IV
“Figure or no figure,” said Susie, “I must have some.” She was examining the box of chocolates that Lady Partlit had given her. They were very large aristocratic chocolates, and by the time they had eaten two or three, the last glimmer of Hicklefield had left their flying windows. Once again Susie pointed out that it would be marvellous to have a lot of money. She dwelt rather wistfully on the subject of riches.
England is preeminently the country in which it is difficult for two to agree: if one turns realist, the other turns idealist; a cynic instantly creates a sentimentalist. Inigo stoutly denied that money, beyond a necessary competence, was important; he denounced the life of luxury, even going to the length of refusing a third chocolate; and he declared that Susie’s attitude pained him. In a very short time, however, the lover overcame the philosopher in him.
“If that’s what you think,” he said, rather gloomily, “I’ll make a lot of money. I don’t want it, but I’ll do it just for your sake. Didn’t you say I could probably make something out of songs?”
“Heaps and heaps,” she told him. “If the right people hear them, I’m sure your fortune’s made, Inigo. I really mean that. You’ve got a gift that could easily be a goldmine.”
“Well, there you are then. I’ll make a lot of money for you.”
“But I don’t want your money, you absurd creature. I want to be rich myself, all by myself.”
“I don’t believe you know what you want,” he declared, seeing that it was obvious she did not want him.
‚ÄúThat only shows you don‚Äôt know anything about me,‚Äù she said. Then she thought a moment. ‚ÄúI want to be a star. I want to be Susie Dean‚ÅÝ‚Äîbang!‚ÅÝ‚Äîlike that. Enter Susie Dean‚ÅÝ‚Äîbang! ‚ÄòHere she is!‚Äô I want them to say. Not just for myself, either, but for my mother‚Äôs sake and my father‚Äôs sake‚ÅÝ‚Äîto make up for all their dreary journeys and digs and hard work and rotten pay and no chances. I know it won‚Äôt make up for all that, yet I feel it will in a way if I go right to the top. Not that I don‚Äôt want it myself, of course,‚Äù she added.
“Of course,” he said.
“I believe you’re being sarcastic.”
“No, I’m not. Go on.”
‚ÄúWell,‚Äù she said, looking at him but not seeing him, ‚ÄúI don‚Äôt care about having my photographs in papers and little paragraphs about me and my name up in electric lights‚ÅÝ‚Äînot that it wouldn‚Äôt be rather nice, you know‚ÅÝ‚Äîbut that‚Äôs not what I think about. I‚Äôd like to have a nice little flat‚ÅÝ‚Äîwhere managers rang me up and asked me to look at parts‚ÅÝ‚Äîand a dresser who adored me and perhaps a very cosy car, small but frightfully posh; and enough money to spare to give all sorts of people delightful surprises, holidays, and presents; and now and then I‚Äôd like to run away from it all; go on a voyage perhaps under some other name, and not let anybody know who I was, and then somebody would come up and say, ‚ÄòYou do remind me of Susie Dean,‚Äô and then I might admit I was Susie Dean, and everybody on the boat would say, ‚ÄòThat‚Äôs Susie Dean,‚Äô and they‚Äôd probably get up an entertainment specially so that I could appear in it, and‚ÅÝ‚Äîoh‚ÅÝ‚Äîall kinds of things.‚Äù She ended breathlessly.
“It sounds a lonely sort of life to me,” said Inigo cheerlessly.
“Oh, but I’d have heaps and heaps of friends,” she cried. “I couldn’t exist without ’em. You’d be one, wouldn’t you, Inigo?”
“I suppose so.” He saw himself somewhere dodging in the background, holding her cloak, while all manner of important and handsome males held her attention.
“You do sound miserable about it. I don’t believe you want me to be successful. I believe you’re one of those men who can only be friendly if they’re allowed to patronize.” She looked haughtily out of a window through which there was nothing to be seen. He tried to look out of the window on his side too, but found it impossible to avoid glancing at her. After a minute or two, however, he noticed she was peeping at him. He smiled, and instantly she jumped round and faced him.
