A Day Off

  A DAY OFF

  BY STORM JAMESON

  Contents

  A Day Off

  A Day Off

  Sleep drifted across her mind, tattered edges of fog vanishing in the strong light. She stirred, trying to escape, pursuing anxiously the shapes of her dream. Voices died away. The substantial dream became insubstantial. She grew confused, afraid, as the uncertainty touched one and then another of her friends. Let me stay, she said, with doubt and growing fear. But now she was conscious of the room and of a half-seen whiteness on its wall. Slowly, with a heavy sour reluctance, she awoke to herself lying between coarse sheets in the tumbled bed. The whiteness resolved itself into a shape of sunlight on a level with her eyes. It had entered the room under the blind, and she raised herself to lean out of the bed and drag angrily at the cord. The brightness gone, she tried to fall asleep again, turning her back to the window and drawing the quilt up behind her head.

  It was no use. After a time she opened her eyes and lay over on her back, staring at the ceiling. Its cracks formed crazily the plan of a house, and unnumbered times she had tried to arrange its rooms in an order she knew. The biggest room was the kitchen with her mother’s sewing-machine under the window and the sofa pushed against the wall behind the round table. She crouched under the table, hidden by its dark red cloth, hand pressed on her mouth. In another moment her mother’s voice, light with its pretence of fear : Where has the child gone? Running along the narrow passage she pushed at the door of the front room. The walls were papered in glistening white and blue stripes, satin-paper that was; she felt carefully the rough-smooth of the pattern. A palm-leaf fan, dry and brittle, rested against the mirror. Through the window she saw the streets of small houses falling steeply into the valley, the blackened factory: the hill beyond them was scarred with houses built closely across and across, to the dense sprawl of trees full on the skyline. A woman holding her shawl close flitted across the street, calling to her neighbour in an urgent voice like the strong whirr of a spring. Lovely the pure bend of the sky over trees, hill, and spoiled valley. It filled her with happiness, not knowing, thinking it without words.

  The woman in the bed gazed at the cracked ceiling. That oblong mark was—but the game had ceased to interest her. She gave it up and began to think about getting out of bed. After some minutes she sat up and put back the bedclothes. Her nightgown had worked up, uncovering a thick veined leg. She sat on the side of the bed, curling damp fingers over her knee. I’m growing heavier, she thought. She felt herself settling into her body, not caring; then setting her feet apart awkwardly, stood. Always now in the morning she was a minute or two before she could get herself going. Her body stiffened during the night. Walking heavily, with groans she need not silence, since she was alone, she reached the wash-stand. A long glass, bought in the second-hand shop in Judd Street, leaned against the wall. Must hang it, she thought, for the hundredth time. One day, in a burst of energy, she would borrow nails and a hammer from Mrs. Purefoy downstairs and fasten it to the wall. Meanwhile it leaned, and behind it there was an oblong patch of less-faded wallpaper.

  The room was warm because of the June sun outside, filling the narrow street to the neck. She looked quickly and uncomfortably at herself in the glass, then reached across the bed for her chemise. That made her look thinner, coming down nearly to her knees. It was the middle part of her that had thickened so in the last years. She bent down and felt under her feet the wrinkled yellow skin. It wouldn’t surprise me if the arches gave. I ought to get supports now. Another thought jumping into her mind she straightened herself with a sudden effort and went over to the window. Just before she slept she had been saying to herself : If it’s fine I’ll have a day off. Go to Richmond or somewhere. She jerked at the blind cord. The blind flew up and at once the street entered the room.

  A row of geraniums in the opposite window blazed all the hotter for the strong light. Beyond them the potboy at The Swan was sweeping last night’s sawdust out over the doorstep. Dust thickened the sunlight. On the edge of the pavement a thin dirty child scraped the gutter with his fingers to make a ring of dust round two slivers of wood. Some game he’s playing. At what? A woman bent her head in the window, doing something to a garment she squeezed between her hands. With the heat and the fierce light, noise flowed into the room, the squeak of wheels on asphalt, voices, a girl’s shrill with anger, rough male laughter.

