Book
II
I
In Which They All Become “Good Companions”
I
‚ÄúShame isn‚Äôt the word for it, it isn‚Äôt really, Miss Trant,‚Äù cried Miss Elsie Longstaff indignantly. ‚ÄúI‚Äôve been in work now since last April, five months and more, consecutive, and look at the position I‚Äôm in now‚ÅÝ‚Äîhaving to get a sub from home! In work since last April, Miss Trant, and haven‚Äôt been able to have my hair waved for three weeks! And this last week, my dear! The suspicion, the looks, the tone of voice, the things we‚Äôve had to put up with all through that dirty rotter! It‚Äôs wicked.‚Äù
“It’s the wickedest thing I ever heard of,” replied Miss Trant warmly. She really had begun to feel angry with this defaulting manager. “Have another cup of tea?”
‚ÄúYes, thanks, I will.‚Äù Then, with a dramatic change of tone, Miss Longstaff went on: ‚ÄúHe got us to sign on right through till next summer. It looked a good contract. What was the result? I‚Äôd a nice pantomime offer, came in early‚ÅÝ‚ÄîDandini for seven weeks, opening at Middlesbrough‚ÅÝ‚Äîand of course I went and turned it down‚ÅÝ‚Äîflat. And now look at me!‚Äù
Miss Trant did, very sympathetically. Elsie was younger and prettier than her sister Effie, though neither so young nor so pretty as she appeared to be at a first glance. She was probably about thirty, a too determinedly golden blonde, with large blue eyes set wide apart, a face that narrowed sharply to a small pointed chin, and a discontented mouth. She looked like a knowing and slightly dishevelled doll.
“And apart from that,” Miss Longstaff added, rather tearfully, “he’s gone and broken up one of the best little shows on the road.”
“It really was a good pierrot troupe, was it?”
“Please don’t say ‘pierrot troupe,’ Miss Trant. It makes me think of being on the sands and rattling a box round the crowd. Call it a ‘concert party.’ ”
“I’m sorry. Concert party, then.”
“Well, honestly, Miss Trant, it was a good show. Don’t go and think I say that because I was in it. That’s nothing. I’ve been in shows, my dear, that I’d tell you frankly were dead rotten. I wouldn’t want anybody who knew me, or anybody who appreciated my work, to see some of the shows I’ve been in. But this was good. With any luck, we could have coined money with it.”
“What a shame!” cried Miss Trant, and then looked thoughtful. Perhaps it was at this moment that a certain crazy notion began bobbing in and out of her head.
“Yes, but what’s so aggravating, so fearfully maddening, my dear,” cried Miss Longstaff excitedly, “is that it’s a better show still, now those two are out of it, or anyhow it’s got the makings of a better show.”
“Weren’t they good?”
‚ÄúDuds, complete and unutterable duds. He did monologues and child impersonations. You never heard anything like it. He never got a hand. Mr.¬ÝCharles Mildenhall in his celebrated monologues and child impersonations! My dear, it was a scream. They used to think it was a skit, until he went on and on. As for that precious pianist he took away with him‚ÅÝ‚ÄîMarjorie Maidstone, she called herself, after the jail, I suppose‚ÅÝ‚Äîshe was easily the world‚Äôs worst as a pianist. She daren‚Äôt have looked Little Nelly‚Äôs Instruction Book in the face. Thumping away with those big fat fingers of hers, playing slow when you wanted it fast, and fast when you wanted it slow, missing the repeats‚ÅÝ‚Äîoh, ghastly! If she ruined my act once, she ruined it fifty times. With a decent pianist, we shouldn‚Äôt know ourselves. And now, because they‚Äôve gone and done the dirty on us, the show‚Äôs finished. Isn‚Äôt it sickening. It makes you lose heart.‚Äù
“But can’t you run it yourselves?” asked Miss Trant, who, in this new mood of hers, was dying to see somebody run something.
‚ÄúOh, we‚Äôve talked and talked and talked, but it‚Äôs no good. We‚Äôve no money not a bean. We‚Äôre four weeks owing as it is, and can‚Äôt settle for our digs here, most of us, let alone pay off for the show. They‚Äôve taken all our props at the hall here, to pay the rent. It‚Äôs wicked. Just let me see Mr.¬ÝDirty Charles Mildenhall. Just let me set eyes on him again, and will there be trouble? Oh won‚Äôt there just! Child Impersonator! Can you beat it!‚Äù And Miss Longstaff gave three dabs at her right eye before drinking her tea.
Miss Trant, after glancing round the curious assembled company, began to question her companion about these debts, and Miss Longstaff replied languidly and with a despairing sniff. Oh yes, if all that was paid off and there was some money left to pay immediate expenses, the show could go on. And if there was enough money behind to rent His Majesty’s Theatre, it could go on better still. It amounted to that. “What a hope!” she concluded bitterly, and evidently felt that all this talk was merely turning a knife in the wound.
‚ÄúWell, I don‚Äôt know‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù Miss Trant hesitated. That crazy little notion was bobbing furiously now. She made an effort to pretend it was not there.
Miss Longstaff stared at her with widening eyes. Then she leaned forward, all eagerness now. “Look here, Miss Trant, you don’t happen to know anybody who could put the money up, do you? I can tell you this, honestly, there isn’t a more promising little show anywhere. With any luck at all, it could have been an absolute riot. I’m sure you do know of somebody, don’t you?”
Instead of making a direct reply to this, Miss Trant hesitated again, then finally murmured: ‚ÄúI wonder how much money it would take‚ÅÝ‚ÄîI mean paying all there is to pay already, and then carrying on.‚Äù Her voice trailed away into a speculative silence, broken at last by the voice of common sense, pointing out that she was a fool. But then, wasn‚Äôt it high time she was a fool? You can‚Äôt go on being cool and sensible all the time, forever.
Miss Longstaff leaned forward again and whispered: ‚ÄúJimmy Nunn could tell you‚ÅÝ‚Äîhe‚Äôs been working it out, I know, because he‚Äôs tried hard to get somebody to back us. He‚Äôs our comedian‚ÅÝ‚Äîthat‚Äôs him, over there‚ÅÝ‚Äîand he‚Äôs one of the best comedians going in Concert Party work‚ÅÝ‚Äîclever, and keeps it clean‚ÅÝ‚Äîand he‚Äôs stiff with experience, knows it all from A to Z. You have a talk to Jimmy about it, Miss Trant. I‚Äôll bring him over.‚Äù And she slipped away to whisper to a queer-looking man in a brown tweed suit.
Miss Trant had never met a comedian before, and it seemed incredible that she should be meeting one now. If Mr.¬ÝJimmy Nunn had walked across to sing a song or crack a joke or two to her, she would not have been surprised; but that Mr.¬ÝJimmy Nunn should merely announce, in a rather husky voice, that he was very pleased to meet her and then quietly sit down, was astonishing. Nevertheless, there was something distinctly droll about Mr.¬ÝNunn. His manner was grave and dignified, almost pompous, but he had obviously spent so much of his time being a funny man that this other manner sat uneasily upon him, so that by merely refraining from singing songs and cracking jokes, by talking quite seriously, he seemed to be playing a part, thus remaining a droll fellow in spite of himself. Miss Trant found his appearance quite fascinating. He was really of medium height but had the body of a large stout man and the legs of a short man; he had a bald patch in front and grey stubble of hair surrounding it, little eyes set too close together, a shining bulbous nose, and an extraordinary expanse of upper lip enclosed between two deep wrinkles; and his whole face had a curious air of being a mask that had been painted and rubbed and painted again times without number.
‚ÄúNot in the profession yourself, Miss Trant?‚Äù he inquired, closing one eye and staring hard with the other. ‚ÄúNo? I thought not, though I used to know a Mrs.¬ÝTrant on the Macnaghten Circuit. No, I‚Äôm wrong; I‚Äôm lying. It was Brant. Brant‚Äôs Merry Chicks‚ÅÝ‚Äîjuveniles, you know‚ÅÝ‚Äînone of ‚Äôem over thirty. You‚Äôre not in management by any chance?‚Äù
“I’ve never managed anything except a house,” said Miss Trant.
‚ÄúIf you can do that as it ought to be done,‚Äù Mr.¬ÝNunn observed, with some solemnity, ‚Äúand take it easy, keep smilin‚Äô, have a good word for one and all, then‚ÅÝ‚ÄîI say‚ÅÝ‚Äîyou couldn‚Äôt do better. Isn‚Äôt that so? Right.‚Äù He waved the whole matter aside. Then, lowering his voice a little, he went on: ‚ÄúYou were asking something about the show, what we‚Äôre down the river for, what it would take to run it. Am I right?‚Äù
Miss Trant wanted to laugh, for though Mr.¬ÝNunn‚Äôs manner was quite pompous, it kept breaking down, and all the time he gave her the drollest looks out of the particular eye that happened to be open. ‚ÄúWell,‚Äù she faltered, ‚ÄúI was just‚ÅÝ‚Äîwondering‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù
‚ÄúQuite right!‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝNunn, and produced from his inside pocket a cheap and very soiled notebook. ‚ÄúI‚Äôve got figures in this,‚Äù he announced proudly. ‚ÄúIt‚Äôs here‚ÅÝ‚Äîmost of it anyhow‚ÅÝ‚Äîin black-and-white.‚Äù
“That’s the stuff, Jimmy,” said Miss Longstaff brightly.
‚ÄúJust you run away and play, Elsie,‚Äù Mr.¬ÝNunn commanded; and after making a little face at him and flashing a professional smile at Miss Trant, Elsie did go, joining the others, who had now formed one group at a neighbouring table.
‚ÄúA good girl,‚Äù remarked Mr.¬ÝNunn; ‚Äúlooks well and not as afraid of work as some of ‚Äôem; but‚Äù‚ÅÝ‚Äîand here he lowered his voice and leaned forward‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äúcan‚Äôt quite put it all over yet, hasn‚Äôt just got‚ÅÝ‚Äîy‚Äôknow‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù
Miss Trant nodded and really felt she did know. ‚ÄúI wish,‚Äù she said softly, ‚Äúyou would tell me about the people in this trou‚ÅÝ‚Äîparty‚ÅÝ‚Äîshow.‚Äù She almost felt herself blushing as she brought out this last word. It sounded so knowing and professional. ‚ÄúYou‚Äôve had a lot of experience, haven‚Äôt you, Mr.¬ÝNunn?‚Äù
‚ÄúThat‚Äôs right. A lot of experience. C.P. work, halls, panto, low comedy in legit., know it all. And, mind you, whatever I may say about these boys and girls, I‚Äôll say this, as a show‚ÅÝ‚Äîor what might be a show if it was pulled together now‚ÅÝ‚Äîit‚Äôs good.‚Äù He found a cutting in the notebook and handed it over. ‚ÄúHere‚Äôs one of our adverts. They‚Äôre usually all lies, but this one‚Äôs the solid truth.‚Äù
The advertisement, which was from The Stage, ran as follows:
In a Nonstop Programme of Clever Comedy and Exquisite Vocalism. Played to enormous business at Little Sandmouth, last. Many thanks T. Browning, Esq., for hearty welcome, and Mrs.¬ÝJames, G. Hudson, Esq., and R. A. Mercer, Esq., for inquiries. Refer. Refer. Refer. Next, Pav. Shingleton.
Miss Trant read it through once, wrinkled her forehead, then read it again.
‚ÄúWrote that myself,‚Äù Mr.¬ÝNunn remarked, not without pride. ‚ÄúAlways wrote the adverts for Mildenhall. Neat and effective, don‚Äôt you think?‚Äù
“Yes, I should think so. But tell me, what does ‘Wanted Known’ mean?” she inquired. “Why ‘Known’?”
‚ÄúOh, I always put that in. And, of course, ‚ÄòKnown‚Äô‚ÅÝ‚Äîwell, you see‚ÅÝ‚Äîit‚Äôs ‚ÄòKnown‚Äô‚ÅÝ‚Äîisn‚Äôt it, you see?‚Äù
This was not very clear to Miss Trant, but she said she supposed it was. And after that, she thought, it would not do to ask what “Refer” meant, nor even to hint that it must be difficult to play to “enormous business” in a place called Little Sandmouth, of which she had never heard before. “But you were going to tell me something about the people here.” She dropped her voice. “Who is that very tall, thin man in the loud, check suit?”
Mr.¬ÝNunn glanced across, then shook his head. ‚ÄúNot one of us,‚Äù he whispered. ‚ÄúI‚Äôve just been introduced to him. Name of Mitcham. A pro. Banjo-player.‚Äù
“I remember. He came in when I did, with that rather pleasant-looking, untidy youth with the lock of hair.”
‚ÄúThat is so,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝNunn. ‚ÄúNot our lot at all, just visiting. But you see that other boy who‚Äôs talking to ‚Äôem, that nice-looking one?‚Äù Miss Trant did see him, and had indeed been thinking for some time that he was an astonishingly handsome youth. He had a small head, carefully waved dark hair, and fine regular features, and was beautifully dressed. It was a pleasure to look at him, though Miss Trant decided she had no particular desire to know him. He was not the type of young man she admired. ‚ÄúThat‚Äôs Jerry Jerningham, our light comedian and dancer,‚Äù Mr.¬ÝNunn continued. ‚ÄúAnd I don‚Äôt mind telling you, he‚Äôs a find. Works hard, got personality, puts it over all the time. You couldn‚Äôt want a better dancer. If he plays his cards properly, he‚Äôll be up in the West End before long. They‚Äôve only got to see him. The only thing is, he won‚Äôt feed. I never struck a worse feed.‚Äù And Mr.¬ÝNunn paused impressively.
Miss Trant stared. This seemed a curious complaint to make. “Do you mean that he won’t eat?”
Mr.¬ÝNunn leaned back, banged his thigh, and gave a sudden guffaw. Then he looked grave again. ‚ÄúNot at all. It doesn‚Äôt mean eating. Far as that goes, there‚Äôs only one member of this show that can‚Äôt eat, and that‚Äôs me. Got a wicked stomach‚ÅÝ‚Äîoh, downright wicked!‚ÅÝ‚Äîwon‚Äôt look at a thing. Bacon, eggs, ham, chops, steak and chips, bit o‚Äô pie‚ÅÝ‚Äîanything you really fancy, y‚Äôknow‚ÅÝ‚Äîyou wouldn‚Äôt believe what they are to me. Poison, that‚Äôs what they are. Give me a good supper,‚Äù he pursued earnestly, ‚Äúand you might as well fill me up with red-hot pins and needles. I haven‚Äôt had a square meal for three years, just toast and charcoal-biscuits and beef-tea and bits of fish and chicken and jellies and shapes. And I‚Äôve got to be funny on that, got to make a lot o‚Äô people laugh who are filled up with roast beef and Yorkshire and baked potatoes and greens and apple pie. Dear, dear, dear!‚Äù
He wagged his head so comically that Miss Trant had to laugh even while she was crying “What a shame!”
