s room for him in your gallery of rogues all right.’

  ‘I might find you forty shillings for the gloves, Mr Studdy. It’s the curse of us all, the climate we have to put up with.’

  ‘Well, I’d be obliged, Mrs Maylam. Only I’m just that bit pressed. It’s no time of year for the working man.’

  Mrs Maylam rose slowly from her chair and found two pounds in a tin in the kitchen. While she was out of the room, Studdy put his hand into the back of her wireless and disconnected the wires.

  ‘You’re kindness itself, Mrs Maylam.’ He pocketed the money, sniffing to clear his nose. ‘Shall we put on the radio now?’

  Mrs Maylam turned a knob but no light came on. ‘The bloody thing’s queer again. I’ll have to get a new set one of these days.’

  ‘Let’s have a look,’ said Studdy, standing up and peering into the back.

  He poked about and said: ‘I’m no hand with electrics. Shall I take it to the shop, Mrs Maylam?’

  ‘I’m lost without it. Will they be able to do it tomorrow? Could you ever drop it in to me tomorrow night?’

  ‘I’m wondering could I. I have a lot on tomorrow night. Well, we’ll see what can be done. Don’t let me forget it now when I go.’

  ‘If I gave you six shillings would you buy a couple of chops and we’ll have them for tea?’

  ‘Definitely. Now, tell me about this woman and the dinners.’

  Mrs Maylam, a big woman with a yard of grey hair wound round her skull, nodded. Her hands, with short, broad fingers, lay touching on the coloured pattern of her overall. She nodded again, and began to laugh with a screeching harshness. Then she ceased and said:

  ‘What was that?’

  ‘The woman who comes with the dinners.’

  ‘Meals on Wheels. Sexy bloody bitch.’

  ‘That’s what I thought,’ said Studdy.

  The woman’s name was Mrs Rush. Mrs Maylam said she never brought her ice cream. ‘I fancy a slice of Walls. She knows it well, the young harlot. Kindness was never her way, Mr Studdy.’

  They talked of other things. Studdy cooked a tin of tomato soup, mixing in a little milk. When he had eaten it he returned to the public house, with Mrs Maylam’s wireless under his arm.

  For some weeks he had been noticing the Meals on Wheels woman. ‘You want to watch that food,’ he had earlier warned Mrs Maylam. ‘If I was you I’d drop it down the sink.’

  The barman, dreading the process of again serving this customer, approached him.

  ‘What’ll you take, Mr Studdy?’

  Studdy thought of the forty shillings. He eyed the barman sternly.

  ‘Two Scotch whiskies is what I’ll take,’ he said.

  ‘Two, Mr Studdy?’

  ‘Two of Scotch. My friend Mr O’Brien will stop by later.’

  No one had ever joined Studdy here in the evenings, but the barman, who was new, did not know this. ‘I am up to your tricks,’ said Studdy, looking at him carefully.

  The man brought the whisky and was paid for it without argument. Studdy returned to his consideration of the Meals on Wheels woman. He drank one of the glasses of whisky and then called the barman.

  ‘Bring me the telephone directory,’ he ordered, but the man declined on the grounds that others might wish to consult it

  ‘L to R,’ said Studdy.

  The barman persisted in his argument, saying the telephone directories were meant as a communal facility.

  ‘You’ll not last here, Studdy told him, and rose and traversed the distance to the telephone. He copied out Mrs Rush’s address and returned to his place. He sat over his whisky for a further hour, thinking matters over.

  When it was time to go, Studdy approached the bar and asked for the landlord.

  ‘An IOU has changed hands under unfortunate circumstances,’ he explained. ‘Your new barman had it out of me by means of a trick. I’d welcome it back, Mr Horney.’

  ‘Have you asked the lad? What’s this about a trick?’

  ‘I was temporarily embarrassed, or thought I was, and passed him an IOU for fourpence at his suggestion. I then discovered a half note in my inside pocket and paid with that for my sustenance. My IOU was not returned, Mr Horney. You understand, sir, what I am saying? You take my meaning?’

  ‘Indeed, Mr Studdy. Well, that is easily remedied.’ Mr Horney took four pennies from the till and placed them on Studdy’s palm.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Studdy. ‘And one good turn deserves another, so may I warn you about that bar-lad of yours? His hand is never out of that till. I saw him lift a fiver.’

  ‘You’re mistaken, Mr Studdy? He’s a good worker. He’ll be here till midnight washing glasses.’

  ‘Keep an eye on that till, Mr Horney. You wouldn’t want the brewery crowd to hear about this now.’

  ‘Thanks, Mr Studdy. I’ll bear your advice in mind.’

  ‘Would you ever mind sticking this radio in a corner for me? I’ll pick it up tomorrow night.’

  ‘Certainly, Mr Studdy. It’s safe as a house in this bar.’

  Studdy paused, rubbing his nose. ‘I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t for that bar-lad, but would you ever mind giving me a receipt? I’m embarrassed to say it, but if he’ll lift a fiver he’ll lift an old radi
o. Isn’t that logic?’

  ‘Oh come, Mr Studdy. I’ll see the boy off the premises myself. No harm will come to your radio.’

  ‘I’d rest happier, Mr Horney. It wouldn’t take a second to pencil out a little receipt. Received from Mr Studdy, one radio. I’ll pick it up at six tomorrow.’

  He handed Mr Horney a piece of paper on which he had already written the words. Mr Horney signed it in silence.

  As Studdy walked back to The Boarding-House his watery eyes were half closed against the smoke that rose from his cigarette. He pouted his lips, rolling down the lower one, revealing browned teeth set crookedly in their gums. ‘I’m thinking,’ he said to himself, the cigarette caught on his lower lip, bobbing up and down, ‘that maybe I’ll write a short note to Mrs Rush.’ As he walked, he composed.

  Dear Madam,

  I put it to you that the organisation you are involved with, carrying dinners to the elderly and bedridden, is serving you as a cover for certain activities. I put it to you, madam, that you are using this charitable work as an excuse to take you out of the house, to account for mileage and petrol consumption on your husband’s car, et cetera et cetera. I put it to you that your husband, Martin Henry Rush, would be interested in the comprehensive dossier that I and my assistants have compiled concerning your afternoon activities.

  Respectfully,

  A friend to decent morals.

  PS. – If you wish to prevent this said dossier from falling into the hands of your husband please lift the bonnet of your car immediately upon stopping outside Mrs Maylam’s place next Thursday. You will then receive further instructions.

  Studdy entered The Boarding-House at half past ten.

  ‘There’s a man in there to see you,’ Gallelty said in the hall. She rose from a hard-backed chair with carving on it, smoothing the skirt of her uniform, setting the apron in place. Mr Bird had always insisted upon uniform: black for afternoons and evenings, a more casual pink for the morning.

  ‘A man?’ Studdy stood still, at once suspicious. ‘What sort of a man, girl?’