Читать книгу The Itinerant Lodger - David Nobbs - Страница 4

A FEELING OF NERVOUS EXCITEMENT CREPT SHYLY over Wilson, and he rubbed his hands together. Here he was, at this very moment in time and space, old Wilson himself, standing in a bus queue in this exciting great city, waiting to be swept off to his new destination—38, Trebisall Avenue. Here he was, at last, after all these wasted years. It seemed too good to be true, and he took the letter from his pocket and read it for the third time, to make sure.

“Dear Mr Box 221/F2” it ran. “Having regard to your advertisement of third inst. late night final, I am pleased to be able to inform you that I am in possession of accommodation just such as you require. It is a nice, spacious bed-sitting room, affording a pleasant vista over my cosy little garden, with use of same. Heating is by gas fire and the furnishings are tasteful. All meals are provided, and I know how to cater for men. You will find no unnecessary restrictions here and will be very happy. If your arrival should be by train, the 91 bus leaves straight opposite (East exit). Ask for Pantons, and I am on left. The charge of four pounds per week is inclusive of meals, laundry and lighting—but not heat—and I hope to hear that this is to your satisfaction. I remain Mrs Pollard, etc.”

Yes, it was to his satisfaction all right, he thought, putting the letter back in his pocket. There would be peace and quiet here. Here he would be able to work, overlooking the garden. Already he felt certain that this city would provide the inspiration that had been lacking. Here at last was the land of opportunity, the new land in which it would be possible for him to discover the universal panacea for all mankind.

He had come far that day, over the hills. Already it was late afternoon, and there still remained the bus ride. Dusk would be falling—dusk, that exciting, nerve-racking season of the day—as he was shown into that vacant room where his life’s work was to begin. He picked up his suitcase impatiently, hoping to encourage the bus company by his example. It was all he had brought, that suitcase, and it contained everything that was his in the world. It was a case of medium size, with a floral lining. A plastic bag, joined to the inside of the case by buttons, served as a container for his washing things. It was a fine case, and he had packed it with a determined attempt at neatness, although there was nothing neat about the way in which the pyjamas were wrapped round the railway sandwich that he had not eaten, or about the green stains which were smeared over the book that he had not read. His toothpaste had fallen from the plastic bag during the journey, and there were green stains too upon his shirts, his three shirts, and upon the quarto sheets, on which as yet there were no poems.

At last the 91 arrived. He sat in the front seat upstairs, in order not to miss Pantons when it came, and also because he always did sit in the front seat upstairs, if it was empty. If there was so much as one person seated there he gave it a wide berth, but if it was empty he sat there, and it was empty now.

The streets were enclosed in the light from shop fronts and warmed by the bustle of the crowds as the gloom and mist of late afternoon thickened. On the left the land fell away towards the river and the canal, and beyond the river, beside the railway, the slender chimneys of the factories could still be seen against the fading sky. From time to time a molten splash of flame would roar from a chimney and send sparks of drama far over the valley. Wilson liked this, and he liked also the land on the right, where grimy cul-de-sacs lined the steep slopes of the hill, and the snow was edged by globules of soot. Above the streets rose the flinty, messy summit of the hill, scarred by open-cast mining and pocked with sunken air-raid shelters, as though the city had gone bald from shock. Wilson was becoming increasingly nervous, as he had known he would, and although he noted all this precisely it made no conscious impression on him.

Soon the moment of arrival would come. It was useless to tell himself that he was merely arriving at lodgings—and unknown lodgings at that. He was arriving at the beginning of life itself, and the dryness of his throat grew feverishly tight. He wished that the dusk could enfold him and the cheerful crowds could swallow him up.

He sat rigidly in his seat, wanting and ceasing to want, not wanting and ceasing not to want. Pantons was alongside before he noticed it, and by the time he had struggled to the top of the stairs, where the nearest bell was situated, the bus had carried him past Trebisall Avenue, past Ashton Road, and, did he but know it, almost to Tuffley Corner.

It was much colder in these residential streets, but despite the cold Wilson walked slowly through the fading light. Soon, all too soon, he found Trebisall Avenue. Somewhere up there was number 38, and somewhere in number 38 was Mrs Pollard, who had answered his advertisement. She had Italic handwriting.

He paused at the door of number 38, delaying his knock. He was near to panic now. Then, without being aware of it, he had knocked. There was the sound of slow footsteps, and heavy breathing. A face flattened itself against the frosted glass, and the door was slowly opened. Mrs Pollard stood before him.

“You’ll be Mr Barnes,” she said.