After the minute, Ben tried it again more slow like. It worked better. Now he was sitting up and the objects around him did not start running away. Even the object he was sitting up on stayed where it was, and proved to be a bed.
In a corner of the room he spotted something that spelt salvation. It was a jug in a basin. Keeping his eyes anchored upon it, he imagined a steadying rope joining himself to the jug. With the assistance of this rope he worked his legs over the side of the bed. When they touched the ground, the ground began to roll, but again the rope came to his aid and saved him from disaster. He waited for a few moments till the floor grew calmer, and then, glueing his eyes on the water jug, he made a sudden dive towards it. To his surprise, it was a bull’s-eye, and the cool handle of the jug felt good in his hot hand.
‘Nah fer a shower barth!’ he thought. ‘That’ll do the trick!’
He raised the jug and inverted it over his head. He was rather surprised at the ease of the operation. He must be growing stronger! But the inverted jug produced no comfort. It was empty.
‘There’s a dirty trick!’ muttered Ben.
He wanted to cry. He couldn’t stand many more disappointments. But all at once he spotted a small water bottle on the wash-stand. It was full of water—probably last month’s, but that didn’t matter. Nor did it matter that the bottle had received its last rub before the war. He seized it avidly, and cascaded the contents all over him from his hair downwards. The chilly moisture made life worth living again, and battles worth fighting. Should we ever despair, when heaven itself may be contained in a filthy carafe?
As the water trickled down him and around him his blood responded immediately and began to flow freely again. His mind worked, his scant store of courage returned. And he needed all his courage for what was before him. Turning, he eyed the door. ‘Aha!’ he cried. It was the bark of the dog that has just emerged from the sea, though not, at this moment, a good-natured dog. Its desire was to bite as well as to bark. The person to be bitten was somewhere on the other side of the door.
Ben crossed to it. Yes, he found he could do so. A bit groggy still, of course, but he no longer needed an imaginary rope. ‘Hi!’ he shouted. ‘Lemme out!’ As he shouted, he kicked the door with his boot—his present from the dust-bin.
No one came. He went on shouting and kicking. The door held firm.
‘Wotcher think yer doin’ of?’ roared Ben. ‘’Oojer think yer are? Lemme out, d’yer ’ear? Lemme out! If yer don’t, by Gawd, I’ll ’ave yer ’ouse dahn!’ Hefty kick. ‘D’yer ’ear?’ Another hefty kick. ‘Yer think I don’t mean it?’ Another hefty kick. ‘Orl right, yer bit o’ ’uman pulp with a bird’s nest on yer lip, I’ll show yer!’
Now he heard a tread upon the stairs.
‘Yer better be quick,’ bawled Ben, ‘or the door’ll come dahn on yer.’
It was a terrific kick this time. The door shook, and showed a little split.
‘Now, then—stop that!’ ordered a voice from outside.
‘Yus, likely, ain’t it?’ retorted Ben, and went on kicking.
‘Stop it. D’you ’ear?’
‘Corse I don’t ’ear? ’Ow can I? I’m lyin’ on yer blinkin’ bed drugged, ain’t I?’
‘You’ll lie there again in a minute, if you’re not careful!’ threatened the voice. ‘You’d better do as I tell you!’
‘Yus, why shouldn’t I do wot you tells me? Yer bin so nice ter me, ain’t yer? Taken me fer a nice ride and ain’t charged me nothin’. Why, I’m so fond o’ yer I’ll black yer boots fer yer—and then yer two eyes arterwards!’
It wasn’t polished repartee, but it assisted the kicking, and evidently it worried the person outside. Someone joined him, and there was whispering.
‘Yus, and ’ere’s somethin’ ter whisper abart!’ bellowed Ben suddenly. ‘Good-bye to yer ’appy ’ome!’
He staggered back to the water jug, seized it, and hurled it to the ground. It splintered with a crash. Then he seized the water bottle. There was another crash.
‘Tinkle-tinkle!’ cried Ben deliriously. There is a special form of delirium that accompanies the act of breaking things. ‘Didyer ’ear it? Now listen agin! This is goin’ ter be the soap dish. It’s ’ole.’ Smash! ‘Now it ain’t.’
Agitation grew in the passage. A chair followed the soap dish. ‘Yer’ll ’ave some nice firewood in the mornin’,’ cackled Ben; ‘but I’m afraid yer’ll ’ave ter buy a noo dressin’-table.’
The dressing table crashed over on its side. A leg splintered with a tearing sound. Ben seized another chair, and began to hammer the remains of the dressing table with it. Then he swung round …
The door was open. The taximan had entered, in a towering rage. Behind him, providing the light for his ferocious silhouette, stood a woman with a candle. Evidently Mrs Taximan.
Not another word was spoken. Deeds became the important matters, and the first deed came from Ben, with the raised chair. He hurled it across at the oncoming taximan.
It struck his adversary, but it did not stop him. He still came on. ‘That’s a pity,’ thought Ben, and lunged. There was a long clinch. Its length might have rendered Albert Hall indignant, but in a little room you cannot be really sporting. ‘Well, if ’e’s ’urtin’ me I’m ’urtin’ ’im,’ thought Ben. They swayed and pummelled and jabbed. Then they rolled over, and the woman joined in.
That wasn’t fair! Even for a little room! She had put down the candle near the door, and was kicking Ben. It is possible that she was doing so to preserve her husband’s life, for Ben was conscious that the man he was wound round was writhing desperately. Still, two against one wasn’t cricket, however you looked at it.
Something sharp touched Ben’s hand. It gave him a nasty shock, for he thought at first a knife was being used on him. Then he realised that the cause was two half-rows of teeth. The woman was biting him.
He saw red. Not for the first time that day, or the last. He heaved himself up superhumanly, and shoved the woman away from him. It was odd, but even after she had bitten him he couldn’t strike her. One day, the Noah-like old man with wings will have to remember that. He just shoved her, with the force of an enraged elephant, and she fell on to the broken dressing table. The next instant, Ben found himself erect, by the candle.
He blew it out. He staggered into the passage and slammed the door. He turned the key that had been turned on him. And, choking and gasping, he tottered down the stairs.
His one object was to gain the street before a little goblin with seventeen hundred and sixty bright eyes got hold of him, and swallowed him …
FOR a brief moment we will leave Ben and take a peep into another world. The world of a good-looking young man and a more than good-looking young girl, who sat on a bottom stair and talked.
It was not the bottom stair to which the reader has already been introduced. It was so different, in fact, that it really ought to be designated by some other name. Perhaps one day in years to come, when the surrounding walls had fallen into decay and the wallpaper was peeling and the balustrade was rocky, this stair would creak its swan song and be as dismal and as neglected as the stairs of No. 29 Jowle Street. Houses, like humans, return to dust through processes not kind or gracious.