  She drew back, shrinking from the impact of the street on her unprepared body. Her clothes lay in a heap at the foot of the bed. Fumbling among them she brought out her purse from the toe of her stocking and emptied it into her hand. Eleven and four-pence. She slumped against the end of the bed, trying to think. Thursday. If George came on Saturday as usual, or sent the usual— if he failed—A curious blankness succeeded this thought. She groped with her hands in the sheet, feeling the bed end cold and slippery against her knees. No use thinking. She let herself down carefully and drew a stocking over her foot. Grit, from the carpet, stuck to it. Fastening her corset she drew the suspenders tight and stood to see the effect. She felt better now that she was held up. Safer. She gave herself an encouraging slap behind, and high-kicked warily before she pulled on her knickers. Artificial silk. Laddered before you could turn round. Shall I wear my real? Better not. Save them for Saturday—to show, as my dressing-gown opens. Who’s my luxurious little girl?

  Wetting a corner of the towel she wiped round her eyes, then spread the cream over her face and throat. She was used to the coarse look of her skin, puckered under the jaw. It pulled at the corners of her mouth. I ought to wear something at night now. The powder lay in thick dabs, waiting to be worked in. Mechanically, with wettened finger, she smoothed her eyebrows and laid the red on her lip. She scarcely glanced at herself as she turned away from the glass. It was a daily rite, nearly without meaning. The notion that she took all these pains to attract belonged now to the past.

  The smell of stale scent came out of the cupboard when she opened it. She looked doubtfully at the navy silk and finally hung it back, taking out that knitted thing instead. The skirt sagged a trifle at the seams, but she freshened up the front of the jacket with the damp towel and pulled the belt tight.

  I ought to tidy up a bit first, she thought, looking round. The rumpled bed was the centre of disorder but everywhere there were clothes tossed down on chairs, bits of paper, a banana skin, used cups, the cover of a magazine sticking out from the bed, an empty powder-box with a dead puff inside, cigarette ends, a paper bag of something, and a towel-railful of limp damp stockings. Dust, too, everywhere, on the walls, on the shabby paint, on the floor. A film of dust on the water in the hand-basin.

  I’ll do it this evening when it’s cool, she decided. She pulled the door to after her, locked it, and stood hesitating on the unswept landing. I could do with a cup of tea now. Her mouth was dry and sour.

  Picking her way, she sauntered briskly along the street. The manager of The Swan was warming himself in the doorway. He spoke to her and she answered amiably, with a smile.

  “Fine warm day, missus.”

  “Indeed it is.”

  His gaze followed her to the end of the street. Showing her age, he thought, not unkindly : queer, too, how they all walk in the same way—as if they had an extra joint behind, jerking it. He went in and spoke about it to his wife. “Who’s that you’ve seen? That woman?” she asked drily.

  That woman had reached Tottenham Court Road and marched across it to the bright side. She almost strutted along by the shops, enjoying the heat, the glare, the press of traffic. Proud like a peacock she felt. In the hinterland of her mind the gaunt Yorkshire valley where she lived out her first seventeen years was immoveable, a closed pass. That way she could go no further. But she could turn her back on it, and she
did that, preferring the endless coloured dusty circus of London, the scarlet dragons of buses, the drays drawn by smoking horses, the neat bustling taxis, and the nippy cycle-vans that cheeky boys bestride. She swung along by all this as happy as a child—as happy as the pinafored child who ran whooping along The Bottoms when the circus came to Staveley. But she had forgotten the child.

  There were sunblinds out across the street, throwing blue shadows on the pavement. She felt pleasantly warm. A fair scorcher by the afternoon, she thought. I like it. Makes you feel young. A boy in a white coat was placing boxes of strawberries in the windows of Shearn’s. Morning gathered. Mn. Do you believe it? Must be at dawn then. The word spread a brief silence round her, as if she had walked clean out of Tottenham Court Road into another state of mind. But in a moment she was nearly knocked over by a girl rushing out of the restaurant next door and not looking where she was going but charging straight across the street into the traffic and how she escaped death Heaven and the driver of the 24 alone knew, the clumsy fool, jolting the breath out of people’s poor bodies.