‚ÄúBut this feeding I‚Äôm talking about,‚Äù Mr.¬ÝNunn went on, ‚Äúis a name in the profession for working up to gags. The chap that feeds has to ask the comedian questions and get angry with him and all that. You know the business.‚Äù
Yes, Miss Trant did know it.
‚ÄúAnd I give you my word, Miss Trant, it‚Äôs not so easy as it looks, and a comedian‚Äôs got to have a good feeder. Now young Jerningham there hates it and so can‚Äôt feed for nuts. That‚Äôs good, isn‚Äôt it?‚ÅÝ‚Äîcan‚Äôt feed for nuts. And properly speaking, it‚Äôs his job to feed, but as luck will have it, Joe over there‚ÅÝ‚Äîhe‚Äôs our bariton, Courtney Brundit, but everybody calls him Joe‚ÅÝ‚Äîis as good a feed as you could wish for.‚Äù He indicated a powerfully built man, with a broad and pleasantly stupid face, who was smoking a short pipe and staring at nothing. ‚ÄúI won‚Äôt say I‚Äôve not heard better baritone singers than Joe. I‚Äôve heard a lot better, and so have you. But if you or anybody else told me you wanted to run this show and leave Joe out, I‚Äôd say, ‚ÄòWell, you can leave me out too.‚Äô That‚Äôs how I feel about Joe. He‚Äôs not one of the brainy ones, Joe isn‚Äôt, and you‚Äôll never hear him at Covent Garden, but he‚Äôs got a heart of gold. You can‚Äôt rile him, and he‚Äôll do anything for a pal, Joe will. Easiest-tempered man I ever knew, and a good job too because he‚Äôs as strong as a horse. He was in the Navy one time and a heavyweight champion. If you ask me, that‚Äôs what started him off as a singer. If he wanted to sing, he sang, and nobody could tell him to shut up.‚Äù Mr.¬ÝNunn chuckled a little over this, then drew a long breath and became serious again.
“That’s his wife there, our contralto,” he began.
“What, the woman in the purple hat?” It was a peculiarly revolting purple hat and Miss Trant had been shuddering at it for some time. It completely dominated its wearer, a vague plumpish sort of woman who was knitting in a rather detached and stately manner.
‚ÄúThat‚Äôs the one. Stella Cavendish she calls herself, but she‚Äôs Mrs.¬ÝJoe Brundit. Big voice, a good classy rep, plenty of experience, and a real nice woman, though a bit inclined to put it on, y‚Äôknow, now and again. Keeps Joe well in hand. But they‚Äôre a nice couple to work with. They‚Äôve got a little boy named George‚ÅÝ‚Äîlives with his aunt in Denmark Hill‚ÅÝ‚Äîand you‚Äôd think there‚Äôd never been another kid in the world. But it‚Äôs hard on them, this bust-up, I can tell you.‚Äù
‚ÄúAnd who is that young dark girl who‚Äôs got such a merry face? I like the look of her.‚Äù The girl in question was listening to Mr.¬ÝOakroyd, who appeared to be telling her all about his adventures.
‚ÄúAh, I was coming to her.‚Äù Mr.¬ÝNunn‚Äôs face brightened at once. ‚ÄúThat‚Äôs Susie‚ÅÝ‚ÄîMiss Susie Dean‚ÅÝ‚Äîour comeedeeyen and the baby of the show. I knew her father and mother‚ÅÝ‚Äîboth pros‚ÅÝ‚Äîdead now. That little girl‚Äôs got it in her blood, absolutely born for it.‚Äù
“Do you mean that she’s very good?” asked Miss Trant, who was interested.
‚ÄúGood! She‚Äôs a wonder. Mind you, she‚Äôs young, and I don‚Äôt say she‚Äôs nothing to learn, but she‚Äôs picking it up like greased lightnin‚Äô‚ÅÝ‚Äîbetter every week. There‚Äôll be no stopping Susie once she‚Äôs got a toe on the ladder. If we don‚Äôt see her name in electric lights in Shaftesbury Avenue before we‚Äôre ten years older, I‚Äôll eat‚ÅÝ‚ÄîI‚Äôll never touch another bottle of magnesia!‚Äù
‚ÄúI‚Äôd like to see her on the stage,‚Äù said Miss Trant, glancing across at the piquant little dark face. ‚ÄúShe looks interesting‚ÅÝ‚Äîcomical and clever. How old is she?‚Äù
‚ÄúTwenty. And you can take it from me, my‚ÅÝ‚ÄîMiss Trant, I mean‚ÅÝ‚Äîshe is comical and clever. She‚Äôs all over this show. The way she can get laughs! You‚Äôve only got to let her sniff an audience‚ÅÝ‚Äîif it‚Äôs only six free passes in four rows of chairs‚ÅÝ‚Äîand she‚Äôs bubbling over. A lot of comedians wouldn‚Äôt have stood for the way she gets laughs, I can tell you‚ÅÝ‚Äîlot of jealousy in the profession, Miss Trant; it‚Äôs the curse of it‚ÅÝ‚Äîbut I don‚Äôt mind, bless her! Susie and me‚Äôs the best of pals.‚Äù He looked across at the girl as he spoke, his queer lined face alight with affection; and Miss Trant, following his glance, saw the girl look up and blow a kiss to him. Miss Trant smiled, rather wistfully.
‚ÄúIf this show had gone as it ought,‚Äù Mr.¬ÝNunn continued dejectedly, ‚Äúshe‚Äôd have had a big chance. Somebody‚Äôd have seen her and snapped her up. Now she‚Äôll have to take what comes, and ten to one be jumped on because she‚Äôs too good for the bit of business they‚Äôll tell her to do. She‚Äôs taken it well, best of the lot, Susie has, kept her spirits up all the time, but it‚Äôs rotten hard lines. And I‚Äôll tell you this, Miss Trant,‚Äù he was very impressive now, ‚ÄúI blame myself for this.‚Äù
“Why surely not!” cried Miss Trant. “I don’t see how it could be your fault.”
“I don’t suppose you do, but nevertheless you can take it from me it is my fault,” he replied, gloomily triumphant. “Who’s had most experience here? I have. I ought to have known. Who’d heard one or two queer things about Charlie Mildenhall? I had. I ought to have known. Who looked at the bookings and saw he’d gone and fixed up rentals right and left? I did. I ought to have known.” He looked at her with the air of one who has made everything plain.
“I’m afraid I don’t understand.” Miss Trant looked apologetic. “What are rentals?”
‚ÄúAh, you see, it‚Äôs like this. As a rule a Concert Party works on a percentage basis. It gets‚ÅÝ‚Äîwe‚Äôll say‚ÅÝ‚Äîsixty percent of the gross takings, and the people who own the pavilion or hall or theatre or whatever it is take the other forty. Sometimes there‚Äôs a guarantee‚ÅÝ‚Äîfor thirty or forty pounds maybe‚ÅÝ‚Äîwhich means‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù
“That your share will amount to at least the thirty or forty pounds,” put in Miss Trant, who was no fonder of being a pupil than the next person.
‚ÄúRight! Well, that‚Äôs fair enough, gives everybody a chance. But we don‚Äôt like renting places in the C.P. world, I can tell you, and that‚Äôs what I mean by rentals. You just pay out your money, and the people who‚Äôs running the hall or pavilion don‚Äôt care tuppence about your show so long as they get their money. This was a rental here in Rawsley‚ÅÝ‚Äîand half of ‚Äôem was rentals, like this. I did point it out at the time, five-and-twenty pounds! And you oughter see the place! Not worth five-and-twenty shillings! And he hadn‚Äôt just taken it for one week, he‚Äôd taken it for two. Two at five-and-twenty a week, here, in this place! I ought to have known. He never meant to stay, not him. Didn‚Äôt matter to him if it was twenty-five hundred pounds a week here‚ÅÝ‚Äîhe wasn‚Äôt going to pay it, and he knew it‚ÅÝ‚Äîoh yes, he knew all right!‚Äù Mr.¬ÝNunn raised his voice. ‚ÄúThey‚Äôve got every prop we have, and there they stop till we can pay the fifty pounds, so we‚Äôve said goodbye to ‚Äôem. We‚Äôve not had a treasury for four weeks.‚Äù
“Yes, Miss Longstaff told me.”
‚ÄúMr.¬ÝJimmy Mug, that‚Äôs me! I could kick myself from here to the dirty Assembly Rooms and back every time I think of it.‚Äù He was very excited now. ‚ÄúA man of my experience! And seeing those dates too! I tell you, Miss What‚Äôs-it, I can‚Äôt look these boys and girls in the face. I give you my word I can‚Äôt.‚Äù He gave a groan.
“There’s Jimmy going on again,” said a voice.
‚ÄúNow then, Jimmy, now then!‚Äù This was from Mr.¬ÝCourtney Brundit, otherwise Joe, who now came lumbering across to them. ‚ÄúDon‚Äôt you take any notice of him, ma‚Äôam,‚Äù he said to Miss Trant, and he gave Mr.¬ÝNunn a tremendous slap on the back.
‚ÄúHoi!‚Äù cried Mr.¬ÝNunn ‚ÄúSteady, Joe, steady! You‚Äôve got a hand like a sledgehammer. Miss‚ÅÝ‚Äîer‚ÅÝ‚ÄîTrant, this is Mr.¬ÝBrundit, Courtney on the stage, and Joe off.‚Äù
‚ÄúVery pleased to meet you, Miss Trant,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝBrundit, taking her hand in his huge fist and shaking it heartily. ‚ÄúNow don‚Äôt you let Jimmy start blaming himself,‚Äù he added in his slow good-humoured growl, ‚Äúbecause it‚Äôs no more his fault than it‚Äôs my fault or anybody else‚Äôs fault.‚Äù
‚ÄúThat‚Äôs all right, Joe, but‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù
‚ÄúBut nothing, Jimmy! We can‚Äôt have a chap with a stomach like yours‚ÅÝ‚Äîhe‚Äôs got an awful bad stomach, Miss‚ÅÝ‚Äîworst in the profession‚ÅÝ‚Äîgoing and upsetting himself for nothing. Here, you people,‚Äù he roared, ‚Äúwe‚Äôre not blaming Jimmy, are we?‚Äù
“No,” they chorused, to Miss Trant’s astonishment.
“Who’s been keeping our hearts up?” roared Joe again.
“Jimmy!” they cried.
“Good old Jimmy!” Joe prompted them.
‚ÄúGood old Jimmy!‚Äù they all cried. Even Mr.¬ÝOakroyd who was not the man to be left out of anything so hearty and friendly, came in at the end with ‚ÄúAy, good owd Jimmy!‚Äù
Then before Jimmy or Joe or anyone else could make another sound, they found themselves confronted by the proprietor of these Station Refreshment Rooms, Mrs.¬ÝMounder, who stood there, terribly compressed now in face and arms and body, all erect and folded up, but with a head trembling with indignation.
‚ÄúI can‚Äôt do with yer,‚Äù Mrs.¬ÝMounder was crying. ‚ÄúNot another minute! Outside, everyone.‚Äù
“Now then, ma,” began Joe.
Mrs.¬ÝMounder glared at him. ‚ÄúOne-and-fourpence and one-and-eightpence and two shillings, that‚Äôs what one or other of yer owes me, and yer can pay me now, at once, and take yerselves somewhere else, sitting about and making yer commotion!‚Äù And from the torrent of speech that followed, they were at liberty to gather that she never, never did, couldn‚Äôt keep a door open, couldn‚Äôt do with them, and would show them trouble if it was trouble they were asking for. By this time she had lashed herself into such a rage that she made a mistake in her tactics. She singled out Miss Trant, crying: ‚ÄúYou too, Miss! I thought you was different, a lady, but seemingly you‚Äôre another of ‚Äôem.‚Äù
“What!” cried Miss Trant.
“You ’eard what I said.”
Miss Trant rose from her chair, drew herself up to her full height, and marched towards Mrs.¬ÝMounder as steadily as the old Colonel and the other fighting Trants had marched upon earthworks and counter-scarps. She was pale and there was a kind of glitter in her fine clear eyes, but there was not the ghost of a tremble or a waver or a wobble.
“What did you say we owed you?” she demanded icily.
At this there was some expostulation from the company behind, but she turned round quickly and even held up a hand: “One moment, please. I’ll explain later.” Then there was not a whisper among them.
She faced Mrs.¬ÝMounder again, looking her straight in the eyes. Mrs.¬ÝMounder tried to compress herself into a yet smaller, tighter, harder mass of disapproval, and when she discovered it could not be done, she began to weaken. After a sniff or two, she replied: ‚ÄúThere‚Äôs one and fourpence and one-and-eightpence and two shillings altogether owing, though, upon my word, what with the hot water that‚Äôs been called for‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù
Miss Trant cut her short. She took out a ten-shilling note and lightly tossed it towards the woman. “There you are,” she said, raising her chin another inch, “and please bring me the change at once.”
The note had fallen on to the floor, and Mrs.¬ÝMounder looked at it now, with her head trembling away. Miss Trant neither spoke nor moved, and the others at the back never made a sound. Then Mrs.¬ÝMounder suddenly dipped, took the note, muttered something that nobody could catch, and hurried out.
Miss Trant turned round, quite slowly this time, quite calmly, smiled vaguely at everybody, and said ‚ÄúLet‚Äôs go now, shall we?‚Äù And off she went to the door, to receive her change and to give Mrs.¬ÝMounder a last annihilating lift of eyebrow, while the others, bursting into talk again, came trooping after her. Between the doorway and the road, where they had met before, the untidy youth with the lock of hair caught up to her and introduced himself as Inigo Jollifant. ‚ÄúThat was magnificent, absolutely,‚Äù he remarked. ‚ÄúBut you paid for my tea, you know.‚Äù
“I was going to explain to everybody why I did that,” said Miss Trant. Then she hesitated.
