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Thank God it would all be over tomorrow. And Boxing Day wasn’t quite as ghastly and Sundayish as Christmas Day. The pubs were open normally – none of that awful seven to ten business. In fact the pubs were open already. That was a good thought. As soon as he got inside a pub tonight, it would be all right. After that he had only to get home and to bed, and then wake up to a normal world again tomorrow.
    The fare came to six shillings and sixpence, and he gave a shilling to the man, who seemed to like it all right: he was obviously a cheerful man by nature. He went up the steps, and into the Fauconberg. He had to pass through the lounge on his way upstairs. It was all decorated for Christmas (he had forgotten that, although he had seen it decorated before he went away), and the only people about were some children who were trying to play blow-football (evidently a Christmas present) on one of the green baize tables normally used for bridge. He knew nobody in the little hotel – the large glorified boarding-house – and he did not mean to. He just slept in a small room at the top, and came down to breakfast when everyone else had gone. For the rest he slunk in and out,only exchanging the time of day with the gloomy porter.
    He did a bit of unpacking, and washed in the bathroom along the passage – there was only a jug and basin in his room. He came back and brushed his hair, peering into the wardrobe mirror in the pink light of the fly-blown bulb. He had some gin left in a quarter bottle, and poured a double into his tooth glass, adding water from the glass bottle. He polished his shoes with a light-brown, polish-smeared pad he had got from Woolworth’s.
    Then he put on his tweed overcoat, put up its collar, looked in the mirror again, and decided not to wear a hat. He went downstairs, through the lounge again, and out into the street.
    He turned into Earl’s Court Road, and walked down towards the station. He passed the station and contemplated having a drink at one of the pubs on the right. No – he might miss her. It was a quarter past seven – she didn’t usually go out till about half past. He crossed over Cromwell Road, and looked up to see if there was a light in her flat. He couldn’t see one – but you often couldn’t if the curtains were properly drawn.
    He hoped to God the front door wouldn’t be locked, as then he would have to ring, and be let in by that beastly woman. He felt curiously numb. He often did feel numb like this, just before meeting her.
    No, the door was not locked. The passage was in darkness, but there was enough light on the first floor landing to enable him to see his way. Her flat was on the top floor. As he climbed up he saw there was a light on her landing. Then, as he climbed the last stairs, he saw that her front door was ajar, and, looking through, he saw the sitting-room door was also ajar, and he caught a glimpse of Peter, talking at the mantelpiece with a glass of beer in his hand.
    He knocked with the brass knocker. ‘Bang-tiddy-bang-bang – bang, bang.’ He saw Peter look in his direction, and he walked in.

Chapter Six
    ‘Good evening, Chum,’ said Peter, who had been doing this Syd Walker stuff for a week or so now. ‘Here’s our old Pal, George Harvey Bone… Lumme – he don’t half get into some funny how-d’ ye-do’s – don’t ’e? ’
    Though this was said in a superficially friendly and rallying way, he noticed that Peter betrayed, in his look, his dislike and scorn of him. He always gave him this look when he hadn’t seen him for a few days. It was a bullying, appraising, rememberinglook. He nearly always called him George Harvey Bone, too – and the tone in which he said this was appraising, remembering, bullying.
    ‘Hullo,’ he said, smiling and feigning heartiness. ‘How are we?… Hullo, Netta.’
    He dropped his voice as he greeted Netta, and caught her eye shyly, and looked away again. When meeting her after a parting of any length he