The Furnished Room (5 page)

Beckett sat down at his desk without greeting any of the other clerks. He knew that he should apologize to Mr Presgate for his lateness, but could not be bothered. He was not afraid of Mr Presgate; he was merely disinclined to invent an excuse, disinclined to pretend sorrow for his lateness and inefficiency and all the other things which were nothing to do with him.

He started the morning's work. There was a heap of invoices and statements which had to be date-stamped and separated into two piles.

The upper floors of the building were occupied by a hotel. Union Cartons was directly below the hotel bathrooms. The hot-water pipes ran through the office, which was consequently hot as a desert noon. The clerks all suffered from the enervating heat. Beckett felt the sweat trickling down his back and the insides of his legs. He wondered why he had imposed on himself the penance of working in such an unpleasant place. He had hardly started work, but already his shoulders ached with boredom.

The clack of keys came from the next room, where four princesses touch-typed and read their horoscopes in women's magazines and ate sandwiches from their desk drawers and patted one another's hair. A bar of sunlight crept across his desk. He worked on, finishing the stamping and starting the ledger work. Occasionally he looked up at TONS & PAC written in mirror-writing across the windows.

Syd leaned across from the next desk. ‘Got a fagarette for us?'

Beckett held out his packet.

‘Ta. Got a match?'

Beckett threw the box. ‘Sure there's nothing else you'd like, while you're about it? How are you off for five-pound notes?'

‘Don't be like that.'

Mr Presgate emerged from his glass compartment. He was a little man with wizened, saurian skin. Behind his wire-framed spectacles his eyes darted around as if he were constantly engaged in totting up petty-cash columns on the walls.

He stopped beside Beckett's, and stood munching his silent sums. Finally he barked: ‘Well, well, what was it today? Central Line break down again?'

‘No.'

‘Won't do, you know. Won't do.'

Presgate's hand was resting on his desk. Beckett had a close-up of the skin that was dry as if it had been dusted with chalk, and the shiny cuff with one button sewn on with unmatching thread. His stomach contracted in sudden revulsion.

When Presgate had gone, Syd told him: ‘Do you know that Presgate complained to Mr Glegg about you being late this morning?'

‘Did he?'

‘He's trying to get in good with Mr Glegg. He's hoping for a rise.'

‘Yes, I suppose so.'

‘Aren't you mad?'

‘No,' Beckett said. ‘He's quite justified in complaining.'

‘Oh well, if you look at it like that…'

Beckett picked up his phone and asked for a line. He dialled the number. It rang once and then the efficient switchboard voice said: ‘Jamieson and McBride.'

‘Typing pool, please.'

‘Engaged. Will you hold?'

‘All right,' Beckett said.

Mrs Little came into the office with the tea-trolley. She put a cup on his desk, and he nodded his thanks.

Syd scraped his chair back. ‘Oh, Mrs Little, you ravishing creature, you. What has Brigitte Bardot got that you haven't?'

‘Brigitte Bardot, indeed!'

‘And give me another spoonful of sugar in my tea, will you?'

‘You've got the same as everyone else,' the tea woman said.

‘Oh, go on. You know I'm irresistible.'

‘Well, hark at you.' She gave Syd more sugar.

Syd drank, then raised his cup, calling after her: ‘Divine, Mrs Little. Better than British Railways'.'

Becket held the phone. The line clicked and another girl's voice said: ‘Typing pool.'

‘May I speak to Miss Barnes?'

‘One moment...'

He waited again, stirring his tea with the red Biro. From the other end of the line he could hear giggles, and the girl's voice saying: ‘It's a
man
...'

Finally Ilsa's cool ill-mannered voice came over.

‘Hello?'

‘Hello, Ilsa, this is Joe. You didn't ring me, so —'

‘What?'

‘You didn't ring me.'

‘Who is that?' she said.

‘Joe. You were going to ring me, remember?'

‘Oh yes. I didn't recognize your voice. No, you sillies, shut up...'

‘What?' he said.

‘Sorry, I was talking to the other girls in my office. They keep crowding round me.'

