Percy was standing at the window looking out across the street. Just standing there. He’d been like that for nearly five minutes. He didn’t go out so much in the evening now. It felt safer indoors.
Mrs Boon looked up from her mending. Her face for some reason looked sadder than ever to‐night. An expression of resignation and defeat seemed to have settled down on it.
‘Why don’t you do something, Percy?’ she asked. ‘Just standing there.’
He was so jumpy that he started when she spoke to him. But he couldn’t admit that he was jumpy. Couldn’t admit that there was anything wrong with him. He felt betrayed that his mother had even noticed that there was anything wrong. It was as though she weren’t on his side after all, as though he weren’t so safe with her as he’d thought.
‘I’m all right, Mum,’ was all he said.
Mrs Boon continued to stare across at him. There was something about him that reminded her of him as he had been when he was a little boy. She never saw him as his real age. He was fixed in her mind, photographed as it were, somewhere round about the age of seven or eight – rather as a delicate little boy, tall for his years, in a jersey and blue corduroy trousers. He’d had these silly, difficult fits even then.
‘Why don’t you go out for a walk?’
‘Don’t wanna walk.’
‘You used to like it all right,’ Mrs Boon went on. ‘You weren’t never in.’
She was no longer looking at him. Her eyes were down on her mending again.
Percy turned on her.
‘Oh shut up, Mum, can’t you?’ he said. ‘First you nag at me because I’m always out. And now you’re nagging at me because I stop in.’
‘Oh Percy.’
There were tears in Mrs Boon’s eyes as she spoke. She couldn’t help it. It was silly minding about Percy like that. But he was all she had. She couldn’t bear it when he was cross with her.
But Percy had turned his back on her again. He was looking down the street once more.
‘There isn’t anything worrying you, is there?’ she asked.
Percy shook his head.
‘I’m all right,’ he said.
Then Mrs Boon screwed up her courage. She had to do so: she and Percy never discussed his private affairs together.
‘Not a girl or anything, is it, Percy?’
She was sorry as soon as she had said it, because she was afraid that it would make him angry. But she hadn’t anticipated that it would make him as angry as all this.
He rounded on her.
‘Wotta are you going on at me for?’ he demanded. ‘I asked you to shut up, didn’t I?’
Before Mrs Boon could answer he had crossed the room and gone over to the door. He stood there for a moment, his hand resting on the handle.
And as Mrs Boon looked at him she noticed again how ill and pallid he seemed. There were dark circles under his eyes. Too much smoking. That was it. Or not sleeping. She’d heard him tossing about at night lately.
‘All right,’ he said abruptly. ‘I’ll go out if you don’t want me here.’
It was about 8 o’clock when he pulled the front door shut behind him. And he went straight down the steps even though he hadn’t yet decided where to go. He was feeling anxiously in his pockets for his cigarettes.
‘Perhaps I’ll feel better if I get a walk,’ he told himself. ‘Get a walk and have a drink. Go to the pictures if it wasn’t so late. Go to the pictures if they’d got anything decent on.’ He looked at his watch – the rolled gold wrist‐watch that Mrs Boon had given him – and then pulled his cuff down again. ‘Reckon I’ll just go for a walk,’ he decided. ‘Just go round the streets and try to walk it off. Perhaps I’ll feel better if I get a walk.’
He’d turned automatically in the direction of Dove Street. But on the way he stopped suddenly. Stopped suddenly and drew himself up flat against the railings so that he shouldn’t be noticed. And all because he’d looked ahead of him and seen two men in sports coats and flannel trousers standing at the street corner in front.
He stood there without moving long enough to see the two men saunter slowly off towards the Oval. It looked O.K. But how was he to know that they hadn’t spotted him before he noticed what was happening? How was he to know that? And it couldn’t just be a coincidence. He was always seeing men in sports coats and flannels nowadays, men in proper plain clothes uniform, standing about where they could see him. There’d been a man that he hadn’t liked the look of, standing outside the garage for nearly an hour this morning. And two nights ago someone had followed him home. He was sure of that. He’d noticed him right up by Kennington Park Road, and he’d still been behind him by the time Percy had turned into No. 10. That man, whoever he was, knew where Percy lived all right.
So he turned round and walked off quickly in the opposite direction. If those two narks thought they were going to pounce on him as he came round the corner they were in for a big disappointment. He’d like to see their faces.
Then as he walked on – ‘I mustn’t look back over my shoulder. That’d give them something on me,’ he told himself – he realised how foolish it all was. There weren’t any men waiting for him at the corner. He wasn’t being followed. It was just nerves that made him imagine them. Why should anyone be following him? He was just Percy Boon, one of the ten million. His little Bit of Trouble was a secret between himself and Percy Boon Esq. And if Percy Boon Esq. didn’t feel like talking that was that, wasn’t it? And where did they go to from there? Ha! Ha!
