Smith moving with military bearing, calling left flank in under the orange canopy of Merry Mansions.
"Hey mister you talcing us really right into your house."
"Yes."
"Hey we're going in."
Hugo steps forward. Head a little askance. Mouth tight.
"Mr. Smith I don't know about this."
"What do you mean, Hugo."
"Well. I think maybe you better use the service entrance."
"These young people are my guests."
"I had to kick them out of here just a quarter of an hour ago."
"At the moment they're my guests."
"I'm sorry but if you bring these little bums in here I'm going to report it to the management."
"Come on kids, follow me."
"I'm telling you Mr. Smith."
"You've told me, onward kids."
"It's not permitted on the premises. It's a rule of the management."
The platoon making its way across the blue lobby. Two kids pausing for perusement in the big mirror. Smith instantly ordering these stragglers to take up the rear. As the spokesman warned Smith to watch the dirty language, his little brother was with them.
Platoon halt. At the top of the landing the military commander facing the white chilly faces outside the thick steel door of Flat 14.
"You, what's your name son."
"Snake."
"I see. Well look, here's some money, divide it up later."
"Hey wow, this is a lot."
"Well you're good singers."
"Well give us more then."
"Wait a minute kids, I'm not made of money. Here, now this is all I've got. Now when I open the door you're to assemble in the hall in two rows and sing."
"What do you want us to sing, mister."
"What you were singing in the street."
"If you give us some more money we'll sing you a dirty song."
"Not tonight, boys and girls."
"You mean we come back sometime and sing real dirty ones."
"Thanks kids, but just go in the door now. And sing a carol or two. I'd prefer for the sake of my girl friend if you kept it clean. More of a friend than a girl friend, you know what I mean."
"We know mister."
George inserting his key. Gently making way through for these good little kids. Snake practicing the scales. Rather froglike. Girl blinking and taking deep breaths. Kids I beg of you to keep it clean.
Miss Tomson standing with her coat on to go. Sound of Matilda crashing delf. The expense of keeping happiness. I can't possibly get down on my knees in front of all these kids and beg her to stay. And the racket in the kitchen.
"Kids, sing."
All lined up. Not a bad bunch of little boys and girls. Could get them some publicity and send them touring somewhere. The singing paupers. Matilda just bust something big then.Silent nightHoly night.
"Please Miss Tomson, don't go. Please stay and listen, the children will be disappointed."
"I'm too mad. You ought to get somebody civilized to work for you."
"Miss Tomson aren't you going to watch them cat die chicken"
The slam of the door sent a neat crack zigzagging to the ceiling. Together with the Goldminer's parties upstairs and Miss Tomson, this little nest I've outfitted here at considerable expense is not going to last long. The management's representative Mr. Stone will no doubt bring this up in due course. I've got to stop her.
"Hey kids, keep singing."
"Sure, mister."
Smith taking a quick look at the crack above the door to the ceiling. Moving headlong down the stairs in shirt sleeves. Catching a side view of his ignoble appearance as he made it to the curb to see Miss Tomson disappearing in a taxi around the corner beer saloon.
George Smith in front of Merry Mansions. Hugo humbugging inside the door. Cold night wind blowing dust and torn newspaper floating by. Miss Tomson took umbrage. Go ahead, go for good. Plenty of good secretaries around. You think you're something special. Social and smart.
George walking towards the river. Shivering in the chill. Black with glitterings of green and yellow and red on the water. Miss Tomson did not want me to catch her. She could have hesitated. She could have loitered just those few seconds in the lobby. Long enough to effect a reconciliation. Could mean I'll never see her again. No one to inspire pride in my appearance. Or make a laughing stock of me either. O my God what an arse she has.
The park all shut up, locked. Save where there are some little steps to a terrace over the river. Hands in pockets, shoulders hunched. Pneumonia brewing. Planned that little eating occasion to bring us closer together. Looking into each other's eyes, both our elbows on the maple. Knew she'd love asparagus. And the apricots with the neat follow up of mellow distilled fermentate of same.
Tug boats, barges. Car lights streaming across the bridge. Ships have always cheered me up. And the warm light of cabins making a way to sea. Someday I'll take a ship.
And on this terrace, George leaning on the iron rail, growling as both elbows sank in sea gull shit. A woman leading three wretched little dogs of some variety minute and snuffling. Pink hat, bundle of fur coat and pair of furry boots. As George freezed his balls and looked destitute standing there with the white crap stained elbows.
Woman looking George right in the eye. He had only enough fortitude left to sustain a stare for an instant. How do madam. You looking for a piece of ass. I beg your pardon, you stranger. She'd scream. And the arm of the law would extend its fat cowardly hand to clutch me by the garment. If they could spare time away from taking graft.
George was out of that park rapidly having a mind for nightly behaviour in those shrubbery places. To get back to his own cosy fireside. And the urchins. Whom, my goodness, I've left them singing.
Speed was now essential. Smith taking the relaxo stride down the pavement to Merry. Up the steps, three at a leap. No time for elevators. These days. Inside the vault door of Flat Fourteen there was sheepishness. Each urchin trying to stand behind the other and one trying to squeeze out the door as I came in. With no sign of Matilda. And this kid Snake slithering away.
"Hey you Snake, where are you going out that door."
"Free country."
"What have you got behind your back.'1 [34]
"Just my ass."
"Ungracious brat."
"Hey mister don't touch him. We'll tell the cops you brought us up here to sing dirty songs and take off our clothes."
"Little blackmailers. Give me back that bottle and get the hell out of here."
George Smith lunged. Exodus ensued. The rush for the stairs. Give one of these kids a boot in the hole to remember me by. Boy they can travel. They're going up instead of down. The noise is terrible. Just get round this landing. Whoa. Goldminer's door is open. They'll see me. See me chasing six urchins. This will slander me just nicely. First time I've ever seen Mr. Goldminer look serious in his life.
"Say George, what are you doing."
Smith pausing quietly in his shirt sleeves, rolled to obscure the sea gull dropping. Resting one calm hand on the glass bannister. And with a generous show of front teeth.
"O nothing. Just a youth club. It's exercise night. Giving the kids a chase up the stairs."
"O."
"Toodle oo, got a rush. Put them through a few contortions on die roof. Got to build good sound bodies these days. Stops delinquency."
"O."
Mr. Goldminer, frowning in his doorway didn't laugh at that last remark. Usually laughs at everything. Uncontrollably. And then slaps his wife's bare back and gives her a little nudge under the tit. Distasteful habit.