THE "ANGEL" LOSES A CUSTOMER
Six months after the death of Mrs Yabsley, Ada and Mrs Herring sat in
the back parlour of the Angel sipping brandy. They had drunk their
fill and it was time to be going, but Ada had no desire to move. She
tapped her foot gently as she listened to the other woman's ceaseless
flow of talk, but her mind was elsewhere. She had reached the stage
when the world seemed a delightful place to live in; when it was a
pleasure to watch the people moving and gesticulating like figures in a
play, without jar or fret, as machines move on well-oiled cogs.
There was nothing to show that she had been drinking, except an
uncertain smile that rippled over her heavy features as the wind breaks
the surface of smooth water. Mrs Herring was as steady as a rock, but
she knew without looking that the end of her nose was red, for drink
affected that organ as heat affects a poker. Ada looked round with
affection on the small room with the sporting prints, the whisky
calendar, and the gong. For months past she had felt more at home there
than at the "Silver Shoe."
She had never forgotten the scene that had followed her first visit to
this room, when Jonah, surprised by her good humour, had smelt brandy
on her breath. The sight of a misshapen devil, with murder in his
eyes, spitting insults, had sobered her like cold water. She had
stammered out a tale of a tea-room where she had been taken ill, and
brandy had been brought in from the adjoining hotel. Mrs Herring, who
had spent a lifetime in deceiving men, had prepared this story for her
as one teaches a lesson to a child, but she had forgotten it until she
found herself mechanically repeating it, her brain sobered by the
shock. For a month she had avoided the woman with the hairy lip, and
then the death of her mother had removed the only moral barrier that
stood between her and hereditary impulse.
Since then she had gone to pieces. Mrs Herring had prescribed her
favourite remedy for grief, a drop of cordial, and Jonah for once found
himself helpless, for Mrs Herring taught Ada more tricks than a monkey.
Privately she considered Ada a dull fool, but she desired her company,
for she belonged to the order of sociable drunkards, for whom drink has
no flavour without company, and who can no more drink alone than men
can smoke in the dark. Ada was an ideal companion, rarely breaking the
thread of her ceaseless babble, and never forgetting to pay for her
share. It was little enough she could squeeze out of Aaron, and often
she drank for the afternoon at Ada's expense.
She looked anxiously at Ada, and then at the clock. For she drank with
the precision of a patient taking medicine, calculating to a drop the
amount she could carry, and allowing for the slight increase of
giddiness when she stepped into the fresh air of the streets. But
to-day she felt anxious, for Ada had already drunk a glass too much,
and turned from her coaxings with an obstinate smile. The more she
drank, she thought, the less she would care for what Jonah said when
she got home. Mrs Herring felt annoyed with her for threatening to
spoil a pleasant afternoon, but she talked on to divert her thoughts
from the brandy.
"And remember what I told you, dearie. Every woman should learn to
manage men. Some say you should study their weak points, but that was
never my way. They all like to think their word is law, and you can do
anything you please if you pretend you are afraid to do anything
without asking their permission. And always humour them in one thing.
Now, Aaron insists on punctuality. His meals must be ready on the
stroke, and once he is fed, I can do as I please. Now, do be ruled by
me, dearie, and come home."
But Ada had turned unmanageable, and called for more drink. Mrs
Herring could have slapped her. Her practised eye told her that Ada
would soon be too helpless to move, and she thought, with a cringing
fear, of Aaron the Jew, and her board and lodging that depended on his
stomach.
Outside it had begun to rain, and Joe Grant, a loafer by trade and a
lug-biter by circumstance, shifted from one foot to another, and stared
dismally at the narrow slit between the swinging doors of the "Angel",
where he knew there was warmth, and light, and comfort--everything that
he desired. The rain, fine as needle-points, fell without noise,
imperceptibly covering his clothes and beard with moisture. The
pavements and street darkened as if a shadow had been thrown over them,
and then shone in irregular streaks and patches of light, reflected
from the jets of light that suddenly appeared in the shop windows. Joe
looked at the clock through the windows of the bar. It was twenty to
six. The rain had brought the night before its time, and Joe wondered
what had become of Mrs Jones and her pal. He had had the luck to see
her going in at the side door, and she was always good for a tray bit
when she came out. Failing her, he must depend on the stream of
workmen, homeward bound, who always stopped at the Angel for a pint on
their way home.
Suddenly the huge white globes in front of the hotel spluttered and
flashed, piercing the darkness and the rain with their powerful rays.
The bar, as suddenly illumined, brilliant with mirrors and glass,
invited the weary passenger in to share its comforts. Joe fingered the
solitary coin in his pocket--threepence. It was more than the price of
a beer to him; it was the price of admission to the warm, comfortable
bar every night, for the landlord was the friend of every man with the
price of a drink in his pocket, and once inside, he could manage to
drink at other people's expense till closing time. He kept an eye on
the side door for Ada and Mrs Herring, at the same time watching each
pedestrian as he emerged from the darkness into the glare of the
electric lights.
