More Deadly Than The Male

He had put the old newspapers and empty beer bottles in one corner. He had wiped off all the sticky circles on the furniture and cleared up the mess in the fireplace. The dirty dishes he had taken into the kitchen. Already the room looked cleaner and brighter.

George grinned sheepishly. "I like doing this," he said. "I'd like a place of my own."

She sat in the armchair, lowering herself cautiously and with a little grimace. She lit a cigarette. "You're a hit of a dope, aren't you?" There was an unexpected note of kindness in her voice that George hadn't heard before. He looked at her quickly, but she was regarding him with far-away, pored eyes, as if she were only half aware of his presence.

"I say, Cora . . ." he began, and then hesitated.

She glanced up sharply. "If you're going to talk about last night, you'd better skip it. I'm in no mood to go over that business now."

George scratched his head, embarrassed. "Well, all right," he said; "but hang it all, Cora, I think you ought to explain. I mean I— well, look at me. And then, you've been hurt too. I think I ought to be told. What I mean to say is—"

"Oh, shut up!" Cora said, shifting her body in the chair "We'll talk about that later. Suppose I was tight? No one's going to leer at me all the evening without a come-back. And no one's getting tough with me without damn well paying for it! Now, shut up, George!"

Baffled, George's gaze wandered round the room. Then he had an idea. "Where are your clothes, Cora?"

"In the bedroom. Why?"

"I'll wash them for you. They'd look quite smart. I'm a hit of a dab at that kind of thing."

She lifted her shoulders helplessly, closed her eyes and didn't say anything.

He went into the bedroom and collected the sweater and slacks. He found an unopened packet of Lux in the kitchen and he shut himself in the bathroom.

When he had hung the garments out of the back window to dry in the sun, he returned to the sitting-room. She was still there, a cigarette dangling from her lips, her eyes brooding.

"I've got some hot water ready," he said. "I'd like to wash your hair."

She giggled suddenly, explosively. "You're crazy," she said.

George shook his head. "No, I'm not," he said stubbornly. "I want you to look nice."

She studied him for a long moment. "You really are in love with me, aren't you, George?"

"Of course. You didn't doubt that, did you?"

She got to her feet and crossed over to him.

"All right: wash my hair if you want to."

They went into the tiny bathroom together, and Cora sat on a stool before the wash-basin.

"Have you ever washed any other girl's head?" she asked, watching George with a thoughtful expression in her eyes.

George wrapped a bath towel round her shoulders. "No," he said. "I've never wanted to before."

"So there were other girls?"

He hesitated. "Well, no, there were no other girls," he said. "You see, until you came along . . ."

"I think you're a hit potty," she said, holding her head down. "Aren't you, George? Just a little potty?"

He poured water over her hair, then the shampoo. His hands felt her hard little skull. The water turned a muddy brown.

"Dirty slut, aren't I?" Corn said, with a sudden embarrassed laugh. "Does it put you off?"

"Keep still," George said. "I've nearly finished." He experienced an overwhelming feeling of love and pity for her: a feeling that he imagined a mother must have for her child. "There. Now you can sit up. Come into the other room and sit in the sun. It'll dry quickly in the sun."

When Cora was sitting by the window, George turned his attention to the room.

"Maybe I could sell these newspapers for you," he said.

"You're the giddy limit," Cora returned, laughing. "Try if you want to. I've been too lazy to bother with them. There's a sheeney across the way who buys junk. He keeps open on Sundays."

George nodded. "I'll try him. There's such a lot of rubbish here. You can hardly move for falling over it. And the bottles, too. Can I clear them all out?"

"Go ahead, if it amuses you," she said, regarding him with a puzzled expression in her eyes.

It took George a long time to shift the rubbish, but it pleased him to do so. He made four journeys to the junk shop, and finally, hot and a little exhausted, he presented her with five shillings.

"There!" he said. "A clear flat and five bob. It's funny, isn't it, that even rubbish is worth money?"

She nodded. "You're an awful dope, George," she said. "Why don't you think big? Look at the effort you've just made to get five bob. With that effort you could have made five pounds."

He thought about this seriously. "I don't think so," he said at last. "You see, no one can make five pounds quickly unless he has specialized knowledge. Even if it's only backing a horse, you have to know the right horse to hack. You can't make money unless you've been properly trained." He shrugged uneasily. "Perhaps that's why I've never had any real money."