'No, I can't,' George said, thoroughly irritated. 'I understood that Miss Brant could use your 'phone. I want to speak to her.'
'Orl right, orl right,' the voice said crossly. 'I'll give 'er a yell. 'Ang on, will yer?'
George waited. It was insufferably hot in the telephone box, and he pushed the door open. He could hear voices faintly over the line. Once he heard the voice that had spoken to him shout, 'Two pounds of greens, six pounds of spuds and a pound of onions . . .' And he swore under his breath. The old devil wasn't getting Cora at all, he thought savagely. He was serving his rotten customers! But there was nothing else to do but wait. Time was going. He really ought to be on the job. Well, he wasn't going to hang up now he'd got so far. He would have to work a hit longer to make up for losing time like this. Oh, come on! Come on! he thought furiously. Why don't you hurry!
He waited nearly five minutes, then he heard the voice bawl, 'Emmie Emmie someone wants that Brant girl on the blower . . .'
'That Brant girl!' How dare a greengrocer talk like that! Well, anyway, it wouldn't he long now. Any second he would be hearing her voice.
'You doing your selling by 'phone?' Sydney asked.
George nearly jumped out of his skin, he whirled round, his face turning crimson, to find Sydney lolling against the telephone booth, watching him with suspicious, calculating eyes.
'I shan't be a minute,' George spluttered, not knowing which way to look. 'I'll be right out,' and he tried to pull the door to, but Sydney had wedged it hack with his foot.
'What's all this telephoning about?' Sydney asked. 'Yesterday and now today. I thought you were a keen salesman.'
'Hello?' Cora said in George's ear.
George looked from Sydney to the telephone mouthpiece. Sweat was running down his face. He didn't know what to do.
'Hello? Who's there?' Cora asked, her voice snappy and impatient.
He daren't speak to her with Sydney listening. Damn the rotted George thought desperately. Why can't he go away!
''Phoning your best girl?' Sydney asked, a sneering grin on his face. 'I wish you could see your mug! You look like a pickpocket caught in the act. Well, I won't embarrass you; only time's getting on, you know.'
'Hello? Hello? Hello?' Cora was saying.
George waved Sydney away: an imploring, frantic gesture. Shrugging, Sydney slouched off, and as the booth door closed, a sharp click sounded in George's ear. Cora had hung up!
Sydney was still hanging about a few yards away, watching George through the glass panels. It was no good! He didn't dare risk dialling the number again. He was sick with disappointment and frustrated rage. Damn Sydney! Damn the greengrocer! Oh, damn everything!
Tuesday and Wednesday were as had. Both times when George rang he was told that Cora was out. In desperation, he risked calling her on Thursday morning before he went to the King's Arms, and after some delay Sydney's voice floated over the line. Hurriedly, as if he had trodden on a snake, George hung up. Five days now and he hadn't spoken to her or seen her. And he had thought he was never going to be lonely again! It was worse now: far worse.
Before, he didn't have this clamouring for the flesh, wasn't tormented by thoughts of loving Cora, holding her in his arms, feeling her smooth cheek against his lips.
He had to do something! This couldn't go on. His work was suffering. He had only earned thirty bob in five days, while Sydney had made himself seven quid. It infuriated George to hear the way Sydney sneered at seven pounds.
'Chick feed,' he said, when George handed him the money order received from Head Office. 'It's almost time I slung this job in. Seven nicker for slogging my guts out every evening. In the old days I'd do a job that'd take me an hour or so, and pick up twenty quid as easy as kiss your hand.'
'What Job?' George asked curiously.
Sydney brooded. 'When things cool off a bit,' he said at last, 'maybe I'll let you in my racket. But right now I've got to keep out of sight,' and then, for no apparent reason, he flew into a vicious rage and went off, looking almost murderous.
The more George saw of Sydney the more uneasy he became. The fellow was unbalanced. Perhaps he really was cracked. These sudden vicious tempers, the vicious, fanatical look in his eyes, the mysterious hinting about 'his racket' worried George. The thought of Sydney's razor worried George even more.
Well, he certainly wasn't going to mix himself up in Sydney's racket. He knew instinctively that it was crooked. Sydney was the kind of fellow who'd land up in jail. Jail bait, that's what he was!
In spite of his instinctive fear of Sydney, George was determined to speak to Cora the next day, Friday. Even if it meant doing no work at all and staying in a telephone box all the evening, he was going to talk to her! He wanted her to spend Saturday evening with him. He planned to take her to a movie and then to dinner somewhere. He had put away the eleven pounds that Sydney had got from Robinson, earmarked for this outing. He was determined to stand treat: he wasn't going to have any nonsense from Cora about paying for herself. And what was more, when they met he would kiss her: he'd show her he was a man of action.
To be certain of speaking to Cora, he decided not to work that evening. He told Sydney he wasn't feeling too well. He said he'd drunk some bad beer: it had upset his stomach.
'I think I'll stay at home,' he said, avoiding Sydney's probing eyes. 'I don't feel like going out on the job tonight.'
'Please yourself,' Sydney said, shrugging; 'it's your loss. You'd better pull up your socks. You've only taken one order this week.'
