'He's heard, of course?' he said.
'Everything, I'm afraid.'
'How? I suppose that cow of a Wisbeach woman went and sneaked to him?'
'No. It was in the paper after all. The local paper. He got it out of that.'
'Oh, hell! I'd forgotten that.'
Ravelston produced from his coat pocket a folded copy of a bi– weekly paper. It was one that they took in at the shop because Mr McKechnie advertised in it—Gordon had forgotten that. He opened it. Gosh! What a splash! It was all over the middle page.
BOOKSELLER'S ASSISTANT FINED
MAGISTRATE'S SEVERE STRICTURE
'DISGRACEFUL FRACAS'
There were nearly two columns of it. Gordon had never been so famous before and never would be again. They must have been very hard up for a bit of news. But these local papers have a curious notion of patriotism. They are so avid for local news that a bicycle–accident in the Harrow Road will occupy more space than a European crisis, and such items of news as 'Hampstead Man on Murder Charge' or 'Dismembered Baby in Cellar in Camberwell' are displayed with positive pride.
Ravelston described his interview with Mr McKechnie. Mr McKechnie, it seemed, was torn between his rage against Gordon and his desire not to offend such a good customer as Ravelston. But of course, after such a thing like that, you could hardly expect him to take Gordon back. These scandals were bad for trade, and besides, he was justly angry at the lies Flaxman had told him over the phone. But he was angriest of all at the thought of HIS assistant being drunk and disorderly. Ravelston said that the drunkenness seemed to anger him in a way that was peculiar. He gave the impression that he would almost have preferred Gordon to pinch money out of the till. Of course, he was a teetotaller himself. Gordon had sometimes wondered whether he wasn't also a secret drinker, in the traditional Scottish style. His nose was certainly very red. But perhaps it was snuff that did it. Anyway, that was that. Gordon was in the soup, full fathom five.
'I suppose the Wisbeach will stick to my clothes and things,' he said. 'I'm not going round there to fetch them. Besides, I owe her a week's rent.'
'Oh, don't worry about that. I'll see to your rent and everything.'
'My dear chap, I can't let you pay my rent!'
'Oh, dash it!' Ravelston's face grew faintly pink. He looked miserably into the distance, and then said what he had to say all in a sudden burst: 'Look here, Gordon, we must get this settled. You've just got to stay here till this business has blown over. I'll see you through about money and all that. You needn't think you're being a nuisance, because you're not. And anyway, it's only till you get another job.'
Gordon moved moodily away from him, his hands in his pockets. He had foreseen all this, of course. He knew that he ought to refuse, he WANTED to refuse, and yet he had not quite the courage.
'I'm not going to sponge on you like that,' he said sulkily.
'Don't use such expressions, for God's sake! Besides, where could you go if you didn't stay here?'
'I don't know—into the gutter, I suppose. It's where I belong. The sooner I get there the better.'
'Rot! You're going to stay here till you've found another job.'
'But there isn't a job in the world. It might be a year before I found a job. I don't WANT a job.'
'You mustn't talk like that. You'll find a job right enough. Something's bound to turn up. And for God's sake don't talk about SPONGING on me. It's only an arrangement between friends. If you really want to, you can pay it all back when you've got the money.'
'Yes—WHEN!'
But in the end he let himself be persuaded. He had known that he would let himself be persuaded. He stayed on at the flat, and allowed Ravelston to go round to Willowbed Road and pay his rent and recover his two cardboard suitcases; he even allowed Ravelston to 'lend' him a further two pounds for current expenses. His heart sickened while he did it. He was living on Ravelston—sponging on Ravelston. How could there ever be a real friendship between them again? Besides, in his heart he didn't want to be helped. He only wanted to be left alone. He was headed for the gutter; better to reach the gutter quickly and get it over. Yet for the time being he stayed, simply because he lacked the courage to do otherwise.
But as for this business of getting a job, it was hopeless from the start. Even Ravelston, though rich, could not manufacture jobs out of nothing. Gordon knew beforehand that there were no jobs going begging in the book trade. During the next three days he wore his shoes out traipsing from bookseller to bookseller. At shop after shop he set his teeth, marched in, demanded to see the manager, and three minutes later marched out again with his nose in the air. The answer was always the same—no jobs vacant. A few booksellers were taking on an extra man for the Christmas rush, but Gordon was not the type they were looking for. He was neither smart nor servile; he wore shabby clothes and spoke with the accent of a gentleman. Besides, a few questions always brought it out that he had been sacked from his last job for drunkenness. After only three days he gave it up. He knew it was no use. It was only to please Ravelston that he had even been pretending to look for work.
In the evening he trailed back to the flat, footsore and with his nerves on edge from a series of snubs. He was making all his journeys on foot, to economize Ravelston's two pounds. When he got back Ravelston had just come up from the office and was sitting in one of the armchairs in front of the fire, with some long galley– proofs over his knee. He looked up as Gordon came in.
'Any luck?' he said as usual.
Gordon did not answer. If he had answered it would have been with a stream of obscenities. Without even looking at Ravelston he went straight into his bedroom, kicked off his shoes, and flung himself on the bed. He hated himself at this moment. Why had he come back? What right had he to come back and sponge on Ravelston when he hadn't even the intention of looking for a job any longer? He ought to have stayed out in the streets, slept in Trafalgar Square, begged—anything. But he hadn't the guts to face the streets as yet. The prospect of warmth and shelter had tugged him back. He lay with his hands beneath his head, in a mixture of apathy and self–hatred. After about half an hour he heard the door–bell ring and Ravelston get up to answer it. It was that bitch Hermione Slater, presumably. Ravelston had introduced Gordon to Hermione a couple of days ago, and she had treated him like dirt. But a moment later there was a knock at the bedroom door.
'What is it?' said Gordon.
'Somebody's come to see you,' said Ravelston.
'To see ME?'
'Yes. Come on into the other room.'
Gordon swore and rolled sluggishly off the bed. When he got to the other room he found that the visitor was Rosemary. He had been half expecting her, of course, but it wearied him to see her. He knew why she had come; to sympathize with him, to pity him, to reproach him—it was all the same. In his despondent, bored mood he did not want to make the effort of talking to her. All he wanted was to be left alone. But Ravelston was glad to see her. He had taken a liking to her in their single meeting and thought she might cheer Gordon up. He made a transparent pretext to go downstairs to the office, leaving the two of them together.
They were alone, but Gordon made no move to embrace her. He was standing in front of the fire, round–shouldered, his hands in his coat pockets, his feet thrust into a pair of Ravelston's slippers which were much too big for him. She came rather hesitantly towards him, not yet taking off her hat or her coat with the lamb– skin collar. It hurt her to see him. In less than a week his appearance had deteriorated strangely. Already he had that unmistakable, seedy, lounging look of a man who is out of work. His face seemed to have grown thinner, and there were rings round his eyes. Also it was obvious that he had not shaved that day.