‚ÄúAren‚Äôt we absurd?‚Äù she smiled. ‚ÄúWe‚Äôre nearly as bad as Joe and Mrs.¬ÝJoe. Last summer they bought a ticket for the Calcutta Sweep, and one day, just before the draw was announced, they began to talk about their chances. Then when they‚Äôd awarded themselves a favourite, they began to wonder what they would do with the money. Joe said he would buy an hotel at one of the big seaside places. Mrs.¬ÝJoe said she would invest all the money and live on the income from it. No hotel for her, she told him. He insisted on his hotel. They argued for hours and got crosser and crosser and crosser until it ended in a quarrel and they never spoke to one another for two days, the poor darlings. Now come and sit on this side and then you won‚Äôt have to stare at me and make me think I‚Äôve done something dreadful to you.‚Äù
Inigo rose and stood for a moment looking down on her and listening to the rhythmical rattle of the train. “It’s melancholy, you know,” he said slowly. “I ought to be happy here alone with you, Susie. I believe it’s been my idea of happiness for some time.”
“Why, Inigo?”
“I’m not going to tell you again. What I was going to say is that it’s rather melancholy. But then there’s always been something melancholy to me about Sunday night, something a bit heartbreaking, absolutely.”
“I know,” she replied softly. Then she looked fierce. “No, I don’t,” she said in a loud voice. “Sit down here, Master Jollifant, Master Inigo Absolutely, and if you don’t cheer up, I’ll shake you. Unless, of course,” she added, peeping at him, “you’re sad about me.”
So they sat side by side and talked idly as the train went clanking through mysterious regions of night towards the still distant Middleford. As time went on, Susie said less and less, began to yawn, and drooped away from him, into her corner. She had just nodded off to sleep when a ticket collector came in and wakened her. Then she yawned and drooped again, and this time her head sank in his direction until finally it rested against his shoulder, where it remained, to his delight. There was perhaps a certain bitter flavour of irony in this delight, for she had made it plain that he had little to hope from her and this was only the surrender of sleep. But it had something trusting in it, and his hopes revived under the slight pressure of that head against his upper arm. The very cramp that soon invaded his limbs took on a romantic beauty.
Where it was the train stopped, shortly after ten, Inigo never knew. It seemed a fairly large station. Susie opened her eyes, sighed then went to sleep again, leaving Inigo praying that nobody would disturb them. At the very last moment, however, when the whistle sounded, the door was flung open to admit some raw November night and a large man. Inigo looked at the man in despair. The man looked at Inigo with cheerful interest. He sat in the middle of the opposite seat, removed his hat, mopped his brow, relit the stump of a cigar, put a fat hairy hand on each knee, and blew little benevolent clouds of smoke at Inigo and the sleeping Susie. He was a well-developed specimen of a type of large man seen at all race meetings, boxing matches, football matches, in all sporting clubs and music-hall bars. His head was pear-shaped, beginning with an immense spread of jaw and ending at a narrow and retreating forehead, decorated by two little loops of hair, parted in the middle. His eyes protruded; his nose shone; his little moustache was ferociously waxed. There was a suggestion that innumerable double whiskies were hard at work illuminating his vast interior. All these details Inigo noted with distaste.
The man removed the stump of cigar and winked slowly, ponderously, at Inigo. “Just caught it,” he said companionably. “In the bar of the White Horse at ten, and here I am. That’s moving, y’know, that is.”
Inigo merely nodded, but that seemed quite enough to establish a firm friendship with this genial intruder.
“Here,” he said, producing a flask as unexpectedly as a conjurer, “have a drink of this. Go on, there’s plenty for all. No? Well, will your wife have one? No, she’s not your wife, is she? She’s your sweetheart. Our wives and sweethearts,” he proclaimed, holding up the flask, “and may they never meet.” He drank this toast with enthusiasm.
‚ÄúMind you,‚Äù he said sternly, ‚Äúthat‚Äôs just my fun, that about wives and sweethearts never meeting. If I say that to the missis, she just laughs. She knows me well enough to know that that‚Äôs my fun. My wife is my sweetheart, and we‚Äôve been married twelve years at that. Twelve years and always the best of pals‚ÅÝ‚Äîthe best,‚Äù he added fiercely, as if Inigo had just contradicted him. ‚ÄúThe very best,‚Äù he went on, ‚Äúthe very, very best. Here‚Äôs to her.‚Äù And he took another pull at the flask.