‚ÄúThe gesture, of course, the gesture asked for it,‚Äù said Inigo sympathetically. ‚ÄúOne-and-fourpence here, one-and-eightpence there‚ÅÝ‚Äîno gesture! Pay for the lot‚ÅÝ‚Äîtake that and get out‚ÅÝ‚Äîthe only way to do it! As a matter of fact, I was thinking of that myself. But I haven‚Äôt the style, you know.‚Äù
Miss Trant‚ÅÝ‚Äîwho suddenly felt lighthearted, free, gay‚ÅÝ‚Äîlaughed. ‚ÄúThis is my car. We‚Äôll stop here and wait for the others. The point is, though,‚Äù she went on hastily, ‚ÄúI‚Äôve suddenly decided to‚ÅÝ‚Äîto run this troupe‚ÅÝ‚ÄîI mean concert party. That horrid woman decided me.‚Äù
‚ÄúSplendid, absolutely!‚Äù cried Inigo enthusiastically. ‚ÄúI was only wishing I could do it. But I‚Äôve only got forty pounds to spare. I‚Äôve told them, though, I was ready to join up‚ÅÝ‚Äîjust for a lark, you know. I‚Äôve been teaching in a prep school, but I can play the piano, and from what I can gather, my sort of piano stuff is just what they want.‚Äù
“I wish you would,” said Miss Trant. “I’d been wondering about it for the last half-hour and trying to find out things, and then when that woman talked like that, I suddenly thought, ‘All right then, I will.’ I don’t know anything about it, so nothing could be more crazy.”
“Oh, hatter-mad, I agree,” said Inigo cheerfully. “But a lark of colossal dimensions. And here we all are, rogues and vagabonds together.”
“I’m wondering now what we ought to do,” said Miss Trant, quickly, as the others came up.
“I know. Leave it to me.” Inigo turned to face the entertainers, and called out: “I say, is there a place here where we might all have some supper and a sort of meeting?”
‚ÄúWhy, what‚Äôs the idea, Jollifant?‚Äù This was from Mr.¬ÝMorton Mitcham.
‚ÄúThe idea is, I want everybody to have supper or dinner or whatever they decide to call it, with me tonight,‚Äù Inigo explained. ‚ÄúYou see‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù And he glanced at Miss Trant.
‚ÄúThe fact is,‚Äù said Miss Trant, rather shy again now, ‚ÄúI‚Äôm rather thinking of‚ÅÝ‚Äîof running‚ÅÝ‚Äîthe‚ÅÝ‚Äîthe show. That is, if you‚Äôll let me,‚Äù she added hastily.
There was an excited cry from everybody, but Miss Susie Dean was first. “You darling!” she flashed out, and then added, when the others had done: “I don’t know you, but I’m sure you are.” And everybody laughed at this, and Miss Trant blushed and shook her head.
“Now, about this supper then?” said Inigo, after the excitement had died down.
‚ÄúWhat about that hotel in the marketplace, Jimmy?‚Äù asked Mr.¬ÝBrundit. ‚ÄúThey‚Äôd do it. Might be a bit dearish, though.‚Äù
‚ÄúNever mind about that,‚Äù cried Inigo, who guessed that his own ideas of expense might be different from the homely Mr.¬ÝBrundit‚Äôs. ‚ÄúWhat is the place? Would it do?‚Äù He turned to Mr.¬ÝNunn.
‚ÄúYou mean The Royal Standard, don‚Äôt you, Joe?‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝNunn. ‚ÄúYes, they‚Äôd do it all right. Good room upstairs too, they tell me. Though if there‚Äôs a man on this earth who‚Äôd make a worse show at a supper or dinner or anything where there‚Äôs real eating than me, I‚Äôd like to meet him. You know, it‚Äôs all poison to me, Mr.¬ÝWhat‚Äôs-it,‚Äù he said to Inigo earnestly.
“Shame! Well, then,” cried Inigo, “let’s say half past seven at The Royal Standard, everybody! I’ll go and fix it up. That’s all right, isn’t it, Miss Trant?”
Then the newcomers remembered they had rooms to find, and there was some excited talk about this. Finally, Inigo and Mr.¬ÝMorton Mitcham departed with the Brundits, who thought there would be room for one of them in their own lodgings and a place for the other next door. They were accompanied by Messrs. Nunn and Jerningham. Miss Trant, having Elsie‚Äôs hamper in the car, suggested that Elsie herself should come in too, and as Miss Susie Dean shared lodgings with Elsie, it was agreed that she should join them, whereupon Miss Susie scrambled in at the back, which was rather full of things, with the remark that it would do Rawsley good to see her there. So that was settled.
“Well, Miss,” said a voice, gruff but diffident, perhaps a trifle wistful, “I’d better have them traps o’ mine out o’ t’car and be getting on like.”
‚ÄúOh, Mr.¬ÝOakroyd!‚Äù cried Miss Trant, who had forgotten all about him. ‚ÄúWhere are you going?‚Äù
“Na, I don’t know fairly.”
“He doesn’t know where he’s going,” cried Miss Susie Dean excitedly. “He told me in there. Oh, he mustn’t go, must he, Miss Trant?”
‚ÄúOf course you mustn‚Äôt go, Mr.¬ÝOakroyd. You don‚Äôt want to go, do you?‚Äù
‚ÄúWell‚Äù‚ÅÝ‚ÄîMr.¬ÝOakroyd rubbed his chin reflectively‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚ÄúI don‚Äôt say I‚Äôve owt on, as you might say. But I‚Äôm nobbut i‚Äô t‚Äôroad here. You can‚Äôt do wi‚Äô me.‚Äù
“I’m sure we can,” said Miss Trant. “I’m sure there’s something for you to do. Isn’t there, Miss Longstaff? Isn’t there, Miss Dean?”
‚ÄúI‚Äôm sure I don‚Äôt know really,‚Äù began Miss Longstaff, who was not interested in Mr.¬ÝOakroyd and was surprised that a lady like Miss Trant should be.
“Of course there is,” put in Miss Dean, who had heard already about the Great North Road and Lily and all manner of things. “And he must come to supper, mustn’t he? If he doesn’t, I shan’t. We’ll stand outside making noises. We’ll throw things at the window.”
‚ÄúHurry up and get in, Mr.¬ÝOakroyd, if you can find room,‚Äù Miss Trant commanded, and without another word Mr.¬ÝOakroyd did get in, and after a struggle with the hamper and various bags, in which he was assisted energetically by Miss Dean, he did find room.
“Well,” he said, his honest broad face alight as they moved down the road, “this is a do, this is.” He ruminated for a minute or two, then, catching some droll glances that his companion shot at him out of her lively dark eyes, he grinned afresh and banged his right fist into his left palm several times. “This caps t’lot, this does.”
“Tha’s reight, lad,” said Miss Dean coolly.
‚ÄúYond‚Äôs a caution,‚Äù Mr.¬ÝOakroyd told himself. Then he looked at Rawsley with the air of a man who has seen many other and better places.
II
At half past seven that night, all our friends were assembled in the upstairs dining-room of The Royal Standard‚ÅÝ‚Äîwith one exception. Miss Trant was not there. The Misses Dean and Longstaff, on being questioned, said they did not know why she was late. They had found very nice rooms for her next door but one to their own, and had left her there. She had, however, said something about a bath‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äúand you know what that means in these digs, my dear.‚Äù Their various dears did know what it meant, and were relieved. ‚ÄúThough it wouldn‚Äôt surprise me if something had happened to her, taken ill or lost her memory or all her money or something, right at the very crucial moment. That‚Äôs the sort of thing that would happen, my dear.‚Äù This was the dark verdict of Miss Stella Cavendish, otherwise Mrs.¬ÝJoe Brundit, who was looking very festive and important and uncomfortable in her cerise, a dress that was rather too small for her now but had done good service some years ago during a season in ‚Äústock,‚Äù when she had played the Duchess of Dorking and other great-lady parts, all with a song in the third act. But if Mrs.¬ÝJoe, who had no illusions about the profession and was a great authority upon its ups-and-downs, especially the downs, was ready to be pessimistic about the nonappearance of their possible saviour, Miss Trant, this does not mean that she was out of tune with the festive evening. The Duchess of Dorking herself could not have surveyed and approved of the arrangements in better style. She hastened to congratulate her host, Mr.¬ÝJollifant: ‚ÄúEverything very nice, very tasteful, I‚Äôm sure,‚Äù was her verdict.
‚ÄúMrs.¬ÝTidby‚ÅÝ‚Äîshe‚Äôs the proprietor‚ÅÝ‚Äîsaid the notice was too short,‚Äù replied Inigo, ‚Äúbut that she‚Äôd do her best. And, she said, although she was not the one to say it, nobody in this town could do better. And she insisted upon telling me all about the annual dinner of the Rawsley and West Something-or-other Horticultural Society, which has been held here since 1898. So there!‚Äù
‚ÄúAll very nice, very tasteful,‚Äù repeated Mrs.¬ÝJoe, with bland complacency, casting her eye over the table, laid for ten. ‚ÄúThough nobody knows better than I do,‚Äù she continued archly, ‚Äúthat so much depends on the orderer in these affairs. Get a good orderer and what happens? Everything tasteful, nothing tawdry. How many can you trust to order? Now there‚Äôs Mr.¬ÝBrundit‚ÅÝ‚ÄîJoe‚ÅÝ‚Äîhe couldn‚Äôt order, not to be satisfactory. He hasn‚Äôt the manner. Joe‚Äôs as gentle as a lamb and as strong as a lion, but he hasn‚Äôt the manner. They‚Äôd say in a minute. ‚ÄòAnything‚Äôll do for him.‚Äô They know, these people, Mr.¬ÝJollifant. Now you‚Äôre a gentleman. What does that mean? It means that it comes to you naturally, you‚Äôre a born orderer.‚Äù
‚ÄúOh, I don‚Äôt know about that,‚Äù Inigo protested, being the last person in the world to have any aristocratic pretensions. ‚ÄúI don‚Äôt know that you can say that‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù
‚ÄúI do,‚Äù said Mrs.¬ÝJoe firmly, holding up her hand. ‚ÄúAnd when you‚Äôve been as many years in the profession as I have, you‚Äôll know. I can tell it in a minute. I said to myself as soon as I met you: ‚ÄòHe‚Äôs untidy; he may not have much money; he‚Äôs ready for his little joke with everybody; but‚ÅÝ‚Äîhe‚Äôs a gentleman.‚Äô Oxford or Cambridge or Harrow, Mr.¬ÝJollifant?‚Äù
“Cambridge,” said Inigo, staring.
‚ÄúI knew. ‚ÄòOne of them,‚Äô I said to myself.‚Äù She was very triumphant. ‚ÄúThere‚Äôs a Stamp. I‚Äôve thought about it for George‚ÅÝ‚Äîthat‚Äôs our boy, you know. I said from the first, if that boy‚Äôs bright‚ÅÝ‚Äîand you couldn‚Äôt want a brighter‚ÅÝ‚Äîand if things will allow, he goes to one of those places. I don‚Äôt care, I‚Äôve told Joe more than once, whether it‚Äôs Cambridge College or Oxford College‚ÅÝ‚ÄîI‚Äôm not one of your silly boat-race people‚ÅÝ‚Äîbut to one of them, things allowing, he goes.‚Äù
“Jolly good!” said Inigo heartily if a trifle absentmindedly, for he was wondering when Miss Trant would come.
‚ÄúAnd no stage. I‚Äôve made up my mind about that. Joe says it would be nice to have him with us, and nobody knows that better than a mother, but what I say every time is that George must have his chance at something gentlemanly‚ÅÝ‚Äîa bank or estate agency. Concert singing I would not object to, but that depends on the Voice. So far, George has given no signs of having a Voice. If it comes, well and good. But no stage.‚Äù
‚ÄúYou‚Äôre frightening me, Mrs.¬ÝBrundit,‚Äù said Inigo, smiling. ‚ÄúDon‚Äôt forget I‚Äôm apparently just about to join the profession myself.‚Äù
‚ÄúAh, that‚Äôs your fun, Mr.¬ÝJollifant, I know,‚Äù replied Mrs.¬ÝJoe, turning her head a little to one side and raising her eyebrows. ‚ÄúJust a little experience for you, that‚Äôs all. I believe you‚Äôre a real musician.‚Äù
“I’m not,” said Inigo, laughing. “Anything but that. I’m just a piano-pounder. Writing’s the only thing I’m really interested in.”
“Writing? You have the look of an author too. Now if only I’d had the time, the things I could have written! The experience I have had, but never the time. What is it, Joe?” she inquired, for that gentleman was now standing at her elbow.
“It’s quarter to eight, that’s what it is,” said Joe rather gloomily. “And Miss Trant’s not here yet. I suppose she wasn’t having a game with us, was she?”
“Oh, she wouldn’t do a thing like that, Joe,” cried his wife. “You could see at a glance she wasn’t that sort. What I’m wondering is whether anything’s happened to her. What if she lost her memory or was run over! Just when it seemed all right!”
“It’d be just our luck, Mag,” said Joe, his face falling. They exchanged hollow stares, and for a moment or so Miss Stella Cavendish lost all resemblance to the Duchess of Dorking; she seemed to droop, to sag; she looked a tired woman who remembered she had a boy to support and that he was far away on Denmark Hill, that they had no money and some debts, that jobs were few and getting scarcer; a woman who had said goodbye to the easy elasticity of youth. Joe coughed. “It’ll turn out all right, you’ll see,” he began gently.