  She stood a moment getting her breath. I’m as empty as that bucket. Now she quickened her pace, thinking what she would treat herself to for breakfast. A pot of tea and two poached eggs, please Miss. No—have you any kidneys? Crossing Oxford Street—and what a crossing—she cut delicately into a richly-browned kidney. A thin trickle of red gravy ran out under the knife. Her tongue felt gritty with longing.

  She could not walk down Charing Cross Road without wondering whoever thought it worth while to write, let alone to buy and read so many books. Some shops that were not book shops placed paper-back novels in their windows. A Bed of Roses. She had tried to read that, and found it dull. Now here was a pile of music, rather dusty and dog-eared. Someone had been turning it over : she stood still to have a proper look. I know that, she thought quickly. A silly joy seized her. I feel so silly when the moon comes out. Moving away, she began to hum the tune. Her feet kept step in sudden gay rhythm. La-la, la la la.

  Rude old ape. Actually pointing. She swung round to stare angrily after two elderly ladies. What if I was singing? There’s no law is there? She wanted to shout a word or two after them. Give them a few they won’t have heard. Tightening her lips, she stalked on, but now she was all on edge and bothered. The disagreeable impression faded slowly. The bright warm lightly-moving air, distraction of faces and colours sliding past the edge of her eye into vacancy, ripples of sound from a street band splitting the other noises of the street, flowed over it, pressing it down, out of sight. A dress shop in Shaftesbury Avenue caught her eye. She pressed close to the window. Black satin and of course too narrow, but they’ve pinned it over behind—perhaps wider than it looks. Nothing to let out, I suppose. No, I didn’t think so. Can we copy it for you, madam? Reluctantly she turned away from the window. No use even asking about it, she hadn’t the money, nor would unless George——But the thought of George was definitely unpleasant. As always, she tried instinctively to close her mind. What shall you do if?—thoughts that began in this way terrified her. No, no, her mind cried. Not now, not yet. Think of something. I am thinking. Think. I’m not old yet, I’ll look that chart out and exercise every morning. She felt a vague comfort, sprung from all the other moments in which she had made an identical resolution.

  The sun hurled splinters of light across the Circus. They met and crossed, glancing off polished cars and the watery surface of windows. Coloured jumpers and straw hats trimmed with flowers floated close up to the surface, like the exotic fishes in tanks, in the Aquarium. Her eyes, a little weak, dazzled. She turned along Coventry Street to the Corner House, passing two flower women outside the Pavilion. One of them, the thinner, older, and shabbier of the two was trying the effect of a new ribbon round her hat. Her face had a grave innocence, but she was rigid with excitement, watched half in pity half in scorn by her friend. The flowers in the baskets had lately been sprinkled and large drops of water trembled on the leaves.

  She stepped into tepid light and air in the Corner House. The Open All Night café was nearly empty. Behind the counter a man with a fresh pink face yawned and yawned, putting his hand up to cover the gaping cavern. It made her feel sleepy. She sat down close to the wall and read the menu. The insides of her cheeks puckered with the foretaste of happiness. She glanced up at the waiter with a haughty air.

  “Bring me a grilled kidney, and bacon.”

  “No kidneys this morning, madam.”

  Really, she could slap him in her disappointment. Her voice was sharp.

  “It says kidneys. Look here.”

  “I’m sorry. Not here yet, madam.”

  “Bring me some bacon, then. With roll and butter and a cup o’ tea.”

  She drew her gloves off, folded them, and looked about her. That woman over there now. Looks like a school-teacher. What’s she doing here then, this time in the morning. Perhaps out of work. Like me. No not like me. I’m all right, I’m safe. Safe enough. If I could manage a new coat, now, that would be a grand thing for me. She began turning over in her mind ways in which she might come by a new light coat. She might go to work again at the cinema. But she hated the uniform and standing for hours to show people their places in the dark and she had an uncomfortable notion that she was too old for them now. I don’t care to be made a fool of, she thought uneasily.