‚ÄúAnything she wants,‚Äù he observed, ‚Äúshe can have‚ÅÝ‚Äîin reason. There‚Äôs reason in ev‚Äôrything, isn‚Äôt there? All right then. She‚Äôs only gotta ask, that‚Äôs all. She knows it. Her mother knows it. ‚ÄòYou‚Äôre lucky,‚Äô she says to my wife. ‚ÄòYou‚Äôre lucky.‚Äô She wasn‚Äôt lucky‚ÅÝ‚Äîthat‚Äôs my missis‚Äôs mother I‚Äôm talking about now‚ÅÝ‚Äîand I say she wasn‚Äôt lucky. She got nothing. The old man wouldn‚Äôt part. But that‚Äôs not me. Get on the right side of me, and there‚Äôs nothing I‚Äôve got you can‚Äôt have. My missis knows that. She‚Äôs on the right side of me. We‚Äôre the best of pals, the very best. And the same with the wife‚Äôs mother‚ÅÝ‚Äîjust the same‚ÅÝ‚Äîthe very best. Here‚Äôs luck to the old lady.‚Äù This toast apparently emptied the flask, which was now laid down on the seat, while its owner, after breathing hard, looked at Inigo, looked at the unconscious Susie, and slowly and sentimentally wagged his head.
At any other time, Inigo might have enjoyed this gentleman’s society, but now he found it difficult even to tolerate him. Somehow that railway carriage was not the place it had been an hour before.
‚ÄúPretty!‚Äù said the stranger, still wagging his head at them. ‚ÄúVery pretty! As good as a picksher to me.‚Äù He sighed hugely as he stared at Susie. The last draught from the flask appeared to have washed away any lingering reserve, and now he was very tender and mellow indeed. ‚ÄúI know what it is. I‚Äôve done my courting, holding her up half the day and half the night, the same as you now. Happy times‚ÅÝ‚Äîyou can‚Äôt beat ‚Äôem. Look at her now, just dreamin‚Äô there, happy and trustin‚Äô. And a nice little girl you‚Äôve got hold of too, young feller, I can see that. Look after her, and then you‚Äôll be one of the lucky ones, like me.‚Äù
“It’s been a rotten cold day,” said Inigo desperately.
‚ÄúWhat‚Äôs a cold day to a warm heart?‚Äù cried the other reproachfully. ‚ÄúDon‚Äôt tell me you‚Äôve noticed it‚Äôs a cold day. I‚Äôll bet your little sweetheart there doesn‚Äôt know it‚Äôs a cold day. Ah, I wish I was your age, young feller. Put your arm round her properly. Cuddle up to her. Don‚Äôt mind me. I‚Äôve been young. I‚Äôm young yet. I know what makes the world go round. It isn‚Äôt money. It‚Äôs love. It‚Äôs two hearts beating as one, as the song says.‚Äù He leaned back, tried to fix a goggling stare on Inigo, and sang softly, beating time with one hand: ‚ÄúMy swee‚Äëeet-heart when a boy‚Äëyer‚ÅÝ‚Äîin days of long ago-er.‚Äù
Inigo closed his eyes and pretended to go to sleep. It was all he could do. The wretched song went droning on for some time then gradually died away, to be succeeded finally by a snore. Inigo moved his cramped limbs cautiously, and let his thoughts go jog-jogging with the train through the night.
“Mid-ford! Mid-ford!”
Immediately the stranger opened his eyes, sprang up, grabbed flask, hat, bag, and vanished.
“Are we there?” cried Susie. “I must have been asleep. Who was that?”
“That,” said Inigo with deliberation, “was our fellow-passenger, a large and rather tight gentleman with a mind like a cheap Christmas card. And most of the way he’s been calling you my little sweetheart.”
“Poor Inigo, how disgusting!” she said coolly. “Do look out and see if you can see Jimmy or anybody there.”
He crept out, very stiff and feeling rather cold. “I can see Jimmy farther up the platform,” he announced at the door. Then he stood there looking up at her. Their day was all over now. “Well, that’s that,” he said, a trifle mournfully. “Come along, Susie.”
She looked at him curiously. “Help me down,” she said. “I’m rather stiff.” Then when she had got down and her hand still rested in his, she cried softly: “Cheer up. And thank you for looking after me, Inigo. There!” And it came and went so swiftly, that kiss, that he hardly knew if it had really existed.
“Susie!” he cried.
“There’s Jimmy.” And she hurried away, waving a hand.
We catch a last glimpse of him following her down the platform.