Inigo turned away, for this was no place for him. He wandered round the room, keeping one eye on the door through which Miss Trant should enter at any moment. And all his other guests were keeping an eye on that door and were beginning to look anxious, though they kept up a little buzz of talk and pretended they did not care. Mr.¬ÝJimmy Nunn had cornered the old waiter in order to tell him that the whole dinner would be regarded by Mr.¬ÝNunn‚Äôs digestive apparatus as poison and nothing less, and now he had Mrs.¬ÝTidby (who had a sister who was just the same) in his audience, and appeared to be presenting the two of them with a little act in which he took the part of a too sensitive and suspicious stomach. But even he watched the door all the time. Mr.¬ÝJerry Jerningham and Mr.¬ÝOakroyd, who had discovered that they could not talk to one another, looked about them and grinned rather vaguely, but kept most of their glances for the door. Mr.¬ÝMorton Mitcham, who had unearthed a larger tie and an almost clean collar for the occasion, was playing Othello to the combined Desdemona of Miss Longstaff and Miss Dean, but when Inigo approached he broke off to ask the time. ‚ÄúEight o‚Äôclock, is it?‚Äù he cried. ‚ÄúWell, well! I just wondered, you know.‚Äù His eye went round to that door, and then hastily retreated. ‚ÄúWell, as I was saying, Miss Longstaff, Miss Dean, I only once played Jo‚Äôburg in a thunderstorm, a real thunderstorm‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù
Inigo began to feel anxious himself now. Suppose Miss Trant really didn‚Äôt turn up! What a horrible fiasco this supper‚ÅÝ‚Äîas all the players called it‚ÅÝ‚Äîwould be with the show still in ruins, all their hopes scattered again! He went down the stairs, looked in several of the rooms there, then stood at the entrance for a minute or two, glancing up and down the square. When he returned he found the old waiter at the bottom of the stairs. ‚ÄúWe‚Äôre still one short,‚Äù he explained. ‚ÄúLook here, couldn‚Äôt you take some cocktails‚ÅÝ‚Äîgin and Italian or sherry and bitters or something‚ÅÝ‚Äîupstairs to those people, and ask them to help themselves.‚Äù He had a cocktail himself at the bar, and no sooner had he swallowed it than he noticed a figure, an irresolute, hesitating figure, at the entrance. He rushed forward. It was Miss Trant.
“Come along, Miss Trant,” he roared. “We’re all waiting for you.”
“I’m sorry,” she stammered, still hesitating.
He stared curiously at her. What was the matter? ‚ÄúYou know,‚Äù he went on, in a lower voice, ‚Äúthose people upstairs‚ÅÝ‚Äîthe poor old Dinky Doos‚ÅÝ‚Äîhad begun to think you weren‚Äôt turning up, and they were feeling sick about it. They didn‚Äôt say anything, which I thought jolly decent of them, but they were beginning to look a bit greenish, absolutely. You can‚Äôt blame ‚Äôem, can you?‚Äù
‚ÄúNo, of course not,‚Äù said Miss Trant. ‚ÄúAnd I‚Äôm sorry I‚Äôve been so long. I‚ÅÝ‚Äîer‚ÅÝ‚Äîhad to wait ages for a bath.‚Äù
‚ÄúOh, I knew you‚Äôd come all right,‚Äù said Inigo. His tone was cheerfully offhand, but he shot another curious glance at her as she came forward. ‚ÄúBaths, of course‚ÅÝ‚Äîwell, that‚Äôs asking for difficulties, isn‚Äôt it?‚Äù he babbled, leading her to the stairs. ‚ÄúThe old Rawsleyans have not yet quite grasped the idea of a bath yet. A panful‚ÅÝ‚Äîyes! Two panfuls‚ÅÝ‚Äîpossible! But a bath, involving the contents of more than two pans or five kettles and the subsequent immersion of the human body‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù
She stopped him at the foot of the stairs. ‚ÄúListen, Mr.¬ÝJollifant. I feel I must tell somebody, and I think you‚Äôd understand. It‚Äôs all very silly, of course‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù she hesitated.
‚ÄúGo on, Miss Trant,‚Äù he said. ‚ÄúYou must tell me now. As for it‚Äôs being silly‚ÅÝ‚Äîwell, we‚Äôre all a bit silly, aren‚Äôt we? I know I‚Äôm ridiculous, absolutely.‚Äù
‚ÄúI could have got here earlier,‚Äù she began hastily, ‚Äúonly I suddenly discovered I wanted to‚ÅÝ‚Äîto run away. When I found myself alone again, I wondered why I had said I would go into this business. I don‚Äôt know anything about it. I have some money, but not much really. And then it‚Äôs all so different from the kind of life I have known. And when I thought about all this, I began to feel a bit sick about it and wanted to run away, to go back to my own kind of life, you know, to ordinary comfortable things‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù
‚ÄúKnow! I should say I do,‚Äù cried Inigo softly. ‚ÄúYou get a crawly feeling somewhere at the bottom of your stomach, don‚Äôt you?‚ÅÝ‚Äîyou feel all cold and hollow inside‚ÅÝ‚Äîand then you curse yourself for having let yourself in for the thing‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù
“That’s it, exactly,” she replied, eagerly. “But surely you haven’t felt like that?”
‚ÄúOf course I have. This very night, for that matter! I feel like that whenever I try anything new, but I say‚ÅÝ‚ÄîDown with it! You‚Äôd never do anything if you took any notice of that, would you? I mean, all this is as strange and absurd and unreal to me as it is to you, really, but I don‚Äôt care.‚Äù
‚ÄúIt‚Äôs much worse, I think, for a woman. A young man can do anything for a time, it doesn‚Äôt much matter‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù
“And so can a woman, within reasonable limits. And this is well within ’em, isn’t it?”
“I suppose so,” she replied. “And if it is silly, I don’t really mind. It’s time I did something really silly. It’s terrible being quiet and sensible all your life, isn’t it?”
“Rather!” said Inigo, who had never tried it. “And I’m awfully glad you didn’t run away, you know.”
‚ÄúAnd so am I. It was only a bit of me that wanted to, and it would have been mean and cowardly, you know, and I can‚Äôt help thinking if I had gone, if I had sneaked back home‚ÅÝ‚Äîand I nearly did‚ÅÝ‚ÄîI should have hated myself afterwards.‚Äù They were climbing the stairs now. ‚ÄúI‚Äôm glad you understand, Mr.¬ÝJollifant.‚Äù She drew a long breath, shook herself a little, then laughed. ‚ÄúI feel better now. Thank you.‚Äù
‚ÄúSo do I, so don‚Äôt thank me. And I‚Äôll do anything I can to help. I know nothing about this business, and I‚Äôm practically half-witted, except at times on paper‚ÅÝ‚Äîbut there!‚Äù
They exchanged smiles at the top of the stairs, the smiles of two compatriots in a far and fantastic country. They were friends.
Inigo threw open the dining-room door. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he roared. “Miss Trant.”
A stir, a quick sigh, a buzz of welcome, and a clapping of hands; and she stood for a moment or two in the doorway, looking at them all, half-embarrassed, half delighted, no longer that familiar and only-to-be-expected figure, Miss Elizabeth Trant, who had stayed at the Old Hall so long that her youth had slipped by and all her bright looks been dimmed, but a mysterious Miss Trant who had popped up, come from nowhere, to save the show, and whose entrance lit up the room just as it lit up her face. As she stood there, she felt for a moment that she was a vivid and rather delightful person, one that even a busy Scots doctor might remember with pleasure. It was a moment well worth the whole six hundred pounds that had fallen to her last week out of the blue.
‚ÄúAnd if you‚Äôll allow me to say so, Miss Trant,‚Äù said Mrs.¬ÝJoe, otherwise Miss Stella Cavendish, sweeping forward impressively, ‚Äúas pretty an entrance as one could wish for. It takes me back in a flash,‚Äù she told the company, ‚Äúto the big scene in The Rose of Belgravia.‚Äù
“Take your seats, ladies and gentlemen.” Inigo called out.
‚ÄúNow where are we going to sit, Jollifant?‚Äù asked Mr.¬ÝMorton Mitcham in his most dignified manner. ‚ÄúQuite like old times, Mrs.¬ÝBrundit.‚Äù
‚ÄúI should say so,‚Äù cried Miss Susie Dean. ‚ÄúThe good old times when we all played the baby in East Lynne‚ÅÝ‚Äîperhaps. Well, I‚Äôm going to sit next to Mr.¬ÝOakroyd, because he‚Äôs shy. Aren‚Äôt ta, lad?‚Äù
‚ÄúNoan too shy to gi‚Äô thee a bit of a slap, lass, if tha doesn‚Äôt behave thysen,‚Äù replied the delighted Mr.¬ÝOakroyd in his broadest accent. ‚ÄúYond‚Äôs a coughdrop,‚Äù he announced to the room at large, and took his place beside her.
We have never heard that The Royal Standard in Rawsley is famous for its dinners, and as Mrs.¬ÝTidby herself pointed out more than once during the evening, the notice was short, so that it would be absurd to pretend that the dinner Inigo gave that night was an exquisite and memorable repast. Nevertheless, it seemed so to the whole ten of them. There were special reasons why it should. Miss Trant enjoyed it without noticing what she was eating, not because she was not interested in food but simply because she was still excited about herself and everybody else. Inigo enjoyed it both as a meal (for his interior still remembered Washbury Manor School) and as a lark that would inevitably beget other and wilder larks. Mr.¬ÝOakroyd was rather overawed and dubious at first; there were too many knives and forks for his peace of mind; but the company of lively Miss Susie and the sight of a large glass of beer helped to reassure him, and soon he happily stared and grinned and ate like one who had suddenly found an appetite in fairyland. As for Mr.¬ÝMorton Mitcham and the other players, they enjoyed it because it was a splendid novelty, eating at that hour, and something of a novelty, perhaps, eating at all, certainly eating steadily through four generous courses. Miss Susie Dean, who confessed that she had been living entirely on tea and bread-and-butter and brawn and apples for the past week, declared she had forgotten there was so much food in the world, and was promptly asked not to be vulgar by her colleague, Miss Longstaff, who was so determined to be ladylike that she carefully left a little of each course at the side of her plate, which was otherwise clean enough. Mr.¬ÝJerningham contrived to wear an expression of faint boredom throughout the dinner, but dispatched it like an elegant wolf. Mr.¬ÝJoe Brundit, who joined Mr.¬ÝOakroyd in his preference for a large glass of beer, demanded so many pieces of bread that he became an important figure in the waiter‚Äôs reminiscences. But it was Mrs.¬ÝJoe and Mr.¬ÝMorton Mitcham who succeeded best in giving the dinner the air of being a prodigal feast. With them there seemed to be not four courses but fifty. The tomato soup, the mysterious little pieces of white fish, the boiled mutton, the blackberry and apple tart, were transformed by their histrionic gusto into a banquet of Lucullus, and they seemed to nod and smile at one another over the ruins of garnished peacocks‚Äô and nightingales‚Äô tongues. To see Mr.¬ÝMitcham fill Mrs.¬ÝJoe‚Äôs glass and then his own from the solitary bottle of Beaune was to catch a glimpse of the old mad bad days of the fine ladies and gentlemen who lived careless of the morrow, though the very tumbrils were rattling down the street. When they raised their glasses, the least you saw was a Viceroy or Governor-General of the old school and the Duchess of Dorking. It was a fine performance.
Even Mr.¬ÝJimmy Nunn contrived to enjoy the dinner in his own way. It was not the soup and fish and toast, to which he restricted himself, that he enjoyed, but his abstinence. As he groaned ‚ÄúCan‚Äôt look at ‚Äôem‚ÅÝ‚Äîpoison to me!,‚Äù he did not seem to be refusing a little mutton and tart, but a gigantic host of dishes; waving away the very fat of the land. He referred to his stomach as if it were a haughty and eccentric guest he had brought with him. He crumbled his toast and sipped his whisky and soda (‚ÄúCan‚Äôt touch wine or beer‚Äù) with a melancholy pride. He found time, however, to talk business with Miss Trant, who explained briefly and rather nervously her complete ignorance and comparative poverty.
‚ÄúIf you‚Äôve two or three hundred you‚Äôre ready to play with,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝNunn, ‚Äúthat‚Äôll be more than enough. With any luck, you‚Äôll have it back in no time, and after that the profit begins, and you just lean back and count the boodle. I don‚Äôt mind telling you, Miss Trant, if I‚Äôd half that, I‚Äôd be running the show myself. I wouldn‚Äôt be sticking to the show if I didn‚Äôt believe in it. I‚Äôm not like most of these boys and girls here. I could get another engagement‚ÅÝ‚Äîas good as this, if not better‚ÅÝ‚Äîtomorrow, ‚Äôcos I‚Äôm an old hand and well known in the profession. Matter of fact, I was getting twice their money, and might have got more if I‚Äôd stuck out for it. What are you people eating now? Blackberry pie? My word, you don‚Äôt know your luck. I‚Äôve nearly forgotten the taste of it.‚Äù He sighed hugely.
‚ÄúYou‚Äôre not missing so much, Mr.¬ÝNunn,‚Äù Miss Trant whispered. ‚ÄúIt‚Äôs not very nice. The crust‚Äôs too thick and stodgy.‚Äù
“It looks like Heaven to me,” he lamented. “But as I was saying, I believe in the show. We all do, and if we’d had the money, we’d have wanted nothing better than to have gone on ourselves, running it on a profit-sharing basis. You see what I mean?”
“Yes, of course I do,” she exclaimed. “I’m not quite so ignorant as that, you know.”
“Sorry, sorry! No offence meant, Miss Trant.”
‚ÄúAnd none taken! Isn‚Äôt that the phrase?‚Äù She laughed, then added, lowering her voice: ‚ÄúAs it is, I have to pay the company‚Äôs debts‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù
“You’re not forced to,” he put in. “You’re not responsible for ’em. But it ’ud be better if you did. And then we could get all the props back, too.”
“Certainly. Well, I pay them, and the salaries, of course, and I suppose the expenses.” She was very businesslike now, and was enjoying it.
“Yes, any expenses that crop up connected with the show,” he replied, “such as railway fares, baggage fees, and all that, and anything that’s wanted for production numbers, special costumes and effects, you know. But not costumes for individual numbers. We get them ourselves.”
“And if there’s any profit, it belongs to me?”
He groaned. “That is so, but don’t put it like that, Miss Trant. Spare a poor man who’s had nothing but toast and mush and a bit of a fish he’s never heard of. Don’t think we’re going to lose money for the rest of our lives. You make me feel like a Jonah. Put it this way. You take all the profits.”
“That does sound better, doesn’t it? And of course I should like a lot of profit, heaps and heaps of money, but somehow I can’t believe there will be much.”
He looked very solemn and thoughtful, screwing up his face until it seemed all shining nose and upper lip. It was absurd that he should look like that and yet talk business so sensibly. ‚ÄúI‚Äôll tell you what I‚Äôll do,‚Äù he announced at last. ‚ÄúI was getting ten a week‚ÅÝ‚ÄîI‚Äôll show you my agreement with Mildenhall tomorrow morning‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù
“No, no,” cried Miss Trant. “I don’t want to see it. Go on, please.”
“Now, if you want me to, I’ll produce for you. I’m sure none of the boys and girls would object to that. I know the business all through.”