Then he remembered the drink that he’d been going to have. Perhaps it was what he needed, perhaps it would do him good. Other people had drinks and felt better for them. But what was beer anyway? It hadn’t got any kick in it. What he wanted was something hard. Large gin and a baby tonic, or a double Haig and soda. Something with fireworks.
Over on the opposite corner stood the Clachan. Percy crossed over and went into it. Almost as soon as he went inside he knew that he’d done the right thing. The saloon‐bar was full of noise, cheerful noise. There was a loudspeaker up on a shelf among the bottles, and a shiny cascade of hot dance music was bubbling out of it. Over in the corner a couple of pin‐tables were pinging and clattering, and all round the bar there was a huddle of drinkers talking about happy things like dog‐racing and a Big Fight, and themselves.
‘I done the right thing coming here,’ he repeated to himself. ‘Better’n outside. I done the right thing.’
But had he? he wondered almost immediately. There was one big difference between him and all the others. He wasn’t really one of them. They were all in groups of twos and threes. And he was alone. He was the only person alone in all that bar.
‘I oughter brought someone along with me,’ he told himself. ‘I oughta brought someone along to talk to. No fun in drinking by yourself. Not even whisky. I oughta brought someone along with me.’
He was so lonely he didn’t even want to drink. Usually whisky was reliable: it made you feel different while it was still going down. But to‐night it didn’t. It just reminded him of things.
‘It’s Doris I want,’ he told himself. ‘Little Doris here beside me. My little darling with her arm through mine. I’d do anything for Doris. Only got to ask for it and it’s hers. I’d buy her a Bronx or a Passion Fruit Nectar or a Pimms No. 1. Or soft, if she’d rather. She knows that. She knows I’d give her the moon if she cried for it. I wouldn’t mind what it cost if she asked for it. It’s Doris I want.’
Then an appalling thing happened. Because he was so lonely and because Doris was over at Hampstead in that flat of hers, he began thinking about the Blonde. For a moment his mind was divided right down the middle. Cut clean into two parts. And one half didn’t know what the other half was up to.
‘Why shouldn’t I go along and see her?’ he asked himself. ‘She likes me. She’d be there waiting. Why shouldn’t I go?’
Then there was a click and the two halves came together again. He realised what he’d done. He’d been planning a date with a dead girl…
That shook him. Shook him badly. Made him lose confidence, in fact.
‘Going balmy, that’s me,’ he told himself. ‘Going balmy.’
But he was all right now. He could afford to laugh – but not much – at his mistake. And that wasn’t because of the whisky, either. It was because a real good idea, a proper brain‐wave, had just come to him. Why shouldn’t he do what he really wanted? Why shouldn’t he go and see Doris? There wasn’t any law against it, was there? Why shouldn’t he?
All the same, it needed a bit of face to do it. Because Doris didn’t know how he felt about her. Or did she? Women were supposed to know when men Felt That Way. It was some sixth sense or something. And he’d got to see her. Got to. He’d go mad if he didn’t.
He glanced at his watch. Eight‐thirty. That was all right. If he went now he’d be up in Hampstead by nine. And in his excitement he could picture it all happening. He’d rung the bell – rather a posh sort of front door bell in a big block of mansion flats – and Doris herself was there to let him in. ‘Why Percy! This is a surprise. Come in…’
Quickening his pace, he set off.
It took a long time on the bus. Longer than he had reckoned. And the funny thing was that the excitement suddenly wore off. It just evaporated. At one moment the bus was toiling along past the Black Cat factory11 in the Hampstead Road and there he was in a front seat all sticky and eager thinking: ‘I’ll be seeing you, my little darling. We’ll be together again. You’ll be mine for keeps one day. I’ll be seeing you, my little darling.’ And, at the next, he was wondering why he’d come. Just like that. Perhaps it had been the whisky after all.
But he wasn’t going back now. Not after he’d come all that way. It wouldn’t make sense. In any case, he liked it over this side of London. There wasn’t anyone who knew him there. It was safer. If it hadn’t been for his old mum he’d have taken a room over at Camden Town and made a fresh start.
He was still thinking about that when he found that he wasn’t going right. The bus had turned off suddenly and he was actually being taken away from Chalk Farm Station. As soon as the conductor told him what was happening he did one of his flying get‐offs and started to walk back. And it was a long way. Chalk Farm itself was far enough, but the Adelaide Road only started there. There was miles of it. And it wasn’t quite so good‐class as he’d expected. O.K., but not Ritzy.
And the flat itself wasn’t in the least what he’d imagined it. Even after he’d reached the house, he couldn’t be sure. Twice he got to the bottom of the flight of iron stairs and each time he went back round to the front to see if it really was the right address. Then on the third attempt he plucked up his courage and began to mount in the direction of the little sign that said ‘studio.’ His heart was hammering again by now.
Because they weren’t expecting him he had to ring twice before anyone answered. Then the light came on and the door was opened to him. It was full in his face, the light, and for a moment he couldn’t be sure who was standing there. Then he saw it was Doreen.
‘Hallo,’ he said awkwardly.
Doreen stared.
