The bank made no trouble about the cheque. Gordon had no banking account, but they knew him well, for Mr McKechnie banked there. They had cashed editors' cheques for Gordon before. There was only a minute's consultation, and then the cashier came back.
'Notes, Mr Comstock?'
'One five pound, and the rest pounds, please.'
The flimsy luscious fiver and the five clean pound notes slid rustling under the brass rail. And after them the cashier pushed a little pile of half–crowns and pennies. In lordly style Gordon shot the coins into his pocket without even counting them. That was a bit of backsheesh. He had only expected ten pounds for fifty dollars. The dollar must be above par. The five pound note, however, he carefully folded up and stowed away in the American envelope. That was Julia's fiver. It was sacrosanct. He would post it to her presently.
He did not go home for dinner. Why chew leathery beef in the aspidistral dining–room when he had ten quid in pocket—five quid, rather? (He kept forgetting that half the money was already mortgaged to Julia.) For the moment he did not bother to post Julia's five pounds. This evening would be soon enough. Besides, he rather enjoyed the feeling of it in his pocket. It was queer how different you felt with all that money in your pocket. Not opulent, merely, but reassured, revivified, reborn. He felt a different person from what he had been yesterday. He WAS a different person. He was no longer the downtrodden wretch who made secret cups of tea over the oil stove at 31 Willowbed Road. He was Gordon Comstock, the poet, famous on both sides of the Atlantic. Publications: Mice (1932), London Pleasures (1935). He thought with perfect confidence of London Pleasures now. In three months it should see the light. Demy octavo, white buckram covers. There was nothing that he did not feel equal to now that his luck had turned.
He strolled into the Prince of Wales for a bite of food. A cut off the joint and two veg., one and twopence, a pint of pale ale ninepence, twenty Gold Flakes a shilling. Even after that extravagance he still had well over ten pounds in hand—or rather, well over five pounds. Beer–warmed, he sat and meditated on the things you can do with five pounds. A new suit, a week–end in the country, a day–trip to Paris, five rousing drunks, ten dinners in Soho restaurants. At this point it occurred to him that he and Rosemary and Ravelston must certainly have dinner together tonight. Just to celebrate his stroke of luck; after all, it isn't every day that ten pounds—five pounds—drops out of the sky into your lap. The thought of the three of them together, with good food and wine and money no object took hold of him as something not to be resisted. He had just a tiny twinge of caution. Mustn't spend ALL his money, of course. Still, he could afford a quid—two quid. In a couple of minutes he had got Ravelston on the pub phone.
'Is that you, Ravelston? I say, Ravelston! Look here, you've got to have dinner with me tonight.'
From the other end of the line Ravelston faintly demurred. 'No, dash it! You have dinner with ME.' But Gordon overbore him. Nonsense! Ravelston had got to have dinner with HIM tonight. Unwillingly, Ravelston assented. All right, yes, thanks; he'd like it very much. There was a sort of apologetic misery in his voice. He guessed what had happened. Gordon had got hold of money from somewhere and was squandering it immediately; as usual, Ravelston felt he hadn't the right to interfere. Where should they go? Gordon was demanding. Ravelston began to speak in praise of those jolly little Soho restaurants where you get such a wonderful dinner for half a crown. But the Soho restaurants sounded beastly as soon as Ravelston mentioned them. Gordon wouldn't hear of it. Nonsense! They must go somewhere decent. Let's do it all regardless, was his private thought; might as well spend two quid—three quid, even. Where did Ravelston generally go? Modigliani's, admitted Ravelston. But Modigliani's was very—but no! not even over the phone could Ravelston frame that hateful word 'expensive'. How remind Gordon of his poverty? Gordon mightn't care for Modigliani's, he euphemistically said. But Gordon was satisfied. Modigliani's? Right you are—half past eight. Good! After all, if he spent even three quid on the dinner he'd still have two quid to buy himself a new pair of shoes and a vest and a pair of pants.
He had fixed it up with Rosemary in another five minutes. The New Albion did not like their employees being rung up on the phone, but it did not matter once in a way. Since that disastrous Sunday journey, five days ago, he had heard from her once but had not seen her. She answered eagerly when she heard whose voice it was. Would she have dinner with him tonight? Of course! What fun! And so in ten minutes the whole thing was settled. He had always wanted Rosemary and Ravelston to meet, but somehow had never been able to contrive it. These things are so much easier when you've got a little money to spend.
The taxi bore him westward through the darkling streets. A three– mile journey—still, he could afford it. Why spoil the ship for a ha'porth of tar? He had dropped that notion of spending only two pounds tonight. He would spend three pounds, three pounds ten— four pounds if he felt like it. Slap up and regardless—that was the idea. And, oh! by the way! Julia's fiver. He hadn't sent it yet. No matter. Send it first thing in the morning. Good old Julia! She should have her fiver.
How voluptuous were the taxi cushions under his bum! He lolled this way and that. He had been drinking, of course—had had two quick ones, or possibly three, before coming away. The taxi–driver was a stout philosophic man with a weather–beaten face and a knowing eye. He and Gordon understood one another. They had palled up in the bar where Gordon was having his quick ones. As they neared the West End the taximan drew up, unbidden, at a discreet pub on a corner. He knew what was in Gordon's mind. Gordon could do with a quick one. So could the taximan. But the drinks were on Gordon—that too was understood.
'You anticipated my thoughts,' said Gordon, climbing out.
'Yes, sir.'
'I could just about do with a quick one.'
'Thought you might, sir.'
'And could you manage one yourself, do you think?'
'Where there's a will there's a way,' said the taximan.
'Come inside,' said Gordon.
They leaned matily on the brass–edged bar, elbow to elbow, lighting two of the taximan's cigarettes. Gordon felt witty and expansive. He would have liked to tell the taximan the history of his life. The white–aproned barman hastened towards them.
'Yes sir?' said the barman.
'Gin,' said Gordon.
'Make it two,' said the taximan.
More matily than ever, they clinked glasses.
'Many happy returns,' said Gordon.
'Your birthday today, sir?'
'Only metaphorically. My re–birthday, so to speak.'