‚ÄúYou mean that you would rehearse everything and be responsible for the programmes? That would be splendid, Mr.¬ÝNunn. Just what I wanted! Thank you.‚Äù
‚ÄúIt‚Äôs a pleasure, Miss Trant,‚Äù he said solemnly. ‚ÄúAnd not only will I produce for you‚ÅÝ‚Äîand it means a lot of extra work‚ÅÝ‚Äîbut I‚Äôll drop two pounds a week, making it eight. No, listen. Instead of that two pounds, I‚Äôll take fifteen percent of your net profits. Now I‚Äôve worked that out somewhere‚Äù‚ÅÝ‚Äîhe brought out his notebook‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äúand you‚Äôll see it means‚ÅÝ‚Äîyes, here you are‚ÅÝ‚Äîit means that I‚Äôm not making up that two pounds unless you‚Äôre making over thirteen a week net profit. Mind you, I‚Äôll tell you this‚ÅÝ‚Äîyou won‚Äôt make it at first. Don‚Äôt expect it. We‚Äôve got to pull the show together, and then again this is between seasons. Summer‚Äôs over and it isn‚Äôt winter. And another thing, we haven‚Äôt got our dates right yet. We can‚Äôt take Mildenhall‚Äôs dates, at least not all of ‚Äôem, ‚Äôcos they‚Äôre terrible. But that‚Äôll tell you whether I believe in the show or not.‚Äù
“I’m sure you do,” said Miss Trant warmly. “And I’m only too glad to accept that arrangement of yours. One thing I want to change, by the way, and that’s the name. I don’t like it, and besides I think we ought to start all over again.”
“Not a bad name, you know,” he replied thoughtfully. “And it’s known. But that’s up to you. We can easily find another, and, as you say, make a fresh start. That might put more heart into the boys and girls. Very superstitious, us pros, Miss Trant, and all sorts of little things bother us. Oh, and there’s another thing. What about taking on these two new fellows? I’ve had a talk to ’em, and I advise it myself, but it’s your business now, you know; you’re the boss and you have ’em to pay.”
‚ÄúMr.¬ÝJollifant we want, certainly,‚Äù said the boss, flushing a little, ‚Äúthat is, if he‚Äôs a good pianist. And I should think he is,‚Äù she added, hopefully.
‚ÄúHeard him before we came on here,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝNunn, ‚Äúand he‚Äôs first-class. He makes the last one we had seem like a piano-tuner in a fit. He‚Äôs an amateur, but he‚Äôs got real style. That other chap, Mitcham, swears by him, and he‚Äôs got a lot of experience. I‚Äôve heard of him before.‚Äù
“He’s a very queer-looking man,” she said, dropping her voice. “He looks like somebody very grand and important who’s all gone to seed.”
Mr.¬ÝNunn shut one eye and curved a hand round his mouth. ‚ÄúOne of the best banjoists in the profession, and a good conjurer,‚Äù he whispered. ‚ÄúAnd one of the biggest liars. Wonderful! You have a talk to him. I don‚Äôt say he hasn‚Äôt seen a lot in his time, but to hear him talk you‚Äôd think he was the Wandering Jew‚Äôs older brother. He‚Äôs worth taking on just as a liar. Apart from that, though, he‚Äôll be worth his money all right. The conjuring‚Äôll come in as an extra, and he‚Äôs just what we want for the band. We run a sort of little jazz band, you know, in the show, and a banjoist‚Äôll just make it up. I play the drums, and for a man who‚Äôs forgotten what a square meal‚Äôs like, I can rattle ‚Äôem a bit, I don‚Äôt mind telling you.‚Äù And he picked up a knife and fork and gave a little ratta-tat-tat on a plate. ‚ÄúMust use a knife and fork sometime, eh?‚Äù he observed, at the end of the performance.
Perhaps the company thought it a signal for silence, or perhaps it was merely because the dinner was finished, but everybody stopped talking and looked rather expectantly towards Miss Trant and Mr.¬ÝNunn.
‚ÄúShall I talk to ‚Äôem?‚Äù asked Mr.¬ÝNunn.
‚ÄúYes, do,‚Äù she replied. ‚ÄúBut you ought to ask Mr.¬ÝJollifant. After all, he‚Äôs the host. Do you mind, Mr.¬ÝJollifant,‚Äù she said, turning to him, ‚Äúif Mr.¬ÝNunn explains now what we‚Äôre going to do?‚Äù
“That’s the idea of the thing,” cried Inigo. “To have a feed and then a grand powwow of the great chiefs. The idea, absolutely! Say on, Master Nunn.”
That gentleman rose to his feet. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he began.
‚ÄúGive him a hand,‚Äù cried Miss Dean, who was in high spirits. And they gave him a hand, and so enthusiastically that the waiter who was trying, though not trying very hard, to remove the crumbs from the table, was so startled that he retired precipitately. ‚ÄúAnd not so much of the ‚ÄòLadies and gentlemen,‚Äô Jimmy!‚Äù his friend Joe called out, to the disgust of Mrs.¬ÝJoe, who was sitting erect, with her head a little to one side, her eyebrows well raised and her lips pursed up, as if all Dorking was looking at its Duchess.
‚ÄúBoys and girls,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝNunn, ‚ÄúI‚Äôm not going to say much. You‚Äôve had a good dinner; I haven‚Äôt; and you ought to do the talking. I only want to say that Miss Trant here, as you know, is going to run the show‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù
Applause for Miss Trant, in which the speaker himself joins heartily. The lady smiles confusedly, blushes, and for a moment or two wishes herself back at Hitherton.
‚ÄúAnd we‚Äôre going to turn it into the best little Concert Party on the road today,‚Äù Jimmy continued. ‚ÄúWe‚Äôre lucky to have Miss Trant behind us. I think you‚Äôll think with me that Miss Trant‚Äôll think‚ÅÝ‚Äîhalf a minute, I‚Äôm getting too many ‚Äòthinks‚Äô in here, can‚Äôt move for ‚Äôem. What I mean is, I hope Miss Trant will think soon she‚Äôs been lucky too, to come across such a show.‚Äù Cries of ‚ÄúHear, hear!‚Äù and more applause. ‚ÄúYou‚Äôll all be glad to know that we‚Äôre completing the party at once. Mr.¬ÝMorton Mitcham is joining us, and Mr.¬ÝMitcham, both on the banjo and with the cards, is an artiste of great talent and long and wide and‚ÅÝ‚Äîer‚ÅÝ‚Äîthick experience‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù
“Four times round the world,” that gentleman puts in, taking care to say it so that everybody will hear and yet contriving to appear as if he has merely spoken his thought aloud.
‚ÄúFour times round the world,‚Äù Mr.¬ÝNunn repeats with a certain droll emphasis, ‚Äúhaving played in Europe, Asia, Africa, America, Australia, and the Isle o‚Äô Man. Am I right, sir?‚Äù Laughter and more applause. ‚ÄúAlso the place of the late pianist‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù
‚ÄúA nasty fumbler if there ever was one,‚Äù remarks Mrs.¬ÝJoe with great bitterness.
‚ÄúWill be taken by Mr.¬ÝInigo Jollifant, who is new to the profession but is a first-class pianist as those of you who have heard him will testify. I ask you to remember too, boys and girls, that this is Mr.¬ÝJollifant‚Äôs supper, though, as far as I‚Äôm concerned, there hasn‚Äôt been a supper. But you‚Äôve all had one, and a good one.‚Äù
More laughter and still more applause. Mr.¬ÝJollifant bows his acknowledgements, and seeing a welcoming smile on the face of Miss Susie Dean, he directs at her a specially companionable grin, only to discover that it is received with a haughty and disdainful stare. When he looks again he finds Miss Dean is pointedly drooping an eyelid at Miss Elsie Longstaff, and he comes to the conclusion that he has just been guyed by this dark and lively young lady.
Mr.¬ÝNunn has stopped, to confer in whispers with Miss Trant, who nods her head rapidly. The table is all attention.
‚ÄúLook here, what about‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù begins Mr.¬ÝJerry Jerningham, but he gets no further, being fiercely requested by several of his colleagues to ‚Äúshush.‚Äù
‚ÄúNow then,‚Äù remarks Mr.¬ÝNunn, ‚Äúthere‚Äôs just one or two points. As you boys and girls know, there‚Äôs no reason why Miss Trant should pay any salaries at all until we start working again. But‚Äù‚ÅÝ‚Äîhere Mr.¬ÝNunn takes a deep breath, and everybody looks relieved‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äúbut she says she is willing to pay two weeks‚Äô money to all the old members of the party, that is, everybody but the two who‚Äôve just joined. That means we‚Äôre being paid for this week and last. And there‚Äôll be no cutting. Salaries the same as before.‚Äù Here Mr.¬ÝNunn, who is too old a hand not to know when applause is coming, stops speaking. He is not disappointed.
There is, however, a dissentient. It is Mr.¬ÝJerry Jerningham, who now raises his beautiful head to voice a protest. ‚ÄúLook hare, Jaymy, thet‚Äôs all raight about the two weeks‚Äô meney. Quaite generous, and all thet.‚Äù (Here we must break in to say that though there is no more graceful and exquisite young man in the Midlands than Mr.¬ÝJerningham, his accent, a comparatively recent acquisition, unfortunately demands this kind of spelling. It is one thing to look at Mr.¬ÝJerningham, and quite another thing to listen to him. The thousands who have crowded in from Shaftesbury Avenue since then to see Jerry Jerningham will not recognize this accent, for the simple reason that he afterwards dropped it and then picked up another during his successful season on Broadway. Even the one we are trying to capture now was the third accent he had had since he quitted, at the age of seventeen, the outfitter‚Äôs shop in Birmingham.) ‚ÄúBut Ai cawn‚Äôt agree to the same selery. Ai told Mildenhall Ai wasn‚Äôt getting enough, considering the way mai ect was going, and he agreed‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù
“Yes, you idiot,” Miss Susie cries heatedly. “He’d agree to anything, considering-thet-he-wasn’t-going-to-pay-you-anything-et-all. Fancy bringing that up! You’re acting like a measly little Sheeny, Jerry Jerningham.”
“Just maind your own business, Susie,” he replies. “Nobody esked you to bett in. Ai’m talking to Miss Trarnt and Jaymy.”
And neither Miss Trant nor Jimmy is looking with any great favour upon him. Both of them, indeed, are annoyed, and Miss Trant is quite ready to tell the beautiful youth that if he is not satisfied he can go. She glances with approval at the outspoken Susie. Jimmy is purpler than usual and might have been heard, a moment ago, muttering ‚ÄúLittle blighter,‚Äù but after a swift whispered aside to Miss Trant‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚ÄúHe‚Äôs good, you know. Must try and keep him‚Äù‚ÅÝ‚Äîhe now adopts a conciliatory attitude. Jerry has said that he is worth more than he is getting. All the boys and girls know that. They know that Jerry has been putting it across in great style, and will put it across in even greater style very soon. But the boys and girls will agree with him, Jimmy Nunn, that in times like these an artiste cannot get what he is worth and is sometimes lucky to get anything at all. Things being what they were, Jerry must keep on at the old rate, like the rest of them. If Jerry‚Äôs big chance came he could take it. Miss Trant was not going to bind any of them down. She was playing fair with them, and they would play fair with her. To all this the boys and girls gave a hearty assent, and Mr.¬ÝJerningham, whose chief desire had been to call attention to his own importance, gracefully signified that he would condescend to join them at the same salary as before.
‚ÄúWhat‚Äôs the programme then now, Jimmy?‚Äù Mr.¬ÝBrundit calls out, in a voice that reminds everybody once again that many-brave-hearts-are-asleep-in-the-deep-so-beware. ‚ÄúGot to start again, haven‚Äôt we?‚Äù
‚ÄúI‚Äôm coming to that now, Joseph,‚Äù Mr.¬ÝNunn informs him. ‚ÄúFirst thing, then‚ÅÝ‚Äîrehearsals. We‚Äôve got to rehearse as if we‚Äôd never seen one another. Isn‚Äôt that so? Well, what I propose is this‚ÅÝ‚Äîand, by the way, I ought to have said that Miss Trant wants me to produce for her and be the general big noise until she‚Äôs got her hand in‚ÅÝ‚Äîwe stop here and rehearse.‚Äù
There are groans from the boys and girls, who have had quite enough of Rawsley. ‚ÄúA place,‚Äù Mrs.¬ÝJoe observes, ‚Äúthat would take the blood out of a stone.‚Äù
‚ÄúThat‚Äôs all right. I know how you feel about it,‚Äù Jimmy continues, ‚Äúand I‚Äôm all for the first train out myself. But one thing you‚Äôve got to remember. We can‚Äôt have a Treasury tomorrow‚ÅÝ‚Äîa little sub might be managed, that‚Äôs all‚ÅÝ‚Äîbecause Miss Trant‚Äôs got to have time to get her money through. It‚Äôll be Saturday or Monday before the ghost walks. And we‚Äôll have to settle up before we go. The other thing is, we‚Äôve got the use of the hall this week and can rehearse there, and might get the use of it in the mornings and afternoons for a pound or two or for nothing if we stick out for it when we pay up, for part of next week. The date for next week‚Äôs already cancelled. We could get a two- or three-night stand between here and Sandy bay, where we‚Äôre going the week after, and try out the new show then. How‚Äôs that? Oh, and another thing! We‚Äôre going to change the name. Miss Trant doesn‚Äôt like the one we‚Äôve got and anyhow we ought to start afresh with another one‚ÅÝ‚Äîchange the luck, y‚Äôknow. Now, any ideas for a new name?‚Äù
Several of them suggest names, all of which, it is triumphantly proved, have been used before ‚Äúfor ages, my dear, simply ages.‚Äù Mr.¬ÝJoe Brundit (it is impossible to call him Courtney at such a moment) quite solemnly proposes they should call themselves ‚ÄúThe Mugs‚Äù‚ÅÝ‚Äîhe calls this ‚Äúcatchy‚Äù‚ÅÝ‚Äîbut is at once howled down. His wife brings out ‚ÄúThe Duennas,‚Äù admits that she has forgotten what a Duenna is, but points out that it has a fine operatic flavour. Summarily rejected. Mr.¬ÝMorton Mitcham is heard remarking that ‚ÄúThe Wallahs,‚Äù the name of a troupe he coached at either Simla or Bangalore in Nought Five, might be revived. His suggestion not meeting with approval, he rises‚ÅÝ‚Äîlooking, as Miss Dean observes, as if he is never going to stop‚ÅÝ‚Äîand after clearing his throat in a very impressive manner and lowering his gigantic eyebrows at those persons who are still talking, he says: ‚ÄúMiss Trant, ladies and gentlemen. While we are cudgelling our brains to find a suitable name for the show, I propose‚ÅÝ‚Äîas I have proposed on many occasians in many different parts of the world before today‚ÅÝ‚Äîthat we should‚ÅÝ‚Äîer‚ÅÝ‚Äîexhibit our appreciation, that is, display our grateful thanks, to our host, my friend, and your new colleague, Mr.¬ÝInigo Jollifant. Mr.¬ÝJollifant and I have already had some‚ÅÝ‚Äîer interesting experiences together, have gone through bad times and good times. We met‚ÅÝ‚Äîer‚ÅÝ‚Äîin extraordinary circumstances‚ÅÝ‚Äîas Mr.¬ÝJollifant will remember.‚Äù He paused, and everybody stared at Inigo, who began to feel that he and Mitcham must really have wandered across whole continents together. There was something compelling about Mitcham‚Äôs epical imagination. ‚ÄúAnd on that occasion, after a very short acquaintance, I told him he was a trouper, a good trouper. Those of you who are not‚ÅÝ‚Äîer‚ÅÝ‚Äîfamiliar with the Transatlantic Stage may not know the term. It is one, I may say, of the highest praise. I knew then that our friend, Mr.¬ÝJollifant, was a good trouper. He has proved to all of you, ladies and gentlemen, tonight that he is a good trouper. And I propose that we all show our appreciation. Mr.¬ÝJollifant!‚Äù
And they all do show their appreciation. Mr.¬ÝJollifant is called upon to reply. He grins, thrusts back his lock of hair, grins again, and puts back the lock in its usual place. It is, he stammers, awfully good of everybody. He is overwhelmed, absolutely. He is not sure what a trouper is. His knowledge of America is very small and is chiefly derived from a study of Huckleberry Finn.
