A London Mosaic

by Walter Lionel George

‘Mean by it!’ shouted the little landlord. ‘What do you mean by creating a disturbance on my doorstep? Let rooms to the likes of you! You’re drunk!’

At that moment the fern-seller was breathing on me, and I saw that the landlord’s words were well-founded, though ill-directed. Before I could think of a reply, the little landlord slammed his door so as to make the whole of Portman Street shake. And I remained alone with the fern-seller, who still painstakingly and threateningly attempted to make me buy ferns. He was the sort of man who speaks from under his under lip. I was so ashamed that I did not say one word, but ran. Oh! how good and free Oxford Street felt.

I have not been much annoyed or interested by the more desperate wanderers one comes across. Only once did anything perilous come my way, and that I will call ‘The Row in Homer Row.’ It was many years ago. I had, one evening, made an acquaintanceship with the light fallibility that will, I hope, always characterise youth. It did not at once have results; some other business intervened, but I remember quite well that I returned at nine o’clock to a little block of flats, that were not exactly flats, but superior model dwellings. I remember the hard, stone stairs and the iron banisters, you will soon see why. As I left, later in the evening, I shut the door of the flat behind me, and stood for a second in the entire blackness of the landing. Then I felt a foot against my left ankle, and a hand grip my left arm. It was the darkness saved me, for it is not easy accurately to seize an arm in the dark, and the notorious ‘pull-over’ is not suited for cellar blackness. I remember that I did not think, that I did not have time to be afraid. I remember only the vast unchaining of a self-protective instinct, that swung my right hand across to the left. I swear I did not will it. And I still have unforgettably in my knuckles the sensation of crash and give, in my ears the curious, fat sound, something like ‘kroch,’ that was made by some teeth giving way under the blow. And then there was an immensely long pause, during which I had time to think; it may have lasted a tenth of a second. There was a dull, muffled sound, that of a head striking the iron banisters. That is all, except that I remember the clatter of my feet on the stone stairs.

But to the man who wanders in London streets at night, and I am one of these, stranger things happen. One of those cases was ‘The Poisoned Girl of Grosvenor Square.’ It was about twelve o’clock at night. As I turned out of Brook Street into the Square, I saw on my right two people by the railings of an area. One was a woman dressed in black, kneeling down and holding on to the railings by one hand. The other was a man, who stood a few yards off, with statue-like immobility. I remember thinking: ‘This is awkward. He has been knocking her about, and I suppose I shall have to say something, and if he attacks me in front no doubt she’ll attack me from behind.’ But still, there was nothing to do but to say something. So I went up to them, and suddenly realised that the two people had nothing to do with each other. She was kneeling in that frozen attitude, and he was looking on. The girl was young, very white, with masses of fair hair. She was neatly dressed in black, and looked like a parlourmaid. Her eyes were closed, and she seemed hardly to breathe. Two or three times I asked her what was the matter, but she did not reply. Then only did I look at the man, who was evidently of another class. A rather large, square man, the sort of man whom you know to be bald, though he has his hat on, with a moustache that was too thick, and cheeks that were too healthy, a phlegmatic, staring man.

‘What’s the matter with her?’ I asked.

‘I don’t know,’ said the man.

As it was clear that he was the sort of man who wouldn’t know, I turned to the girl and, taking her by the shoulder, tried to make her stand up. I was surprised to find her limp instead of stiff, and she fell back against my shoulder with a little groan.

‘Let me alone,’ she murmured.

‘What’s the matter?’ I asked again. ‘Are you in any trouble?’

‘Let me alone,’ she said again.