  She imagined the coat accurately, a loose silk garment, in black or biscuit, with pleats under the arms to give fullness. They suit even a stout woman, she thought, and I’m not that.

  No, I’m not that, she repeated, stirring the sugar into her tea with the handle of her fork, since the waiter had forgotten to bring a spoon. “Here,” she called loudly. “You haven’t given me a spoon.” She stared, dissatisfied, at his departing back. No respect, she thought, vexed. For two pins I’d complain, report him.

  Her glance wandered round the room, resting with momentary interest on a woman in a shabby coat, hunched over her cup. She reminds me of someone, now who is it? Her mind cast about, like an old gossipy woman peering through a blind into the street. Yes, yes, she looks like one of the Willises, Polly Willis it could be. Polly went to Australia that year, Coronation year—I believe it’s her, why not? she could come back, I suppose. She felt quite excited. I’ll walk past her as I go out and take a good look, and if it’s her I’ll say, Why Polly it is Polly Willis isn’t it? She’ll be that surprised. She’ll want to know what I’m doing now—Here her thoughts swung round quickly, looking for some cover from the other woman’s sharp eyes. Ask too many questions, I shouldn’t wonder, she thought moodily, and began to wish again for a new smart coat to cover up all deficiencies, moral as well as physical.

  There was that buyer she knew slightly—wasn’t he for one of the big shops, now? If she asked him he might pick her something good, cheap. Trade prices. She tried to forget the hateful fact that any price at all was beyond her now.

  A man coming in knocked against her table and made her start. She glanced up, and got another and worse start. He was the living image of that one who was killed in the War. Eyes, colour, wide comical mouth—even the way he looked round him with a faint grin was the same. It’s given me a turn, she thought. Cold entered her veins. What was left of a young man fifteen years after they buried him in the earth? Her mind went blank and she gave a little whimper of fear.

  She came back quickly to the dim noisy room, staring greedily round her over the edge of the cup. The last of the tea. It had gone cold, and she half beckoned the waiter over to order another, then changed her mind. Better keep the money. Points of light started wherever she looked, from the knife in a man’s hand, from his bald head, from the chandeliers, the marble facings, then from the glasses and the metal fittings on the counter. The shabbily dressed woman stood up to go, fumbling in her purse, and she saw that it was not Polly Willis, not even very like her. Oh well.

  I must go, she thought, but she sat on, while her thoughts went busily hither thither, birds pulling at straws.
The only other way she could manage the coat would be to get friendly with a new fellow and try to touch him for something before he got too bored. That could happen.

  She would be swaggering into the Café to-night, looking her best, and a well-dressed man seated there alone, after a good look, up and down, I must remember to change into those Spanish kid slippers, would say casually, Like a whiskey? and sucking in her cheeks to bring the dimples out she would answer, No thanks I prefer a Martini. That made a good impression at the start. Later, perhaps, when they were going along nicely she might say laughing merrily, Well perhaps a small whiskey then. As if it were a great joke her drinking whiskey and only doing it to please him.

  It might be wiser to get a cloth coat, though. After all—June. September would be on them in no time and then long mist-blown evenings, the air heavy and the wind chill and harsh. Wine colour, with fox at the neck and cuffs, is smart and becoming to a full figure, she thought, sighing.

  The waiter strolled past the table and glanced at her. Anxious to get rid of me. When I’m ready and not before, mister——. You can’t sit a minute in these places until they’re at you. She lolled in her chair, affecting indifference. The next time he passed she took up her knife and began tapping a tune out on the marble. He stopped. “Can I get you anything more?”

  “No. When I want something I’ll tell you.” She made her voice as overbearing as she could.

  He put the bill down in front of her and went away. Suddenly she felt miserable. I might as well go. It was no use staying, it was no use doing anything. She felt inclined to go back and see whether any letter had come for her by the post. But no, I won’t, I said I’d go to Richmond this morning and I’ll go, she thought, obstinate since it was of no importance. The letter won’t run away. Half consciously she knew that if she went back and again there was no letter laid, that would be the worst of all.

  She looked round her for her gloves and walked out.