‘Have you gone mad?’ and again she struck him across the face.
‘Thank you for that, I mean thank you again, Mrs Gandell. I’m not crawling to your bloody bank, I’m not crawling to The Lion, I’m not crawling to anybody. I’ve had a bloody nough.’
‘Then get out.’
‘Anything for cash,’ he shouted in her face, ‘I mean anything.’
And again he was too close, and she stared at Jones, his face contorted with utter rage, and hated his breath and the still occasional belch. She slowly drew up her leg, got a foot into the middle of his back, and pushed. And Jones was clear of the bed, flat on his back.
‘Get out. Now.’
She got out of bed, knelt over him. ‘I said get out. Now, I mean now.’
‘You let God’s man in here the other night. How much did he pay you, Mrs Gandell?’
‘Let…’ but the words died on her tongue.
‘She - - - she told me.’
‘Told you. Who told you?’
Jones came slowly into a sitting position, pushed her away from him.
‘The queer bitch next door that you love so much. How much did he pay you to stand outside her bloody door?’ Then very slowly, ‘and if you went to her room now I’d bet you’d find her silly face in the stars. How much?’
‘You had better begin packing your things, Jones,’ Mrs Gandell said, and got up and went to the bed, and sat on it, and watched him, and waited. ‘The difference between us, Jones, is that you are dead drunk, and I’m sober. Get up.’
But Jones made no move, felt suddenly rooted to the floor.
‘I’ll get your things together myself, Jones,’ and she got up and began wildly opening drawers and cupboards, and, as though the mad moments had passed, said quietly, ‘and always remember, Jones, that you can be done without.’
Jones fell flat on his face, and lay very still. She groped in drawers and cupboards, and soon there lay a little pile of the Jones things.
‘How much?’
But she did not hear, but now knelt and began to make a neat bundle of the Jones belongings.
‘Mrs Gandell,’ the words coming through spread fingers, hard up against the Jones mouth. ‘Mrs Gandell?’
‘I’m waiting,’ she said.
‘Mrs Gandell?’
She watched him come slowly to his knees, make to rise, fall again, make another desperate effort, and she went across and got him to his feet.
‘There are your things, Jones. Now get out,’ as he lay heavy against her, as he struggled to stand upright, as he pushed himself clear, staggered to the bed and lay stretched, hands to his mouth, and heard her say loud and clear that she meant what she said.
‘You said you wouldn’t go,’ he blurted out, and she was startled by the sudden break in his voice, and the moment she sat on the bed he struggled into a sitting position, leaned against her, and muttered, ‘You said it.’
‘Said what, Jones?’
And Jones growled, ‘What you said, that’s all.’
She was aware in a moment of what was helpless, and what was craven in him, and the sudden fierce hug she gave him was that of mother to son. She got up, saying, ‘I’m going to make some coffee, Jones. Get into bed.’
But his hands flopped to his knees, his head hung, and he did not hear her leave the room. When she returned he was in exactly the same position, except that the moment the door opened he looked up at her with such yearning that for a moment she thought he might even smile.
‘Here! Drink this.’
‘Thank you, Mrs Gandell.’
‘You’ll feel better in a minute,’ she said, and sat close again, sipping her coffee.
‘D’you know what, Mrs Gandell?’
‘What?’
‘All the way back from that pub I was thinking of my mother.’
‘Were you?’
‘Yes, I was,’ and he finished the coffee and gave her the cup.
‘Sometimes it’s nice to remember, and sometimes it isn’t,’ she said.
‘Know what she once said to me?’
‘What did your mother say to you, Jones?’ and she put an arm round his neck.
