This Is the End — Part 02

"Looking for silver cliffs and a golden sea," sighed Kew.

I don't know if I have mentioned or conveyed to you that Mrs. Gustus was a determined woman.

At any rate she was, and it would therefore be waste of time to describe the gradual defeat of Kew.

The final stage was the despatch of Kew to call on Nana in the Brown Borough.

Jay's letter had the Brown Borough postmark, so it had apparently been sent to Nana to post.

Nana might be described as the Second Clue in the pursuit of Jay.

She was the Family's only link with Jay.

The one drawback of Nana as a clue was that she was never to be found.

Mrs. Gustus had called six times, but had been repulsed on each occasion by a totally dumb front door.

But then Nana never had liked Anonyma.

Nana was simple herself in an amateurish, unconscious sort of way, and I expect she disliked Anonyma's professional rivalry in the matter of simplicity.

But Kew was always a favourite.

The 'bus roared up the canyons of the City, and its voice accompanied Kew in his tuneful meditations.

A 'bus is not really well adapted for meditation.

On my feet I can stride across unseen miles musing on love, in a taxi I can think about to-morrow's dinner, but on a 'bus my thoughts will go no further than my eyes can see.

So Kew, although he thought he was thinking of Jay, was really considering the words in front of him--To Stop O'Bus strike Bell at Rear.

[Footnote: He must have changed at the Bank into a Tilling 'bus.

] He deduced from this that it was an Irish 'bus, and supposed that this accounted for its rather head-long behaviour.

He spent some moments in imagining the MacBus, child of a sterner race, which would run gutturally without skids, and wear a different cut of bonnet.

He dismounted into a faint yellow fog diluted with a faint twilight, in the Brown Borough.

The air was vague, making it not so much an impossibility to decipher the features of people approaching as a surprise to find it possible.

A few rather premature bar row-flares adapted Scripture to modern conditions by hiding their light under tin substitutes for bushels, in the hope of protecting such valuables as cat's meat and bananas from aerial outrage.

Kew pranced over prostrate children, and curved about the pavement to avoid artificially vivacious passers-by, who emerged from the public-houses.

Nana lived in a little alley which was like a fiord of peace running in from the shrill storm of the Brown Borough.

Here little cottages shrank together, passive resisters of the twentieth century.

Low crooked windows blinked through a mask of dirty creepers.

Each little front garden contained a shrub, and was guarded by a low railing, although there would have been no room for a trespasser in addition to the shrub.

Nana's house, at the end of the alley, looked along it to the far turmoil of the mother-street.

Kew insulted the gate, as usual, by stepping over it, and knocked at the door.

He held his breath, so that he might more keenly hear the first whisperings of the floor upstairs, which would show that Nana was astir.

A gardenful of cats came and told him that his hopes were vain.

Cats only exist, I think, for the chastening of man.

They never come to me except to tell me the worst, and to crush me with quiet sarcasm should my optimism survive their warning.

But before the cats had finished speaking, there was a most un-Nana-like sound of bounding within, and Jay appeared.

She threw herself out of the darkness of the door on to the twilit Kew.

The cats were ashamed to be seen watching this almost canine display, and went away.

"I didn't know you weren't in France," said Jay to Kew.

"I didn't know you weren't in Heaven," said Kew to Jay.

"What's all this about golden seas and aeroplanes snarling around?"

"Oh, snarling....

That's just what they do," said Jay.

"Let's pretend I said that."

It seemed as if childhood turned its face to them again after a thousand years.

These roaring months of War run like a sea between us and our peaceful beginnings, so that a catchword flashed across out of our past is as beautiful and as incredible as the light in a dream.

When they were little they used to bargain for expressive words.

Their childhood was full of such hair-splittings as: "If you tell how we said Wank-wank to the milkman, you must let me have the old lady who had a palpitation and puffocated running after the 'bus."

They were not spontaneous people.

They were born with too great a love of words, a passion for drama at the expense of truth, and a habit of overweighting common life with romance.

It was perhaps good for them to have acquired such a very simple relation by marriage as Anonyma.

"About the sea," said Jay, "I'll tell you later."

"Well, tell me first why you found home so suddenly unbearable.

You've stood it for eighteen years."

"I've been a child all through those eighteen years.

And to a child just the fact of grown-upness is so admirable.

I wonder why.

But under the fierce light that beats from the eye of a woman suddenly and violently grown old, Cousin Gustus and Anonyma don't--well, Kew, do they?"

The dusk filled the room as water fills a cup, and to look up at the light of an outside lamp on the ceiling was like looking up through water at the surface.