‘Who is it?’ she asked.
‘Don’ ’spect you remember me,’ he explained. ‘Met you over at my place when you came to see Doris.’
‘Oh, it’s Doris you want, is it?’ Doreen asked.
Very cool. No invitation in her voice.
‘Thasright,’ Percy told her, smiling politely.
It wasn’t easy. He was having to be pleasant for both of them.
‘As a matter of fact, you’re unlucky,’ Doreen said, still in the same off‐hand manner. ‘She’s out.’
Percy paused. He hadn’t allowed for this one. For the moment Doreen had floored him.
But only for the moment.
‘ ’Specting her back – soon?’ he asked.
‘Y‐e‐s,’ Doreen answered, doubtfully. ‘She shouldn’t be long. Would you… would you like to come in and wait?’
‘Thanks,’ said Percy. ‘Don’ min’ if I do.’
As he said it, he was aware that she was pouting at him. She was cross about something. But she couldn’t go back on her word. She’d invited him, hadn’t she?
And then as soon as he got inside he understood everything. She’d got a man there. Percy saw his hat and gloves – canary yellow ones – on the table by the door. He’d broken in on something. And as soon as he saw the way the cushions were on the couch, he knew what.
The man was Mr Perkiss. He rose as soon as Percy entered and stood there waiting to be introduced. He was a pale, rather seedy looking little man with thin silver grey hair very neatly brushed and a thin summer suit, also very neatly brushed, of the same colour as his hair.
‘Oh Monty,’ Doreen said. ‘This is Mr… What is your other name?’
‘Boon.’
‘Mr Boon. He’s a friend of Doris’.’
‘Any friend of Doris’ is a friend of…’ Mr Perkiss began. But he was interrupted.
‘Hot en it?’ Percy remarked, fumbling with his cigarette case.
‘It’s June, you know,’ Mr Perkiss told him. ‘Flaming June, remember.’
‘Smoke?’
He had offered Doreen a cigarette before he noticed that she was already smoking. She’d got that holder of hers. He turned to Mr Perkiss.
‘No, no,’ Mr Perkiss told him hurriedly. ‘You’re our visitor. Have one of these. They’re Turkish.’
Percy took one and then wished he hadn’t. It would have looked more independent, more man of the world, to have had one of his own. Or would that have been bad manners? He didn’t know.
‘Nice little place you got here,’ Percy observed.
‘Delightful! Delightful,’ Mr Perkiss answered. ‘Such character.’
That was where Percy stopped. He didn’t know what Mr Perkiss was talking about. There was a long difficult pause. It was Doreen who broke it.
‘You’re something to do with cars, aren’t you?’ she asked, when the silence couldn’t go on any longer. She felt like screaming already.
‘Thasright,’ Percy replied again.
‘Not… not a racing motorist?’ Mr Perkiss enquired. ‘I have always had such an admiration…’ But again he was interrupted.
‘I’m in the garage business,’ Percy told him.
‘Garages!’ Mr Perkiss repeated. ‘Then you’re one of those wonderful men who know all about the insides of cars?’
Wonderful men! Was he getting at him? Percy wondered. Or was that the way he always talked. He couldn’t make it out.
‘I know a bit,’ he answered.
There was another silence. Percy couldn’t think of anything to say. The silence seemed as though it would go on for ever.
‘I had my car stolen once,’ Mr Perkiss said at last.
Percy whistled.
‘Lot of it about,’ he remarked. ‘What was it?’
‘A Hillman Minx,’ Mr Perkiss told him. ‘A blue one.’
Percy nodded his head knowingly.
‘They’re easy,’ he said.
As soon as he had said it, he wished he hadn’t. He’d be giving himself away if he wasn’t careful. And the worst happened. Mr Perkiss became very interested at once. Then Doreen sat up and opened her eyes.
‘Do you know about stolen cars?’ Mr Perkiss asked. ‘How exciting! I’ve always wondered how they manage about the number plates. I find criminology so fascinating.’
‘I don’t know anything. Not personally,’ Percy answered.
There was silence again. And to his irritation, he realised that he was blushing.
It was during the silence that Doris came in, with Bill’s arm round her shoulders.
It was after eleven when he got back to Dulcimer Street. He hadn’t wasted any more of his time up at that flat. As soon as he saw how things were he had walked out on them.
‘Second time I’ve been made a sucker of because of Doris,’ he told himself ruefully. ‘So that’s why she wanted to leave home, was it? Second time I’ve been made a sucker of.’
As he turned in at the gate he met the Jossers’ lodger coming down the front steps. They hadn’t met face to face before. As things were, with Percy out at the garage all day and the lodger on the night‐shift at the power station, it was pure accident that they should have met now.
‘’Evening,’ said the lodger.
‘’Evening,’ Percy answered.
And then as he went on up the steps it suddenly occurred to him that he had seen the lodger before somewhere. He turned and looked over his shoulder.
What he saw was a plump heavily built young man wearing a sports jacket and a pair of flannels.