Gerald Kersh - The Best of Gerald Kersh

‘Good-looking?’

‘Good-looking, Mr Jacket? No, no she wasn’t. A … a … charwomanish type, almost. As you might say, she was bedraggled.’

‘As I might say?’

‘Well … without offence, Mr Jacket, you are a writer, aren’t you?’

‘Ah. Ah, yes. Not a handsome woman, eh?’

‘She looked – if you’ll excuse me – as if she …. as if she’d had children, sir. And then she was flurried, and crying. Handsome? No, sir, not handsome.’

‘This Tooth of yours was a bit of a son of a dog, it seems to me. A pig, according to all accounts.’

‘Not a nice man by any means, sir. I was going to give him notice. Not my kind of tenant – not the sort of tenant I like to have in my house, sir.’

‘Irregular hours, I suppose: noisy, eh?’

‘Yes, and he … he drank, too. And worse, sir.’

‘Women?’

Mr Wainewright nodded, embarrassed. ‘Yes. Women all the time.’

‘That calls for a little drink,’ said Jacket.

He brought fresh drinks. ‘Oh no!’ cried Mr Wainewright. ‘Not for me: I couldn’t, thanks all the same.’

‘Drink it up,’ said Jacket, ‘all up, like a good boy.’

The little man raised his glass.

‘Your good health, Mr Jacket. Yes, he was not a nice class of man by any means. All the girls seemed to run after him, though: I never could make out why they did. He was what you might call charming, sir – lively, always joking. But well; he was a man of about my own age – forty-six, at least – and I never could understand what they could see in Tooth.’

He swallowed his whisky like medicine, holding his breath in order not to taste it.

Jacket said: ‘Judging by his photo, I should say he was no oil-painting. A great big slob, I should have said – loud-mouthed, back-slapping, crooked.’

‘He was a big, powerful man, of course,’ said Mr Wainewright.

‘Commercial traveller, I believe?’ said Jacket.

‘Yes, he was on the road, sir.’

‘Make a lot of money?’

‘Never saved a penny, Mr Jacket,’ said Mr Wainewright, in a shocked voice. ‘But he could sell things, sir. He wouldn’t take no for an answer. Throw him out of the door, and back he comes at the window.’

‘That’s the way to please the ladies,’ said Jacket. ‘Appear ruthless; refuse to take no for an answer; make it quite clear that you know what you want and are going to get it. He did all that, eh?’

‘Yes, sir, he did …. Oh, you really shouldn’t’ve done that: I can’t——’

More drinks had been set down.

‘Cheers,’ said Jacket. Wainewright sipped another drink. ‘Are you a married man, Mr Wainewright?’

‘Married? Me? No, not me, Mr Jacket.’

‘Confirmed bachelor, hm?’

Mr Wainewright giggled; the whisky was bringing a pinkness to his cheeks. ‘That’s it, sir.’

‘Like your freedom, eh?’

‘Never given marriage a thought, sir.’

‘I shouldn’t be surprised if you were a bit of a devil on the sly, yourself, Mr Wainewright,’ said Jacket, with a knowing wink.

‘I … I don’t have time to bother with such things.’

‘Your boarding-house keeps you pretty busy.’

‘My apartment house? Yes, it does, off and on.’

‘Been in the business long?’

‘Only about eight months, sir, since my auntie died. She left me the house, you see, and I thought it was about time I had a bit of a change. So I kept it on. I was in gents’ footwear before that, sir, I was with Exton and Co., Limited, for more than twenty years.’

‘Making shoes?’

Mr Wainewright was offended. He said: ‘Pardon me, I was a salesman in one of their biggest branches, sir.’

‘So sorry,’ said Jacket. ‘Did Tooth yell out?’

‘Eh? Pardon? Yell out? N-no, no, I can’t say he did. He coughed, kind of. But he was always coughing, you see. He was a heavy smoker. A cigarette-smoker. It’s a bad habit, cigarettes: he smoked one on the end of another, day and night. Give me a pipe any day, Mr Jacket.’