Here he is interrupted by no less a person than Miss Trant, with whom Huckleberry Finn is a very old favourite indeed, and who now boldly claps her hands and cries “Isn’t it glorious?”
‚ÄúIsn‚Äôt it!‚Äù Inigo replies, and looks for a moment as if he is about to sit down and spend the next half-hour talking to Miss Trant about that masterpiece. Then he remembers he is making a speech. ‚ÄúAs I said before, I‚Äôm not very sure what a trouper is, except that he or she is one who‚ÅÝ‚Äîer‚ÅÝ‚Äîtroupes. Therefore, I don‚Äôt exactly know what constitutes a good trouper. But if it means being a good companion, or trying to be a good companion, then I‚Äôm proud to be called one, absolutely. Somehow‚Äù‚ÅÝ‚Äîhe was in earnest now, saying for once something that was very real and important, felt in the heart, and not being, in spite of all his easy chatter, one of that rapidly increasing horde of glib self-confessors, he could only stammer it out‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äúsomehow‚ÅÝ‚Äîthere isn‚Äôt too much‚ÅÝ‚Äîer‚ÅÝ‚Äîgood companionship left‚ÅÝ‚Äîis there? I mean‚ÅÝ‚Äîpeople don‚Äôt sort off‚ÅÝ‚Äîpull together now much, do they? Everybody‚Äôs‚ÅÝ‚Äîwell, not everybody, but a lot of people‚ÅÝ‚Äîare out for a good time‚ÅÝ‚Äîand that‚Äôs all right, of course; I‚Äôm all for it; the more the merrier, so to speak‚ÅÝ‚Äîbut it‚Äôs nearly always their own good time and nobody else‚Äôs they‚Äôre out after, isn‚Äôt it? An awful lot of hard nuts about now, somehow‚ÅÝ‚Äîand only soft in the wrong places. Well, of course, I‚Äôm not any better than anybody else, bit worse, I dare say, but I‚Äôd like one or two people to say I was a good companion. That‚Äôs one of the things that‚Äôs attracted me about this what‚Äôs it‚ÅÝ‚Äîconcert party; a good crowd sticking together. That‚Äôs where the fun really comes in, isn‚Äôt it? Look here. I‚Äôm making an awful mess of this, y‚Äôknow. I can gas but I can‚Äôt really talk‚ÅÝ‚Äîbut‚Äù‚ÅÝ‚Äîhe ends with a sudden burst‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚ÄúI could write it, and I will do before long. Thanks very much.‚Äù
‚ÄúListen, everybody,‚Äù Miss Trant calls out at once. ‚ÄúMr.¬ÝJollifant has given me the name. I‚Äôm sure it‚Äôs never been used before. We‚Äôll call ourselves ‚ÄòThe Good Companions.‚Äô What do you think of that?‚Äù She is very excited now.
The Good Companions. They are all turning it over and over tasting it.
Inigo approves of it at once and with enthusiasm.
“I like it too,” cries Miss Susie Dean. “It’s original, and it does mean something, not like the ridiculous Dinky Doos. That always made me feel as if I was something between a scented cigarette and one of those sixpenny packets of dye that Elsie here’s always using. I like the sound of this new name. I don’t know how it will look on the bills, though,” she concludes doubtfully.
‚ÄúI do,‚Äù Mrs.¬ÝJoe announces in a very deep and gloomy voice. ‚ÄúIt will look rotten on the bills.‚Äù
“I agree. Not enough dash about it, if you ask me,” says Miss Elsie Longstaff, who is all for dash.
‚ÄúToo haybrow, Miss Trant,‚Äù is Mr.¬ÝJerningham‚Äôs comment.
Mr.¬ÝNunn closes one eye over it, then the other, and finally declares it is a bit on the stiff side and won‚Äôt space well on the bills‚ÅÝ‚Äîbut‚ÅÝ‚Äîit is out of the common and will do. Mr.¬ÝMitcham comes down on the same side with all the weight of his experience. The combined enthusiasm of Miss Trant and Inigo is more than a match for the vague doubts and fears of the others.
“There it is then,” Miss Trant calls out in her clear voice. “We’ll call ourselves ‘The Good Companions.’ ”
Here Mr.¬ÝMitcham has an inspiration. After saying to Inigo: ‚ÄúNow this is mine,‚Äù he rises to his full height and thunders: ‚ÄúWaiter. Where are you, waiter? Ah, there you are. Waiter, I want a bottle of port.‚Äù
“Now what kind would you like, sir?” the waiter inquires, quite anxiously, as if the cellar is stocked with all manner of ports and he is gravely concerned lest the gentleman should not have exactly the right one.
“Oh, something drinkable. What have you got?”
“Well, we’ve the Tawny at three-and-nine the bottle, and we’ve the Old and Crusted at four-and-six.”
‚ÄúThen bring a bottle of the Old and Crusted,‚Äù and Mr.¬ÝMitcham gives such richness to his vowel sounds that already the wine seems twice as old and crusted as it was before. ‚ÄúAnd glasses round,‚Äù he continues, ‚Äúas quick as you can.‚Äù After almost chasing the waiter out of the room with his eyebrows, Mr.¬ÝMitcham sits down with the air of a man who not only knows a good wine but also knows how to order a good wine.
‚ÄúNow he‚Äôd make a wonderful feed if I can get him going. Got just the style,‚Äù Mr.¬ÝNunn whispers to his neightbour, Miss Trant. ‚ÄúAnd I‚Äôve got a sketch or two that he can walk away with, right from the word ‚Äògo.‚Äô‚Ää‚Äù
The Old and Crusted has arrived and so have the glasses. ‚ÄúI‚Äôm going to give you a toast in a minute,‚Äù says Mr.¬ÝMitcham, ‚Äúso fill up, everybody.‚Äù When they are ready, he lifts his glass and cries in a voice of such majesty that it brings Mrs.¬ÝTidby upstairs from the bar: ‚ÄúMy friends, I give you ‚ÄòThe Good Companions.‚Äô Long life and good luck to ‚Äôem.‚Äù
‚ÄúI‚Äôll drink this,‚Äù Mr.¬ÝNunn declares, ‚Äúif it kills me.‚Äù And down goes his Old and Crusted with the rest.
“The Good Companions!”
Mrs.¬ÝTidby, nodding and smiling at the door, is invited to drink the health of the new show, which she does with great gusto, smacking her lips over the Old and Crusted to indicate perhaps that there is nothing wrong with it.
It is now Mr.¬ÝOakroyd‚Äôs turn. Up to now he has been quiet because he is a diffident man and rather out of his element. All the others are members of the party, but he is only a guest. There had been some talk outside that tea-place about him doing something, but nothing has been said since and he is not one to push himself in where he isn‚Äôt wanted. Tomorrow he will be wandering on his way again, but he has enjoyed tonight, and must say something to them all before they separate. So now he raises the large glass, which still has an inch of beer in it, and cries to them all: ‚ÄúWell, I‚Äôm nobbut one o‚Äô t‚Äôaudience, as you might say. But this is my bit. May you mak‚Äô good companions o‚Äô t‚Äôfowk as comes to see and hear you, and nivver look back.‚Äù And down went the inch of beer.
‚ÄúThank you, Mr.¬ÝOakroyd,‚Äù Miss Trant calls out before anybody else could reply. And then she begins speaking in a low voice to Mr.¬ÝNunn.
Miss Dean, who seems to regard Mr.¬ÝOakroyd as her prot√©g√©, is delighted. ‚ÄúIsn‚Äôt he sweet?‚Äù she cries across the table, and turns to look at him, with her head tilted to one side ‚ÄúYou are sweet, you know, Mr.¬ÝOakroyd, aren‚Äôt you?‚Äù And her glance suggests that he is about six inches high and covered with pink icing.
But Mr.¬ÝOakroyd is now summoned to the end of the table, where Miss Trant and Mr.¬ÝNunn are in conference. He exchanges places with Inigo, who seems rather pleased to find himself next to Miss Dean, still smiling and altogether very attractive.
‚ÄúNow listen, Mr.¬ÝOakroyd,‚Äù Miss Trant is saying. ‚ÄúMr.¬ÝNunn says that a handyman like you would be very useful to us‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù
‚ÄúStage carpenter, props and baggage man, lights, doorman where needed, bill-poster where needed,‚Äù Mr.¬ÝNunn rattles off this list with an easy air. ‚ÄúAnd of course any odd jobs.‚Äù
‚ÄúAy.‚Äù Mr.¬ÝOakroyd rubs his chin. You would not suppose for a moment that he is delighted. ‚ÄúWell, I know nowt about theaters, nowt at all but what you can see from t‚Äôgallery. I could pick a deal up, I dare say. I can do owt I want to do wi‚Äô my hands as a rule. Is it summat you want doing or a reg‚Äôlar job?‚Äù
‚ÄúWe want you to travel round with us, Mr.¬ÝOakroyd, as our handyman,‚Äù Miss Trant explained. ‚ÄúAnd I‚Äôm sure you‚Äôd soon learn anything you didn‚Äôt know that had to be known. About lights, for instance.‚Äù
A grin slowly broadens over Mr.¬ÝOakroyd‚Äôs face. ‚ÄúOne o‚Äô t‚Äô Good Companions, eh? By gow, I‚Äôll have a do at it, I will an‚Äô all.‚Äù
‚ÄúAnd Mr.¬ÝNunn suggests three pounds a week‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù
‚ÄúPlus train fares and any extra expenses,‚Äù Mr.¬ÝNunn adds. ‚ÄúAnd good money too. Coming in regularly‚ÅÝ‚Äîvery good money.‚Äù
‚ÄúWould that be all right Mr.¬ÝOakroyd?‚Äù
“Eh, I should think so, Miss. Three punds i’ t’ week and nobbut mysen to keep! Nivver thowt I’d end up as a the‑ater chap! This beats t’band, this does.” And he chuckles away.
‚ÄúThat‚Äôs all right, then, is it? Will you come down to the Assembly Rooms in the morning, Mr.¬ÝOakroyd?‚Äù
‚ÄúNobbut say t‚Äôword,‚Äù says Mr.¬ÝOakroyd earnestly, ‚Äúand I‚Äôll be down at half past six wi‚Äô my tools.‚Äù
‚ÄúHalf past six!‚Äù Mr.¬ÝNunn gives a capital imitation of a gentleman who has just received a severe blow at the back of the head. ‚ÄúThere isn‚Äôt such a time, not in the morning‚ÅÝ‚Äînever heard of it‚ÅÝ‚Äîdon‚Äôt believe it exists. Nay, lad. Half past ten‚Äôs our time.‚Äù
‚ÄúDay‚Äôs half over i‚Äô Bruddersford by then. Happen to know Bruddersford, Mr.¬ÝNunn?‚Äù
‚ÄúI do know Bruddersford,‚Äù Mr.¬ÝNunn replies in tragic accents. ‚ÄúEverybody knows it, except the lucky ones. Ask Susie there about it. She calls it ‚ÄòShuddersford.‚Äô It‚Äôs generally known to the profession though as ‚ÄòThe Comedian‚Äôs Grave‚Äô!‚Äù
‚ÄúEh, whatever for?‚Äù inquires Mr.¬ÝOakroyd, his face quite wooden. ‚ÄúI‚Äôve heard tell of ‚Äôem calling it t‚Äôplace where they hammer screws. You hear all sorts, don‚Äôt you, Mr.¬ÝNunn?‚Äù And he leans back in his chair and calmly stares at the ceiling.
Miss Trant, after looking at the pair of them, laughs a little, and Mr.¬ÝNunn laughs too, and then Mr.¬ÝOakroyd begins to chuckle again. ‚ÄúThey‚Äôre a bit o‚Äô good company, this lot,‚Äù he tells himself, and when he remembers that he is not leaving them tomorrow but is going to travel all over the place and do odd jobs and have three pounds a week, he feels ready to burst.
Now they are calling ‚ÄúMiss Trant. Spee‚Äëeech, Miss Trant. Spee‚Äëeech.‚Äù At first she shakes her head, but the boys and girls will take no refusal, as Mr.¬ÝNunn is careful to point out to her.