He felt irritated. ‘You said you were going to ring me. You didn't, so I thought I'd ring you.'

‘Yes, I'm sorry. I meant to ring you, but things happened. You know how it is.'

‘I see.' He stirred the tea again without drinking. It was orange-coloured and had a skin. ‘Well, anyway, how are you?'

‘Oh, not bad. Marvellous in fact. How are you?'

‘Not bad.'

Then there was silence. He imagined her tapping her foot impatiently or pushing her hair back from her forehead. He said quickly: ‘Look, Ilsa, can I see you tonight?'

‘I've got to wash my hair. It's Friday.'

‘Can't you wash it some other time?'

‘No, I can't. I always wash it on Friday, ready for the party on Saturday.'

His irritation increased. He was jealous of the other girls in her office, who were probably giggling round the phone, and of Ilsa's stupid rigidity in washing her hair on one night only. He almost slammed the phone down, then said: ‘Well, what about over the weekend?'

‘I don't know, really.'

‘We could go out into the country for the day. Go somewhere by coach, then get out and walk. I'd like to go out into Surrey. There are some fine walks there, along the tops of hills, and you can see for miles.'

‘Oh, walking. I hate walking, except to pubs. I'm definitely a town mouse.' She had put on a smart remark voice for the benefit of the other girls.

He gave up, surprised at his former persistence. It was nothing to him, anyway. He had no particular need to see Ilsa. Then, as a convention, he made a final attempt. ‘All right. What about Monday, then?'

To his surprise, she said: ‘Yes, I suppose Monday would be all right.'

‘Good. I leave work at five-thirty. Shall I meet you at six?'

‘Okay,' she said for the other girls. ‘Six at Mick's Café in Charlotte Street.'

Beckett put the phone down and drank the tepid tea.

Syd asked him: ‘A girl?'

‘Yes.' He did not want to defile Ilsa for Syd, but could not help adding: ‘A blonde. With a smashing little body. Very slim.'

‘Smashing. Hey, you know that nurse I was telling you about? I took her on Hampstead Heath last night.'

‘I thought it was Streatham Common.'

‘No, that was last week, with that Italian girl. Marisa something-or-other. I never could pronounce her beastly name.'

‘London's parklands must be strewn with your discarded French letters.'

Flattered, Syd said: ‘Don't be like that.'

At five-thirty Beckett left the office and boarded the Tube at Holborn. Although it was rush-hour, the compartment was comparatively empty. He sat looking at the advertisements for Heinz 57 Varieties and Amplex. On the brassiere advertisement, somebody had pencilled in the nipples and written: ‘Lovely tits.'

Then he began to watch the man in the homburg hat. The man was leaning across the gangway to talk to a friend opposite. Because of the noise of the train Beckett could not hear what was said.

The homburg-man's mouth moved soundlessly. He jabbed his newspaper with a thick, businessman's finger, as if holding forth about some Stock Exchange item.

Beckett thought: He isn't real. Why on earth does this man believe he is real?

He looked round at the other passengers, and none of them seemed real. It struck him as absurd, all these people sitting there and believing they were real.

He left the Tube at Notting Hill Gate and walked home to Tewkesbury Road. The usual gang of snot-nosed, cosmopolitan children was rioting in the street. Then one of the children threw a stone and broke Gash's window.

There was a moment's pause, then the children lifted like a flight of starlings. They ran, circling in vee formation, down the street. Their voices carried back.

‘You broke the winder, Jimmy Riley...'

‘I never! It wasn't me...'

‘The cops'll be after you...'

‘Can't catch me for a toffee flea...'

Only two remained. They were youths of about nineteen. They lounged on the street corner, smoking cigarettes in a knowing way, like Apaches.

Gash padded barefoot out of the house. He was an old man wearing shabby striped trousers and a cardigan. He had no shirt, and his vest was safety-pinned at the neck. A white rime of stubble edged his jaw and the strings of his throat.

Gash inspected the damage done to his window; the hole radiating cracks. Then he looked at the two youths. They returned his gaze, lounging insolently. Then they strolled towards him. One of them combed his Ted-style hairdo as he walked. They came so close that Gash was forced to back a few steps.

