Vol. VI No. 1 - Modernist Magazines Project

THE BERMONDSEY BOOK
could think of nothing. The future was blank, empty beyond thought;
Brenda and the past were incredibly remote. He wanted companionship,
he thought; he dared not be alone any longer. Yet he must be alone for
the rest of his life. But there were friends . . . friends? Bill was
busy that evening; Dinah, Justin, Fay ... no, they were party
friends, they could not help him now.
He turned, walking back towards the West End. He was hungry
and, passing a little restaurant, went in and ordered some food. It was
empty save for two couples, intimate and absorbed. He sat waiting for
his meal, staring at the grey table-cloth, fingering the menu, tearing
little bits off the corner. The waiter brought the soup, but it was hot,
too hot to drink, burning his mouth. He pushed it from him, spilling
it, losing his temper, swearing suddenly. He got up quickly, left a tenshilling
note on the table, and went out into the street again.
It was dark now; there were loafers idling and restless, hungrylooking
crowds in the streets. He jostled against them angrily, turned
off again into the quiet of Soho, dark, lonely, sinister, with loiterers in
doorways. He wanted now to weep, but not alone, to weep in someone's
arms, to yield up all his strength, to find some human comfort somewhere,
someone to hold him, stroke his hair.
He walked on, tired to exhaustion, his lips twitching. He wondered
vaguely if he were going to faint and who would find him. A woman
was standing before the window of a shop, lighted and displaying cheap
and tawdry evening dresses. She fell into step with him.
"Hullo, boy," she said, "You're looking lonely."
He stopped and stared at her for a moment. She was young and
rather pretty.
"Why not come along with me?" she asked.
He continued to stare at her, though without seeing her. A wave
of cheap perfume swept over him, drowning him in a sense of intimacy.
He put his hand to his throat and nodded.
"Yes," he said, "let's get a taxi. I'm tired."