Jay wore a dress of the same colour of the dusk, and her round face, faint as a bubble, seemed to float on its background unsupported.

"Didn't you think about adopting a baby?"

suggested Kew.

"That evidently put Cousin Gustus's back up."

"I didn't put Cousin Gustus's back up so high as he put mine," answered Jay.

"Oh, Kew, what are the old that they should check us?

What's the use of this war of one generation against another?

Old people and young people reach a deadlock that's as bad as marriage without the possibility of divorce.

Isn't all forced fidelity wrong?"

"What did you do, tell me, and what are you going to do?"

"Oh well, I felt something like frost in the air, and I couldn't define it.

Really, it was work waiting to be done.

Not work for the poor, but work with the poor.

At home I talked about work, and Anonyma wrote about it, and Cousin Gustus shuddered at it.

You were doing it all right, but where was I?

Three days a week with soldiers' wives.

My brow never sweated a drop.

I thought there must be something better than a bird's-eye view of work.

So I took a job at a bolster place....

Oh well, it doesn't matter now.

I earned ten shillings a week, and paid half-a-crown for a little basement back.

On Saturdays I got my Sunday clothes out of pawn, and came to tea with Nana.

Do you remember the scones and the Welsh Rarebit that Nana used to make?

I believe those things were worth the terror of the pawnshop.

Oh, Kew, those pawnshops!

Those little secret stalls that put shame into you where none was before.

The pawn man--why is it that when you're already frightened is the moment that men choose to frighten you?

Because weakness is the worst crime.

That I have proved.

My work was putting fluff into bolsters.

There was a big bright grocers' calendar--the Death of Nelson--and if I could see it through the fog of fluff I felt that was a lucky day.

I had to eat my lunch there, raspberry jam sandwiches--not fruit jam, you know, but raspberry flavour.

It wasn't nice, and it used to get fluffy in that air.

The others sat round and munched and picked their teeth and read Jew newspapers.

Have you ever noticed that whichever way up you look at a Jew newspaper, you always feel as if you could read it better if you were standing on your head?

My governor was a Jew too.

He wasn't bad, but he looked wet, and his hair was a horror to me.

His voice was tired of dealing with fluff--though he didn't deal with it so intimately as we did--and it only allowed him to whisper.

The forewoman was always cross, but always as if she would rather not be so, as if she were being cross for a bet, and as if some one were watching her to see she was not kind by mistake.

She looked terribly ill, because she had worked there for three months, which was a record.

I stood it five weeks, and then I had a hemorrhage--only from the throat, the doctor said.

I wanted to go to bed, but you can't, because the panel doctors in these parts will not come to you.

My doctor was half an enormous mile away, and it seemed he only existed between seven and nine in the evenings.

So I stayed up, so as not to get too weak to walk.

I went and asked the governor for my stamps.

I had only five stamps due to me, only five valuable threepences had been stopped out of my wages.

But I had a silly conviction at that time that the Insurance Act was invented to help working people.

What an absurd idea of mine!

I went to the Jew for my card.

He said mine was a hard case, but I was not entitled to a card; nobody under thirty, he said, was allowed by law to have a card.

So I said it was only fair to tell him I was going to the Factory and Insurance Inspectors about him.

I

told him lots of things, and I was so angry that I cried.

He was very angry too, and made me feel sick by splashing his wet hair about.

He said it was unfair for ladies to interfere in things they knew nothing about.

I said I interfered because I knew nothing about it, but that now I knew.

I said that ladies and women had exactly the same kind of inside, and it was a kind that never thrived on fluff instead of food.

I told him how I spent my ten shillings.

He couldn't interrupt really, because he had no voice.

Then I fainted, and a friend I have there, called Mrs. Love, came in.

She had been listening at the door.

She was very good to me.

"Then, when I was well again, I found another job, but I shan't tell you what it is.

As for the Inspectors, I complained, but--what's the use?

So long as you must put fluff of that pernicious kind into bolsters, just so long will you kill the strength and the beauty of women.

It looked so like a deadlock that it frightened me, and now in this wonderful life I lead, my Friend won't let me think of it.

A deadlock is a dreadful accident, isn't it?

because in theory it doesn't exist.

I am working for a new end now.

Isn't it splendid that there is really no Place Called Stop?

There is always an end beyond the end, always something to love and look forward to.

Life is a luxury, isn't it?

there's no use in it--but how delightful!"

"You haven't told me about the sea yet," said Kew.

"Because I don't think you'd believe me.

