‘Well, no,’ Froulish admitted, ‘one can’t have everything, of course. Actually it’s a sort of shed that used to be used as part of a builder’s yard. The bottom part consists of just one big room, without any partitions—that’s where the timber used to be kept. The upper floor—you go up to it by a ladder—was divided into small rooms as offices. Betty’s managed to rent the upper part for us. Look here, if you’ve got any money, why don’t you buy me a drink, you mean bastard?’

Charles crushed out his Woodbine and went over to the bar. This might be what he was looking for; it would be ideal for storing his equipment, and no doubt for cheapness. But there was something else more important: an escape that seemed to be offering itself from the problem of environment, of the clash of outlook and status. He, who had rejected and been rejected by both the class of his origin and the life of the ‘worker’, might find the classless setting of his dreams in sharing a roof with a neurotic sham artist and a trousered tart.

When Froulish had been pacified with a fresh pint and a Woodbine, he leaned forward and continued his confidences.

‘It seems the place hasn’t been used as a builder’s yard for a good many years. The concern moved to a bigger place, but kept this one going to store odds and ends in. Finally the old man who ran it died, and the widow sold the other place, the real head­quarters of the business, but couldn’t sell this. The purchaser wouldn’t look at it because they hadn’t kept it in repair. So she had no way of making anything out of it except letting it for human beings to live in—the old bitch.’

‘Sounds a nice old party. What does she charge you for it?’

Froulish groaned, and a look of intense misery appeared on his face.

‘A guinea a week! I ask you: twenty-one bloody shillings for every seven days in that hell! Of course, it’s about the least you could possibly pay anywhere for a lodging for two people, and the old cow would like to charge more, much more, except that it’s illegal to have anyone living there at all—it has to be strictly on the q.t. or else the sanitary authorities would probably send the lot of us to prison.’

‘What exactly is the sanitary position? Any running water?’

‘No, but there’s a well quite close by, with water that hasn’t been declared unfit to drink, as far as we know. And a kind of rough-and-ready jakes down in the yard, surviving from the days when there were men working there.’