‘Have a cigar?’

‘Oh … that’s very kind indeed of you I’m sure. I’ll smoke it later on if I may.’

‘By all means, do, Mr Wainewright. Tell me, how d’you find business just now? Slow, I dare say, eh?’

‘Steady, sir, steady. But I’m not altogether dependent on the house. I had some money saved of my own, and my auntie left me a nice lump sum, so …’

‘So you’re your own master. Lucky fellow!’

‘Ah,’ said Wainewright, ‘I’d like a job like yours, Mr Jacket. You must meet so many interesting people.’

‘I’ll show you round a bit, some evening,’ said Jacket.

‘No, really?’

‘Why not?’ Jacket smiled, and patted the little man’s arm. ‘What’s your address?’

‘77, Bishop’s Square, Belgravia.’

‘Pimlico … the taxi-drivers’ nightmare,’ said Jacket. writing it on the back of an old envelope. ‘Good. Well, and tell me – how does it feel to be powerful?’

‘Who, me? I’m not powerful, sir.’

‘Wainewright, you know you are.’

‘Oh, nonsense, Mr Jacket!’

‘Not nonsense. You’re the chief witness; it all depends on you. Don’t you realise that your word may send a woman to the gallows, or to jail? Just your word, your oath! Why, you’ve got the power over life and death. You’re something like a sultan, or a dictator – something like a god, as far as Martha Tooth is concerned. You have terrible power, indeed!’

Mr Wainewright blinked; and then something strange happened. His eyes became bright and he smiled. But he shook his head. ‘No, no,’ he said, with a kind of sickly vivacity. ‘No, you’re joking.’

Jacket, looking at him, said: ‘What an interesting man you are, Wainewright! What a fascinating man you really are!’

‘Ah, you only say that. You’re an author, and you can make ex-extraordinary things out of nothing.’

‘Don’t you believe it, Wainewright. You can’t make anything out of nothing. There’s more in men than meets the eye, though; and you are an extremely remarkable man. Why, I could make fifteen million people sit up and gape at you. What’s your first name?’

‘Eh? Er … George Micah.’

‘I think I’ll call you George. We ought to get together more.’

‘Well, I’m honoured, I’m sure, Mr Jacket.’

‘Call me Jack.’

‘Oh … it’s friendly of you, but I shouldn’t dare to presume. But, Mr Jacket, you must let me offer you a little something.’ Wainewright was leaning toward him, eagerly blinking. ‘I should be offended…. Whisky?’

‘Thanks,’ said Jacket.

The little man reached the bar. It was his destiny to wait unattended; to be elbowed aside by newcomers; to cough politely at counters.

At last he came back with two glasses of whisky. As soon as he was seated again he said:

‘Mr Jacket … you were joking about … You weren’t serious about making fifteen million people …’

‘Sit up and gape at you? Yes I was, George.’

‘But Mr Jacket, I … I’m nobody of interest; nobody.’

‘You are a man of destiny,’ said Jacket. ‘In the first place – not taking anything else into account – you are an Ordinary Man. What does that mean? All the genius of the world is hired to please you, and all the power of industry is harnessed in your service. Trains run to meet you; Cabinet Ministers crawl on their bellies to you; press barons woo you, George; archbishops go out of their way to make heaven and hell fit your waistcoat. Your word is Law. The King himself has got to be nice to you. Get it? You are the boss around here. All the prettiest women on earth have only one ambition, George Wainewright – to attract and amuse you, tickle you, excite you, in general take your mind off the harsh business of ruling the world. George, you don’t beg; you demand. You are the Public. Let anybody dare lift a finger without keeping an eye on your likes and dislikes: you’ll smash him, George! Rockefeller and Woolworth beg and pray you to give them your pennies. And so what do you mean by saying you’re nobody? Where do you get that kind of stuff, George? Nobody? You’re everybody !’