‚ÄúI haven‚Äôt anything to say at all, you know,‚Äù she tells them, ‚Äúexcept that I‚Äôm sure we shall all get on very well together. You must forgive me if I make mistakes or say anything silly, because, as you know, I don‚Äôt really understand this business. I haven‚Äôt even seen you on the stage, which is rather absurd, isn‚Äôt it? But I‚Äôm sure you‚Äôre all very clever and work very hard and‚ÅÝ‚Äîand‚ÅÝ‚Äîtomorrow and afterwards when you‚Äôre Good Companions you‚Äôll be cleverer still and work harder.‚Äù Laughter and applause. ‚ÄúAnd now I‚Äôm going to bed. Yes, I am. I‚Äôve had an awfully long and exciting day‚ÅÝ‚Äîit seems to have lasted about a week‚ÅÝ‚Äîand now I‚Äôm tired.‚Äù
“Oh, don’t go, Miss Trant,” Susie implores.
“Why not?”
“Well, if you go, I shall feel I ought to go too, and though I’m tiredish too, I hate to think I’m missing anything.”
“I’m ready to go, Susie,” Miss Longstaff tells her.
‚ÄúOh, all right then,‚Äù cries Susie. ‚ÄúI suppose all us feemiles had better trot off together, and leave the men to stay here until they‚Äôre kicked out. Can‚Äôt you just see them here when we‚Äôve gone‚ÅÝ‚Äîgoing yaw-yaw-yaw and haw-haw-haw and all of ‚Äôem nearly dying of conceit? I do think men are ridiculous,‚Äù she concludes, putting her nose in the air.
‚ÄúYou stick fast to that opinion of the men, my dear,‚Äù Mrs.¬ÝJoe tells her, ‚Äúand you might have a chance of getting to the top of the tree.‚Äù And with that, the good lady rises, informs her husband that he can have another glass and no more, and stay just half an hour, then departs with the other three members of her sex.
And the men, sitting down again with that fine careless ease that comes when the women go, do have another and do yaw-yaw-yaw and haw-haw-haw, and while they are doing that, Inigo discovers that Jerry Jerningham, with his good looks and grace and weird accent, his determination to top the bill and have his name in electric lights before long or perish, his grave and almost ascetic devotion to his flimsy little art, is altogether an astonishing person; and Mr.¬ÝOakroyd discovers that Joe, whom he recognizes at once as a man after his own heart, is not only partial to a pipe of Old Salt (to say nothing of a glass of beer) but is also a fellow enthusiast in the matter of football, at which little George will very soon distinguish himself‚ÅÝ‚Äîand surprise some of ‚Äôem, it appears‚ÅÝ‚Äîat Denmark Hill; and Jimmy Nunn and Morton Mitcham discover that they remember any number of ‚Äúpros‚Äù who have got there or dropped out or lifted an elbow too often or gone into management or taken a nice little pub somewhere. Mrs.¬ÝTidby reappears, to hope everything was to their liking and to point out once again that the notice was short, and then to glance significantly at the clock. The old waiter yawns, pushes a few glasses about in an aimless fashion, returns with change on a little wet tray, smiles vaguely when told to keep it, then yawns again. They troop out into the deserted streets and stop a minute, with a faint shrinking sense of irony, to look up at the thinning clouds and the mild stars beyond. ‚ÄúYou going my way? Right you are. Good night, boys. Good night, ol‚Äô man. Goo‚Äô night.‚Äù
II
Very Short, and Devoted to Rehearsals
Inigo seemed to spend all his waking hours, the next few days, on the improvised stage at the Rawsley Assembly Rooms, pounding away on the ancient Broadwood Grand. Two of the notes, the first G in the treble and the lower D in the bass, were in the habit of sticking and even by the end of the first day he had come to know those two notes so well that they had taken on a personal life of their own, so that he appeared to have spent hours quarrelling with two obstinate little yellow men: Tweedlegee and Twoodledee, he called them. His wrists and forearms began aching by about twelve on Friday morning, and after that‚ÅÝ‚Äîthough Sunday was a holiday‚ÅÝ‚Äîthey went on aching until at last he forgot to notice them. It did not matter whether the Good Companions sang choruses, quartets, trios, duets, or individual numbers, he had to be at work. And if they stopped singing and took to dancing instead, then he had to work all the harder. For him there was no rest. Each member of the troupe prided himself or herself on having a large repertoire, known always as a ‚Äúrep,‚Äù and insisted on going through it at some time or other with the new pianist, who soon began to dislike the very mention of ‚Äúreps.‚Äù
‚ÄúI never knew there were so many dirty tattered old sheets of music left in the world,‚Äù Inigo confided to Miss Trant. This was after he had struggled through Jimmy Nunn‚Äôs rep, which was the dirtiest, oldest, and most tattered of all. Many of Jimmy‚Äôs songs, which did little more than announce that their singer was a policeman (‚ÄúWhen you‚Äôre going down the street. / You will see me on my beat / For I‚Äôm a Policeman‚ÅÝ‚Äîpom‚ÅÝ‚Äî / Yes, I‚Äôm a Policeman‚Äù) or a postman or a waiter or some other droll public character, were in manuscript, and were further complicated by instructions scrawled in in pencil‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚ÄúStop for patter,‚Äù and so forth. Fortunately it did not matter very much what he played for Jimmy, who had no ear and no singing voice, and only demanded that the accompaniment should stop in various odd places in order that he should be able to point out that his father was a very mean man, or describe, with a wealth of unlikely detail, his wedding day. Indeed, the relation between Jimmy‚Äôs singing and the piano was so vague that he had sung a whole verse of a policeman song to the accompaniment intended for a postman before either he or Inigo had noticed the mistake. ‚ÄúHave to use the old uns, my boy,‚Äù said Jimmy, carefully removing from the piano a sheet that was dropping to pieces. ‚ÄúThey don‚Äôt write real comic songs now, you can take it from me.‚Äù And Inigo was quite ready to agree that these masterpieces had obviously been written a great many years ago. His only hope was that he would be able to vamp the accompaniments by heart before most of the scores crumbled away altogether.
The respective reps of the two Brundits were in rather better condition than Jimmy‚Äôs, being mostly composed of well-printed ballads, but they were far larger, especially Mrs.¬ÝJoe‚Äôs, a very stout portfolio with ‚ÄúMiss Stella Cavendish‚Äù printed on it in scarlet letters. ‚ÄúI don‚Äôt think there‚Äôs a bigger and classier rep on the C.P. stage today,‚Äù she told him proudly. But it was not necessary to go through it all. Inigo was a quick reader and found this easy ballad stuff mere child‚Äôs play. After Mrs.¬ÝJoe, with flashing eye and heaving bosom, had tunefully cautioned a son o‚Äô hers against doing something or other, had suggested that the roses in her heart would never bloom again like the roses in her garden, had commanded the red sun to sink in-toe the We‚Äôest, had waited for one Angus MacDonald to return from some mysterious campaign, had said goodbye to leaves and trees and kisses on the brow and practically everything, and had finally announced that she must go down to the sea again; in short, after Mrs.¬ÝJoe had tried over about half a dozen of her most popular numbers, she expressed herself as being not only satisfied but delighted, mopped her face with one hand and patted Inigo on the shoulder with the other, and told him he was a pianist with a touch, a talent, a soul, and in short was a downright find. ‚ÄúYou‚Äôve got just the style for me, Mr.¬ÝJollifant,‚Äù she cried warmly, and asked everybody present to agree with her. Inigo, who had been quietly enjoying himself by indulging in an ironical overemphasis, looked round to see that Miss Susie Dean, who was standing near, was regarding him with a cool and speculative eye. At once the praise of the simple songstress made him feel uncomfortable. He glanced apologetically towards Susie‚ÅÝ‚Äîhe thought of her now as Susie‚ÅÝ‚Äîbut that young lady immediately tilted her nose a little higher than usual and looked away. Inigo then came to the conclusion that he was not such a clever young man as he had imagined himself to be.
Joe gave Inigo more trouble than Mrs.¬ÝJoe had done, though his rep was neither so big nor so classy. ‚ÄúJoe‚Äôs got the Voice but not the Training,‚Äù his wife explained. ‚ÄúAnd if he‚Äôs not going to get off the note again, he‚Äôll have to have some of his numbers transposed. I told that to the creature that ran off with Mildenhall, but, of course, it was no use talking to her. She couldn‚Äôt play a straight accompaniment, let alone transpose. As I told Joe this morning, you‚Äôre a real musician, so you won‚Äôt mind putting some of his numbers down a semitone or a tone.‚Äù And Inigo did put some of them down a semitone or a tone, but nobody except Mrs.¬ÝJoe, who was quite triumphant, even imagined it made any difference. Joe‚Äôs rough, powerful voice still refused to keep on the note; towards the end of a song it wavered between several different notes; and usually at the very end it wandered into another key altogether. Moreover, it cannot be denied that Joe was a very wooden vocalist. He stiffened his massive body, clenched his fists, and roared until he was purple in the face. It was not so bad when his themes were nautical and it was his duty to point out the various perils of the de‚Äëee‚Äëeep, but when he tried to turn himself into a melodious victim of the tender passion, when he declared that he heard you whisper his name among the roses or admitted that he had been standing ‚Äôneath your window in the moonlight or confessed that he thought of nothing night and day but two bright eyes and two white arms, and stood there bellowing, fifteen stone of taut muscle and stiff bone, with his big chin jutting out, his forehead gemmed with beads of perspiration, and his two fists apparently ready at any moment to deliver a knockout, then it was very hard indeed not to smile at honest Joe. Miss Trant, who chanced to enter the hall when one of his love lyrics was in full blast, had to retire to the back so that he would not catch sight of her face. ‚ÄúWhat on earth makes Mr.¬ÝBrundit sing love songs?‚Äù she asked Susie afterwards. ‚ÄúI don‚Äôt mind what he sings, of course, but anybody less lovesick I can‚Äôt imagine.‚Äù Susie laughed. ‚ÄúI know. Poor Joe!‚ÅÝ‚Äîhe sounds as if he‚Äôs shouting for steak and onions, doesn‚Äôt he? Mrs.¬ÝJoe‚ÅÝ‚Äîour Stella‚ÅÝ‚Äîmakes him sing them. They don‚Äôt go down badly, either. People must think it hurts him more than it hurts them, so they give him a hand. I adore Joe, though. He‚Äôs a lot nicer than the men who can sing love songs, I can tell you. I‚Äôve known some of them. Ugh!‚Äù When the two girls of the party came to rehearse their individual numbers with him, Inigo had an unpleasant surprise. He found that he enjoyed playing to Elsie more than he did to Susie. Elsie came first and ran through about half a dozen songs, mostly of American origin, songs at once plaintive and impudent, in which somebody had either never had a ‚Äúsweetie‚Äù or had just lost one. Elsie sang these in a little tinny nasal voice that seemed itself an importation from the United States, and after the last two she danced in quite an engaging and graceful fashion, making the most of her shapely self. To Inigo looking over the piano at her as soon as he could dispense with the few repeated bars of music that accompanied the dance-steps, she seemed very attractive, in spite of the fact that he had always thought her too fair and fluffy, too saucer-eyed, too scented, at once too demure and too flaunting, too much the ageing kitten, and had never had five minutes‚Äô amusing talk with her. Until then, indeed, he had seen her as a rather silly and empty woman‚ÅÝ‚Äîand, after all, she was a woman, several years his senior‚ÅÝ‚Äîand had set her down as ‚Äúaffected and cosmeticated, and a bit hard and mean inside.‚Äù But now, when she twirled away, smiled at him, cried ‚ÄúQuicker, please,‚Äù smiled again as they increased the pace together, she seemed to have distinct charm, and he saw an audience warming to her act, thin and conventional though it might be. And when, at the end, pink and rather breathless, she clapped her hands and came over to him, crying ‚ÄúOh, thanks ever so much! That was topping. You do play beautifully, don‚Äôt you?,‚Äù and he replied ‚ÄúThat was fun, wasn‚Äôt it, Miss Longstaff?,‚Äù and she said that she couldn‚Äôt be Miss Longstaff any longer but must be Elsie and he must be Inigo‚ÅÝ‚Äîthen he began to feel they were really friends.
This was a surprise but not unpleasant. It was Susie who surprised him unpleasantly. To begin with, she was so disappointing. Jimmy Nunn, the Brundits, and even Jerningham, had all told him how wonderful Susie was; easily the best little comedienne on the Concert Party stage, they said, and a coming star on any stage; not simply hardworking and clever with a touch or two of originality but‚ÅÝ‚Äîyou know. And he knew. He had watched her closely ever since they first met, which was only last Thursday but already seemed months ago, and was only too willing to believe anything they said of her. He could see her on the stage‚ÅÝ‚Äîthe nimble but sturdy figure of her, the piquant dark face, flashing with fun, and the performance itself, a rush of high spirits, a mixture of charm and drollery with just a glint, the tiniest glint of pathos. And then when she came to rehearse with him, it was not like that at all. She sang a few songs in a husky little voice; they were poor things, flimsier than Elsie‚Äôs, even, and she went through them listlessly, halfheartedly. She did a little step-dancing, but that was halfhearted too. Now and again she stopped him; he was too slow, too fast, or he must halt in such a place. That was all. It was woefully disappointing.
“I say,” he began, when she had done and was putting her music together.
“Well, what is it, Professor?”
‚ÄúThose songs of yours‚ÅÝ‚Äîthey‚Äôre not much good, are they?‚Äù He saw her opening her eyes to stare at him. ‚ÄúI mean‚ÅÝ‚Äîpretty feeble‚ÅÝ‚Äîeh?‚Äù
“Oh, do you think so?” There was rising and dangerous inflection in her voice.
“Rather! Thin stuff, tissue paper, absolutely! You must get fed up singing ’em, don’t you? Quite apart from the words, think of the tunes. What are they? Lord, I could invent half a dozen better ones in a morning.”
“Could you really?”
“With ease,” the rash young man continued. “I don’t say mine wouldn’t be tripe, but there’s tripe and tripe, isn’t there?”
“I suppose so,” she said, softly now. “I never touch it myself. But go on, please, go on.”
“Well, I mean to say,” he went on, a little less sure of himself, “if those things are the best that are going, we’ll pension ’em off and concoct some of our own. What do you think?”
‚ÄúI‚Äôll tell you what I think,‚Äù she said fiercely. ‚ÄúI think you‚Äôve got a damned cheek. Now then! Sitting there coolly telling me my songs are all rot! And you haven‚Äôt been in the show five minutes. Never seen an audience in your life! D‚Äôyou think I‚Äôm in your‚ÅÝ‚Äîyour‚ÅÝ‚Äîinfant class! Oh yerse,‚Äù she went on, holding up her head and speaking in a throaty voice that was a vindictive imitation of Inigo‚Äôs, ‚Äúther‚Äôs trape and trape, isn‚Äôt ther? Oh, absolutely!‚Äù Then, with a furious sweep, she turned and caught sight of Jimmy Nunn, who was in conference in the body of the hall. ‚ÄúJimmy,‚Äù she called, ‚Äújust a minute, Jimmy. You‚Äôll perhaps be sorry to hear that I shan‚Äôt be able to appear in the show. No, impossible! Mr.¬ÝJollifant, who‚Äôs so kindly condescended to play for us, says my songs aren‚Äôt worth playing.‚Äù
“I didn’t,” Inigo protested.