The fine points of rain had gradually increased to a smart downfall,
that drummed on the veranda overhead and gurgled past his feet in the
gutter. Behind him, from a leak in the pipe, the water fell to the
ground with a noisy splash as if someone had turned on a tap. Joe felt
that he hated water like a cat. His watery blue eyes, fixed with a
careless scrutiny on every face, told him in an instant whether the
owner was a likely mark that he could touch for a drink, but his luck
was out. He decided that the two women must have slipped out by
another door.
Jonah, who had been caught in the shower, stopped for a moment under
the veranda, anxious to get back to the Silver Shoe before closing
time. Joe let him pass without stirring a muscle; he knew him. If you
asked him for a drink, he offered you work. But, as Jonah hesitated
before facing the rain again, a sudden anger flamed in his mind at the
sight of Jonah's gold watch-chain and silver-mounted umbrella. Cripes,
he knew that fellow when he knocked about with the Push, and now he was
rolling in money! And with the sudden impulse of a suicide who throws
himself under a train, he stepped up to Jonah.
"Could I 'ave a word with yer, Mr Jones?" he mumbled.
"'Ello, Smacker! Just gittin' 'ome, like myself?" said Jonah.
"Not much use gittin' 'ome to an empty 'ouse," said Joe, with a doleful
whine, "an' I've earned nuthin' this week."
"'Ow do yer expect to find work, when the only place yer look fer it is
in the bottom of a beer-glass?" said Jonah.
"I 'ave me faults, none knows better than meself," said Joe humbly,
"but thinkin' of them won't fill me belly on a night like this."
"Now look 'ere," said Jonah, "I'm in a 'urry. I won't give yer any
money, but if ye're 'ungry, come across the street, an' I'll buy yer a
meal."
Joe hesitated, but the thought of good money being wasted on food was
too much for him, and he played his last card.
"Look, I'll tell yer straight, Mr Jones; it's no use tryin' to pull yer
leg. I can git all the tucker I want for the askin', but I'm dyin' for
a beer to cheer me up an' keep out the cold."
He smiled at Jonah with an air of frankness, hoping to play on Jonah's
vanity by this cynical confession, but his heart sank as Jonah replied
"No, not a penny for drink," and prepared to dive into the rain.
"'Orl right, boss," muttered Joe; and then, half to himself, he added
"'Ard luck, to grudge a man a pint, with 'is own missis inside there
gittin' as full as a tick."
"What's that yer say?" cried Jonah, turning pale.
"Nuthin'," muttered Joe, conscious that he had made a mistake.
But a sudden light flashed on Jonah. Ada had lied to him from the
beginning. She had told him that she got the drink at Paddy Boland's
in the Haymarket, a notorious drinking-den for women, where spirits
were served to customers, disguised as light refreshments. The fear of
a public scandal in a room full of women had alone prevented him from
going there to find her. It was Mrs Herring's craft to throw Jonah on
the wrong scent, and sip comfortably in the back parlour of the Angel,
safe from detection, a stone's throw from the Silver Shoe. Jonah
turned and walked in at the side door, leaving Joe with the uneasy
feeling of the man who killed the goose to get the golden eggs.
Ada had just rung the gong, insisting on another drink with the fatuous
obstinacy of drunkards. She lolled in her chair, her hat tilted over
one ear, watching the door for the return of Cassidy with the tray and
glasses, and wondering dimly why Mrs Herring's voice sounded far away,
as if she were speaking through a telephone. Mrs Herring, the tip of
her nose growing a brighter red with drink and vexation, was scolding
and coaxing by turns in a rapid whisper. Suddenly she stopped, her
eyes fixed in a petrified stare at an apparition in the doorway. It
was the devil himself, Ada's husband, the hunchback. As he stood in
the doorway, his eyes travelled from her to his wife. His face turned
white, a nasty greyish white, his eyes snapped like an angry cat's, and
then his face hardened in a sneer. But Ada, who was fast losing
consciousness of her identity, stared at her husband without fear or
surprise. The deadly silence was broken by the arrival of Cassidy, who
nearly ran into Jonah with the tray.
"Beg pardon," said he, briskly, and looking down found himself staring
into the face of a grinning corpse.
"Don't mind me, Cassidy," said the corpse, speaking. "She can stand
another glass, I think."
Cassidy put the tray down with a jerk that upset the glasses.
"I'm very sorry this should have happened, Mr Jones," he stammered.
"I'm very ..."
"Of course you are," cried Jonah. "Ye're sorry fer anythin' that
interferes with yer business of turning men and women into swine."
"Come now," said Cassidy, making a last stand on his dignity, "this is
a public house, and I am bound to serve drink to anyone that asks for
it. As a matter of fact, I didn't know the lady was in this condition
till the barman sent me in to see what could be done."
"You're a liar, an' a fat liar. I hate fat liars--I don't know
why--an' if yer tell another, I'll ram yer teeth down yer throat.
She's been comin' 'ere for months, an' you've been sending her home
drunk for the sake of a few shillings, to poison my life and make her
name a byword in the neighbourhood. Now, listen to me! You'll not
serve that woman again with drink under any pretext whatever."
"I should be glad to oblige you; but this is a public house, as I said
before..."
