“She’s in ’er bawth,” the greengrocer said after a wait of nearly a quarter of an hour, and he hung up before George could leave a message.
There were three people waiting outside the telephone box by now. They were all glaring at George, and when he came out one of the women muttered, “And about time, too. Some people think public telephones are private property!”
George didn’t care what they said or thought. He walked over to the King’s Arins, had a pint, avoided conversation with Gladys— by this time he was almost hysterical with frustrated temper—and returned to the telephone box half an hour later.
Again he had to wait while a man finished his conversation. Watching him through the glass, George guessed he was talking to his girl. There was a fatuous, smug expression on his face, and he talked for a good ten minutes.
When George finally got through to the greengrocer’s again, the rough voice nearly snapped his head off.
“Look ’ere,” he said violently. “I got better things to do than answer bloomin’ telephones like this. I’ll ’ave to complain if this goes on much more. You’ve been ringing up every day this week!”
Complain! That’d mean Sydney would hear about it! He might even guess that it was George making the call. It might give him a clue that it was George who had spent the night with Cora. The memory of the gleaming razor blade became vividly unpleasant.
“But I haven’t even spoken to her,” George protested. “I can’t help it if she’s always out, can I?”
“’Ere, miss, ’ere,” the greengrocer suddenly bawled. “This ’ere bloke’s on the blower again. Every day ’e’s been oil… it’s got to stop.”
“Hullo,” Cora said. “Yes?”