moody eye. She was going to the Social with him, certainly she was. But whatdid that mean, when all was said and done? Nothing, plain nothing at all! How far had he got with Jenny in these eight months? Not so very far, by gum, no, not so very far. He had taken her out plenty—Jenny loved to go out—spent money on her, yes, spent his good money like water. But what had he received in return? A few kisses, a few short kisses, surrendered unwillingly, a few pushed-away embraces which only whetted his appetite for more.
He let out a long, gloomy breath: if Jenny thought she’d make a mug out of him she was mistaken, he’d tell her a few plain truths, chuck the whole thing and be done with her. But no, he’d said that before. He’d said that a dozen times before. And he hadn’t chucked her. He wanted her, even more than on that first day… and even then he had wanted her badly enough. He cursed right out loud.
She puzzled him: treating him sometimes with a haughty arrogance, sometimes with coquettish intimacy. She was always pleasantest to him when he was all dressed up in his new blue serge suit and the derby hat she had made him buy. But if by chance she met him in his dirty dungarees she sailed past him with a distant air, almost froze him with her look. It was the same when they went out: if he took her to a good seat at the Empire, she purred, smiled up into his face, let him hold her hand; yet, if he suggested a stroll after dark round the Town Moor, she would accompany him quite pettishly, her head well in the air, her answers short and snappy, keeping herself a full yard from his side. When he asked her to McGuigan’s coffee-stall for sausage and mash she would sniff and say: “That’s the sort of place my father goes to.” But an invitation to Leonard’s High Class Tea Rooms in the High Street found her beaming, snuggling to his side. She wanted to be above her family, better than they; she corrected her father, her mother and her sisters, Sally especially. She was always correcting him, too, pulling him up, disdainfully telling him how to raise his hat, carry his cane, walk on the outside of the pavement, and crook his little finger when he drank his tea. She was terribly genteel, crammed with etiquette culled from the columns of the women’s penny journals. From the same columns she got her fashion hints, “shapes” for the dresses she made herself, advice on how to keep her hands white, how “the white of an egg mixed with the rinsing water” would bring out the glossy lustre of her hair.
Mind you, he did not mind this striving towards refinedgentility, in fact he liked it, little things like her Jockey Club scent or her lace camisole—pink ribbon threaded, seen through her blouse—excited him, made him feel that she was
different
from the street tarts he had possessed occasionally, during these tantalising months of hope deferred.
The very thought of what he had endured goaded his desire intolerably. As he went up the front steps of 117 A Scottswood Road he told himself that he would bring matters to a head to-night or know the reason why.
When he went into the back room he saw from the clock that he was late. Already Jenny had gone upstairs to dress. Mrs. Sunley was lying down in the parlour with a sick headache. Phyllis and Clarry had gone into the street to play. It was left to Sally to give him his tea.
“Where’s your dad?” Joe asked suddenly when he had wolfed his two kippers and the best part of a new loaf, and swilled down three big cups of tea.
“Gone to Birmingham. The secretary couldn’t go, so dad went instead. He’s taken all the club homers and ours too. For to-morrow.”
Joe lifted his fork and picked his teeth reflectively. So Alf had a free trip to Birmingham for the Saturday Pigeon Flight. Lucky dog!
Studying Joe critically, Sally now loosed upon him a shaft from her precocious wit.
“Don’t swallow that fork,” she warned him gravely. “It’ll rattle when
He let out a long, gloomy breath: if Jenny thought she’d make a mug out of him she was mistaken, he’d tell her a few plain truths, chuck the whole thing and be done with her. But no, he’d said that before. He’d said that a dozen times before. And he hadn’t chucked her. He wanted her, even more than on that first day… and even then he had wanted her badly enough. He cursed right out loud.
She puzzled him: treating him sometimes with a haughty arrogance, sometimes with coquettish intimacy. She was always pleasantest to him when he was all dressed up in his new blue serge suit and the derby hat she had made him buy. But if by chance she met him in his dirty dungarees she sailed past him with a distant air, almost froze him with her look. It was the same when they went out: if he took her to a good seat at the Empire, she purred, smiled up into his face, let him hold her hand; yet, if he suggested a stroll after dark round the Town Moor, she would accompany him quite pettishly, her head well in the air, her answers short and snappy, keeping herself a full yard from his side. When he asked her to McGuigan’s coffee-stall for sausage and mash she would sniff and say: “That’s the sort of place my father goes to.” But an invitation to Leonard’s High Class Tea Rooms in the High Street found her beaming, snuggling to his side. She wanted to be above her family, better than they; she corrected her father, her mother and her sisters, Sally especially. She was always correcting him, too, pulling him up, disdainfully telling him how to raise his hat, carry his cane, walk on the outside of the pavement, and crook his little finger when he drank his tea. She was terribly genteel, crammed with etiquette culled from the columns of the women’s penny journals. From the same columns she got her fashion hints, “shapes” for the dresses she made herself, advice on how to keep her hands white, how “the white of an egg mixed with the rinsing water” would bring out the glossy lustre of her hair.
Mind you, he did not mind this striving towards refinedgentility, in fact he liked it, little things like her Jockey Club scent or her lace camisole—pink ribbon threaded, seen through her blouse—excited him, made him feel that she was
different
from the street tarts he had possessed occasionally, during these tantalising months of hope deferred.
The very thought of what he had endured goaded his desire intolerably. As he went up the front steps of 117 A Scottswood Road he told himself that he would bring matters to a head to-night or know the reason why.
When he went into the back room he saw from the clock that he was late. Already Jenny had gone upstairs to dress. Mrs. Sunley was lying down in the parlour with a sick headache. Phyllis and Clarry had gone into the street to play. It was left to Sally to give him his tea.
“Where’s your dad?” Joe asked suddenly when he had wolfed his two kippers and the best part of a new loaf, and swilled down three big cups of tea.
“Gone to Birmingham. The secretary couldn’t go, so dad went instead. He’s taken all the club homers and ours too. For to-morrow.”
Joe lifted his fork and picked his teeth reflectively. So Alf had a free trip to Birmingham for the Saturday Pigeon Flight. Lucky dog!
Studying Joe critically, Sally now loosed upon him a shaft from her precocious wit.
“Don’t swallow that fork,” she warned him gravely. “It’ll rattle when
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