Finally one of them spoke: ‘Those naughty kids have

broken the gentleman's window.'

‘T's t's!...' The other clicked his tongue in mock concern.

‘What a nasty thing to do.'

‘It's of no account,' Gash said courteously. ‘I'm sure it was an accident.'

‘The gentleman says it was an accident.'

‘That's all he knows.'

‘I assure you —' Gash began.

The youths had him hemmed against the wall. They stood in front of him, their postures male and suggestive, with their fists in their trousers pockets. They blew out smoke.

‘We'll have to take him inside,' the first one said. ‘It's not safe for a feeble old fellow like him to be alone in this nasty rough neighbourhood.'

‘That's right,' the second one said. ‘Me and my mate will look after him.'

‘See that no harm comes to him.'

‘Like a couple of nursemaids.'

Gash was still mildly protesting. ‘I assure you, there's no need —'

They edged him backwards into the house. ‘Come on, Grandpa, we're doing you a favour.'

Beckett judged that it was high time for him to intervene. He walked straight up to the youths, and ordered them, ‘Let this man alone. Go on, fuck off.'

They turned towards him slowly. Then turned back to each other. The first one said: ‘Funnyman here.'

‘Looking for trouble.'

The first one turned to Beckett again. His eyes were slitted beneath the pimply boxer forehead. ‘We're a bit hard of hearing, Dad. What was it you just said?'

Beckett had a sensation of weightlessness, as if he and his two opponents were suspended in space. As always in such circumstances, he was hindered by his own lack of conviction, his disbelief in the situation. He said with as much force and anger as he could muster: ‘I told you to fuck off. Now get going, straight away.'

They hesitated. Then the second one said: ‘Oh, come on. It isn't worth bothering about.' They both walked away. When they had gone a little way they started to shove each other and shout with laughter.

Beckett turned to the old man. ‘Hello, Mr Gash.'

‘Hello, Joe. Come in.'

He followed Gash indoors. His own behaviour made him feel proud and grateful. He was sorry that Gash had been the sole spectator. The old man was too daft to have followed the events. He also regretted that his exhilaration and need for admiration had made him go indoors with Gash. Age, sickness, and senility bored and rather disgusted him.

Gash's room smelled fetid. There was the yellowish smell of insanity that Beckett had noticed in mental wards. There was no bed, because Gash, to the despair of his landlady, insisted on sleeping on the floor. Beside the heap of unsavoury blankets there was a kitchen chair on which were an asthma inhaler, a book entitled 
The Bible of the World
, and a bowl covered by a cloth.

A frugal meal, consisting of vegetable stew and a hunk of bread, was waiting on the table.

Beckett squatted on his heels to inspect the books on the shelves. He took out
Practical Aids to Contemplation
and flipped through the pages.

Gash said: ‘I don't mind about the broken window. It's good to have fresh air in summer.'

Beckett nodded abstractedly. He read a paragraph which recommended the novice to concentrate on any object, such as a dish or a clump of grass, until it seemed to change in appearance and reveal its true nature. He said: ‘Don't let me stop you eating your meal.' Returning his attention to the book, it occurred to him that this was the sort of exercise which painters did as a matter of course. He replaced the book on the shelf. ‘You shouldn't have talked to those lads, you know, Mr Gash.'

‘Why not?'

‘They were having you on, and it might have developed into something unpleasant.'

‘I don't think they'd want to harm me. I've done nothing to them.'

Beckett said vaguely: ‘Oh well, you know what these Teds are like….'

‘You're like my landlady. Both of you think that I'm incapable of living alone and taking care of myself.'

‘Oh no. Not really. I didn't mean to give that impression.'

‘You live alone yourself, don't you, Joe?' As he spoke, Gash fetched another dish and prepared to divide the food. ‘You'll give me the pleasure of sharing my meal, won't you?'

‘Oh no. No thanks. I've got some food at home.'

‘It's only a humble meal.'

‘No, really, it isn't that. But I do have food at home. Don't let me stop you eating though.' Beckett looked at his watch. ‘I must be going, anyway.'