He stopped as Jonah took a step forward, his fists clenched,
transformed in a moment into Jonah the larrikin, king of the Cardigan
Street Push.
"D'ye remember me, Cassidy?" he cried. "I've sent better men than you
to the 'orspital in a cab. D'ye remember w'en yer were a cop with one
stripe, an' we smashed every window in Flanagan's pub for laggin'?
D'ye remember the time yer used ter turn fer safety down a side street
w'en yer saw us comin'?"
Cassidy's face stiffened for a moment, the old policeman coming to life
again at the sight of his natural enemy, the larrikin. But years of
ease had buried the guardian of the law under layers of fat. He
stepped hastily back from Jonah's fists.
"No, I won't hit yer; yer might splash," cried Jonah bitterly.
And Cassidy, forgetting that the dreaded Push was scattered to the
winds, and trembling for the safety of his windows, spoke in a changed
voice.
"I'll do anything to meet your wishes, Mr Jones. There's no call to
rake up old times. We've both got on since then, and it won't pay us
to be enemies. I promise you faithfully that your wife shan't be
served with drink here."
"I'm glad to 'ear it," said Jonah; "an' now yer better 'elp me ter git
'er 'ome."
He looked round the room. There were only himself, Cassidy, and Ada.
Mrs Herring, who had been paralysed by the sight of the devil in the
shape of a hunchback, had found herself on the footpath, sober as a
judge, without very well knowing how she got there.
Ada, stupefied with brandy, and tired over the long conversation, had
fallen asleep on the table. Jonah went to the door and called Joe, who
was listening dismally to the hum of voices raised in argument and the
pleasant clink of glasses in the bar, now filled with workmen carrying
their bags of tools, their faces covered with the sweat and grime of
the day.
"Fetch me a cab, Smacker," he said. "My wife's been taken ill. She
fainted in the street, and they brought her here to recover."
"Right y'are, boss," cried Joe. "She turned giddy as she was walkin'
past, an' yer tried to pull 'er round with a drop of brandy."
He repeated the words like a boy reciting a lesson, feeling anxiously
with his thumb as he spoke, wondering if the coin Jonah had pushed into
his hand was a florin or a half-dollar.
Cassidy and Joe, one on each side, helped Ada into the cab. Her feet
scraped helplessly over the flagged pavement her head lolled on her
shoulder, and the baleful white gleam of the huge electric lamps fell
like limelight on her face contracted in an atrocious leer.
The "Silver Shoe" was closed and in darkness, and Jonah drew a breath
of relief. The neighbours were at their tea, and he could get his
shameful burden in unseen. Prendergast, the cabman, helped him to drag
Ada across the shop to the foot of the stairs, where with an oath he
threw her across his shoulder, and ran up the winding staircase as if
he were carrying a bag of chaff.
Suddenly the door on the landing opened, throwing a flood of light on
their faces, and Jonah was astonished to see Miss Grimes, trim and
neat, looking in alarm from him to the cabman and his burden. As
Prendergast dropped Ada on the couch, she took a step forward.
"What has happened? Is she hurt?" she asked, bending over Ada; but the
next moment she turned away.
This unconscious movement of disgust maddened Jonah. What was she
doing there to see his humiliation?
"No, she's not hurt," said Jonah dryly. "But wot are you doing 'ere?"
he added.
His tone nettled the young woman, and she coloured.
"I'm sorry I'm in the way," she said stiffly, "but Mr Johnson locked
up, and was anxious to get away, and as I was giving Ray his lesson, I
offered to stay with him till someone came."
"I beg yer pardon," said Jonah. "I'm much obliged to yer fer mindin'
the kid, but I didn't want yer to see this."
"I've known it all the time," said Clara, quietly.
"Ah," said Jonah, understanding many things in a flash.
He caught sight of Ray, staring open-mouthed at his mother lying so
strangely huddled on the couch.
"Yer mother's tired, Ray," he said. "Go an' boil the kettle; she'll
want some tea when she wakes up."
"That's 'ow I 'ave ter lie to everybody; an' I suppose they all know
the truth, an' nod an' wink behind my back," he cried bitterly. "I've
tried all I know; but now 'er mother's gone, I'm fair beat. People
envy me because I've got on, but they little know wot a millstone I've
got round my neck."
He lifted his head, and look steadily at Ada snoring in a drunken sleep
on the couch. And to Clara's surprise, his face suddenly changed;
tears stood in his eyes.
"Poor devil! I don't know that she's to blame altogether. It's in her
blood. Her father went the same way. My money's done 'er no good.
She'd 'ave been better off in Cardigan Street on two pounds a week."
Clara was surprised at the pity in his voice. She thought that he
loathed and despised his wife. Suddenly Jonah looked up at her.
"Will yer meet me to-morrow afternoon?" he asked abruptly.
"Why?" said Clara, alarmed and surprised.
"I want yer to 'elp me. Since 'er mother died, she's gone from bad to
worse. I've got no one to 'elp me, an' I feel I'll burst if I don't
talk it over with somebody."
"I hardly know," replied Clara, taken by surprise.
"Say the Mosman boat at half past two, an' I'll be there," said Jonah
brusquely.
"Very well," said Clara.