We were always liars, weren't we?

That's because we're romantic, or if it's not romance, the symptoms of the disease are very like.

Why can't we get rid of it all as Anonyma does?

She has no gift except the gift of being able to get rid of superfluous romance.

She takes that great ease impersonally, her pose is, 'It's a gift from Heaven, and an infernal bore.'

But I never get nearer to joy than I do in this Secret World of mine, and with my Secret Friend."

"But what is it?

What is he like?"

"I should be guilty of the murder of a secret if I told you.

He isn't particularly romantic.

I have seen him in a poor light; I have watched him in a most undignified temper; I have known him when he wanted a shave.

I don't exist in this World of mine.

I am just a column of thin air, watching with my soul."

"Then you're really telling lies to Anonyma when you write about it all?

I'm not reproaching you of course, I only want to get my mind clear."

"I suppose they're lies," assented Jay ruefully, "though it seems sacrilege to say so, for I know these things better than I know myself.

But Truth--or Untruth, what's the use of words like that when miracles are in question?"

"Oh, damn this What's the Use Trick," said Kew.

"I suppose you picked that up in this private Heaven of yours.

The whole thing's absolutely--My dear little Jay, am I offending you?"

"Yes," said Jay.

Kew sighed.

Chloris sighed too.

Chloris had played the thankless part of third in this interview.

She was Jay's friend, a terrier with a black eye.

She shared Jay's burning desire to be of use, and, like most embryo reformers, she had a poor taste in dress.

She wore her tail at an aimless angle, without chic; her markings were all lopsided.

But her soul was ardent, and her life was always directed by some rather inscrutable theory or other.

As a puppy she had been an inspired optimist, with legs like strips of elastic clumsily attached to a winged spirit.

Later she had adopted a vigorous anarchist policy, and had inaugurated what was probably known in her set as the "Bite at Sight Campaign."

Cured of this, she had become a gentle Socialist, and embraced the belief that all property--especially edible property--should be shared.

Appetites, she argued, were meant to be appeased, and the preservation of game--or anything else--in the larder was an offence against the community.

Now, at the age of five or so, she affected cynicism, pretended temporarily that life had left a bitter taste in her mouth, and sighed frequently.

"Kew," said Jay presently, "will you promise not to tell the Family you saw me?

I don't want it to know about me.

After all, theories are driving me, and theories don't concern that Family of ours.

What's the use of a Family?

(I'm saying this just to exasperate you.

) A Family's just a little knot of not necessarily congenial people, with Fate rubbing their heads together so as to strike sparks of love.

Love--what's the use of Love?

I'd like to catch that Love and box his ears, making such a fool of the world.

What's the use?"

"God knows," said Kew.

"Cheer up, my friend, I promise I won't tell the Family I've seen you, or anything about you."

At the same moment he remembered the motor tour.

"Promise faithfully?"

"Faithfully."

"It's a lovely word faithful, isn't it?"

she said, wriggling in her chair.

"Yours faithfully is a most beautiful ending to a letter.

Why is it that faith with a little F is such a perfect thing, and yet Faith, grown-up Faith in Church, is so tiring?"

"Perhaps one is overworked and the other isn't," suggested Kew.

As he went out into the darkness the noise of London sprang into his ears, and the remote brown room where he had left Jay seemed to become divided from him by great distances.

The town was like a garden, and he, an insect, pressed through its undergrowth.

The rare lamps and the stars flowered above him.

My yesterday has gone, has gone, and left me tired;

And now to-morrow comes and beats upon the door;

So I have built to-day, the day that I desired, Lest joy come not again, lest peace return no more, Lest comfort come no more.

So I have built to-day, a proud and perfect day, And I have built the towers of cliffs upon the sands.

The foxgloves and the gorse I planted on my way.

The thyme, the velvet thyme, grew up beneath my hands, Grew pink beneath my hands.

So I have built to-day, more precious than a dream;

And I have painted peace upon the sky above;

And I have made immense and misty seas that seem More kind to me than life, more fair to me than love, More beautiful than love.

And I have built a House, a House upon the brink Of high and twisted cliffs,--the sea's low singing fills it.

And there my Secret Friend abides, and there I think I'll hide my heart away before to-morrow kills it, A cold to-morrow kills it.

Yes, I have built to-day, a wall against to-morrow, So let to-morrow knock, I shall not be afraid, For none shall give me death, and none shall give me sorrow, And none shall spoil this darling day that I have made.

No storm shall stir my sea.

No night but mine shall shade This day that I have made.