‚ÄúYes, of course you did,‚Äù she retorted. ‚ÄúAnd what I‚Äôd like to know is‚ÅÝ‚Äîwho do you think you are? The last pianist we had was pretty foul, but at least she didn‚Äôt tell us what we had to sing.‚Äù
“Now then, you kids,” Jimmy called to them. “Remember you’re going to have something tasty for your tea, and I’m not. Pity poor James! Ease up, Susie. And you apologize, Jollifant. I don’t care if you haven’t done anything, say you’re sorry. It’s the only way with ’em. Take it easy, the pair of you.”
‚ÄúI‚Äôm awfully sorry, Susie‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù
“Miss Dean, thank you.”
“All right. Miss Dean then,” replied Inigo with dignity. “I repeat: I’m awfully sorry if I’ve offended you. I didn’t mean to.”
“Yes, that’s the only way with ’em, isn’t it? Well, it isn’t with me.” Susie picked up her music. “I’m sorry you don’t like these numbers because you’re going to hear them quite a lot. Anyhow, I’m going to sing them. And if you wrote the best soubrette songs in the world, here and now, I wouldn’t sing them, not if you paid me to sing them. And that’s that.” And off she marched, her head in the air.
Jimmy came up a few minutes afterwards, and Inigo told him what had happened. Jimmy whistled for a minute, then puckered up his face and looked drolly at his companion. “There’s one thing they didn’t teach you at Cambridge, my boy,” he said finally, “and it’s something you’ll have to learn at this job. That’s tact. Don’t say these things. Think ’em but don’t put ’em in the book of words. In this profession, the men are bad enough. But the women! Touchy! Dynamite, my boy. One word and up they go! Besides, Susie’s numbers are good enough. I don’t say they couldn’t be better. But you see what she does with ’em on the night. They all eat out of her hand.”
‚ÄúBut that‚Äôs the point,‚Äù said Inigo. ‚ÄúI should never have said anything‚ÅÝ‚Äîthis is between ourselves‚ÅÝ‚Äîif I hadn‚Äôt been so disappointed. I expected something wonderful from her, and I thought she was awfully dull.‚Äù
On hearing this, Jimmy gave an excellent imitation of a distinguished astronomer who has just been told that the world is flat. He groaned; he looked heavenwards; he beat his brow. “What d’you think this is?” he cried, waving a hand at the empty hall. “A command performance? D’you think them chairs with the bit of plush left on are the Royal Family? D’you think that pillar there’s Sir Oswald Stoll, with his pockets full of new contracts?”
‚ÄúLet me take a turn at this,‚Äù cried Inigo, good humouredly enough, though in truth he was still rather nettled. ‚ÄúAnd do I think this piano is the box office of Drury Lane? The, answer is‚ÅÝ‚ÄîI don‚Äôt. And what then?‚Äù
Jimmy laughed. “Only this. Susie wasn’t bothering, that’s all. Wait till you see her in front of an audience. I tell you, she can make a hit with the duddest number you ever shut your ears to. Leave it to her, my boy. Susie’s all right.”
“I see.” Inigo played a little phrase, softly, reflectively, then ended with a sudden crash. “You can expect some songs from me now, Jimmy, that is, if we can get some words. The tunes come easily enough, but I can’t write the sort of stuff they want as words for them.”
“If my inside lets me alone for a day or two,” said Jimmy, “I can do a bit that way myself. We’ll get together and fit ’em in. This is how it works. If you’ve got a good melody, then I’ll try to find words for it. If I’ve a likely lyric, you try to find a tune. And don’t forget to try your hand on that opening chorus I’ve got ready.”
“Right you are. I’m going to show Miss Susie that I wasn’t exactly talking through my hat just now. She said she wouldn’t dream of singing anything I ever wrote. We’ll see about that. I’ll write something that’ll make her eat her words, or I’ll bust.” And, so fired by the scorn of Susie, who must be shown, he set to work in earnest, and the two of them spent all the next day, Sunday, with a wreck of a cottage piano, the pride of Jimmy’s lodgings, and some music manuscript paper that Jimmy had unearthed.
On Monday morning, Inigo rehearsed with Jerry Jerningham, who carefully divested himself of his coat and waistcoat and then, for the next hour, worked like the nigger of legend. His voice was no better than it is now, was indeed the same plaintive and rather nasal croon, hardly worth calling a voice at all, yet most artfully adapted for the work it had to do. Jazz, which had begun as an explosion of barbaric high spirits, a splash of crimson and black on a drab globe, had become civilized; it was quieter, more subtle, and flirted with sentiment and cynicism; its first bold colours faded to autumnal tints; its butterfly gaieties were forever fluttering down into melancholy; its insistent rhythms were like the soft plug-plugging of those great machines that now keep whole populations waiting upon them, devouring so much of people‚Äôs time and yet leaving their minds partly free to wander‚ÅÝ‚Äîand to wonder; and in its own crude, jigging, glancing fashion, as it sang with a grin and shrug of home and love to the crowds of the homeless and unloved, it contrived to express all the sense of baffled desire and the sad nostalgia of the age. History, which attends to folk songs as well as the migrations of peoples, had produced this Jazz, and Nature, working obscurely in a long dark street in a Midland city, had produced a Jerry Jerningham, this Antinous in evening dress and dancing slippers, to match the event. Jerry‚Äôs voice was nothing, yet it would have been impossible to find a better for these songs. And his feet, those two astonishing energetic and versatile commentators, said all the rest. As soon as he began pit-patting with those feet, Jerry suddenly became a real person, confessing things, making original remarks about life. His feet pondered, sank into despair, began to hope, took courage, laughed and carolled, became crazed with happiness, were touched with doubt, wondered uneasily, shrugged and turned cynical, all with a seemingly careless grace.
Inigo had found it difficult to like this beautiful and vacant young man, but now he found it easy enough to respect him. Jerningham might have a mind as blank as a new slate, and the most atrociously affected accent in the country; he might be all narrow ambition and conceit; but he was an artist‚ÅÝ‚Äînot merely an artiste, but an artist. And how he worked! It was his ambition to be the most graceful lounger, the best of all the idle fops of revue and musical comedy, and to achieve these butterfly perfections he trained like an athlete and toiled like a slave. Off the stage, Inigo had discovered that Jerningham could be easily ignored; but now at rehearsal he saw another young man, who knew exactly what he wanted, not merely from himself but from everybody else, and had made up his mind not to be balked; he was in his own atmosphere, and at once flashed into life, like a fish put back into water. Inigo played with unusual zest to the very end. Jerningham leaned against the piano, smiled across it, and then carefully wiped his forehead with a lilac silk handkerchief.
‚ÄúBy George!‚ÅÝ‚Äîbut you can dance, though,‚Äù cried Inigo, enthusiastically. ‚ÄúHope my playing was all right? This syncopated stuff‚Äôs rotten to read at sight.‚Äù
“Jally faine,” said Jerningham. “Ai laike your playing. Jest what Ai warnted. You’ve got the Jaizz tech. You’ll make a lat of difference to our baind too.” He mopped himself delicately again. “Gled you laike my darncing. Ai’m pretty good at those steps, but Ai warnt some new ones very bardly.”
Inigo flourished a manuscript. “You listen to this,” he cried. “It’s a song Jimmy and I wrote yesterday. The tune’s one I’ve had in my head for some time, and now Jimmy’s put some words to it.”
“What’s the taitle?”
“ ‘Slippin’ Round the Corner,’ ” Inigo told him. “I’ll play it to you while you’re resting.” And once again the mischievous little tune came dancing out of the keys. Long before Inigo had finished, Jerningham was looking over his shoulder at the manuscript and humming and tapping his feet.
“Oh, but it’s a wonderful little namber!” cried Jerningham, with unexpected enthusiasm. “There’s nathing going to tech it, nathing, Jallifarnt. And it’s mai number, isn’t it? Must be mai namber, Ai insist.”
“Yes, you can sing it,” Inigo replied, with grim satisfaction. He was thinking of Susie.
Jerningham was going through the words now. “Ai must tray this now, Ai ralely must. You know you look like being a gold-maine, Jallifarnt. Now do pramise you’ll let me sing this for at least two or three months before you send it anywhere?”
“Oh, that’s all right. I wasn’t thinking of sending it anywhere.”
“But mai dear boy, of course you must. There’s pats of meney in things like this, pats. Shahly you knew thart!” And Jerningham opened wide his velvety brown eyes to stare at this strange fellow. “But let’s tray it now. Here’s Jaymy and Mitcham. We’re just going to tray this namber of yours, Jaymy.”
Jerningham took the manuscript‚ÅÝ‚ÄîInigo knowing the music by heart‚ÅÝ‚Äîand went through one verse and chorus rather slowly. Then he tried the second verse and took the chorus at quicker pace, his feet making little movements to the lilt of it. ‚ÄúNow we‚Äôll tray it all over again, please, Jallifarnt, and we‚Äôll put the snep into it. Raight you are.‚Äù And when he came to repeat the chorus, he was accompanied by Mr.¬ÝMitcham‚Äôs banjo and Jimmy on the drums. The four of them sent everything slipping gloriously round the corner, and Inigo danced on the piano stool, improvised the most astounding variations and flourishes, and laughed in his excitement. ‚ÄúRepeat, repeat,‚Äù cried Jerningham, and immediately stopped singing and began dancing properly, while the other three, their heads wagging away, slipped and slipped and slipped round the corner.
“But where, where, where did you get that duck, that perfect little fat duck of a number?” It was Susie who came rushing on the stage. They had not noticed she was about. They had not noticed anything. “Never mind,” she cried. “Tell me afterwards. Let’s have it again, do let’s have it again. I want to try it with Jerry.”
So off they went again, repeating the chorus, with Susie, very excitedly humming and putting in all manner of strange words, dancing away with Jerningham. After a minute or two, the men stopped.
“Go on, go on, boys,” she cried. “You’re not going to stop, are you? Can’t I have it again?”
No, she couldn’t, they told her. They were all blown.
“Well, now you can tell me,” said Susie. “Whose is it and where did it come from? Tell me all about it.”
“It’s mai new namber, Susie,” Jerningham panted.
‚ÄúAnd there‚Äôs the boy who wrote it,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝMitcham, pointing to Inigo. ‚ÄúAnd as soon as he let me hear it, I said ‚ÄòThat‚Äôs a winner, my boy.‚Äô I can tell ‚Äôem. Went back to my hotel once in Chicago and there was a waiter there‚ÅÝ‚Äîlittle Jew boy‚ÅÝ‚Äîheard him picking out a tune on the piano, very quietly‚ÅÝ‚Äînobody about, you see. I went straight up to him‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù
But he had to finish his anecdote in the wings, where Jimmy and Jerningham were taking deep breaths. Susie had not stayed to listen to it. She had rushed over to Inigo at the piano.
“Do you mean to say you wrote that?” she demanded.
He smiled at her. ‚ÄúWell, Jimmy wrote the words, but I wrote the tune. It‚Äôs‚ÅÝ‚Äîer‚ÅÝ‚Äîone of those little things of mine I believe I mentioned to you the other day. A poor thing but mine own: absolutely.‚Äù
Susie stared at him, breathing hard. “And you’ve let Jerry Jerningham have it?”
“Yes, why not?”
‚ÄúWell, you are a mean pig to give it to him like that, and not even let me hear it first. I didn‚Äôt think you could be so‚ÅÝ‚Äîso‚ÅÝ‚Äîunfriendly, so spiteful.‚Äù
‚ÄúBut you said‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù
‚ÄúI know what I said. But of course I didn‚Äôt mean it. You ought to have known I didn‚Äôt mean it. Besides, I thought if you did write anything, it would be dreadful‚ÅÝ‚Äîthey usually are‚ÅÝ‚Äîand not something really good like that. And just because‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù She paused.
“Because what?” He had stopped smiling now. He was busy trying to make head or tail of these remonstrances that came flashing out without any kind of logical sequence that he could discover, and at the same time he was telling himself how pretty she was. No, it wasn’t just prettiness. Nor could you call it beauty. But there it was, infinitely delightful and disturbing.
Now she suddenly dropped her indignation. ‚ÄúIt doesn‚Äôt matter of course. It‚Äôs nothing. But I thought we were going to be friends, and it‚Äôs obvious we‚Äôre not. That‚Äôs all. I suppose you‚Äôre writing another now for Elsie Longstaff. No, I‚Äôm really cross now. I wasn‚Äôt before, and you ought to have seen I wasn‚Äôt. And I‚Äôm not cross now. Yes, I know. I thought I was but I wasn‚Äôt. I‚Äôm just‚ÅÝ‚Äîwell, I‚Äôm disappointed. That‚Äôs all.‚Äù She lowered her eyes as she tried to look brisk and cheerful. (And Inigo, bewildered but not yet entirely unobservant, did not know which it was.) ‚ÄúIt really is a good little number,‚Äù she said, with all the brittle brightness of a conscientious hostess. ‚ÄúAnd I must say, you‚Äôre clever. You‚Äôll make quite a lot of money if you keep on turning out things like that.‚Äù And she strolled away, her head in the air.
This was Inigo’s triumph, but he did not enjoy it. He sat there feeling rather ashamed of himself, though somewhere at the back of his mind was a cool little fellow who whispered that he had no reason to be ashamed of himself, that he had just been humbugged out of his triumph. Then she came back, ran across the stage, her face alight.
“I don’t want you to think I’m bad-tempered, because I’m not, really I’m not,” she cried, putting her elbows on the piano and resting her chin in her hands. In this position she could look at him steadily, and she did look at him steadily. “Now, aren’t you sorry you gave that number to Jerry Jerningham instead of me? I know I haven’t shown you yet what I can do, and I know that Jerry’s very clever in his own way. I believe you were very disappointed in me the other day, weren’t you?” she inquired, rather plaintively.
‚ÄúWell, I don‚Äôt know‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù Inigo stammered, feeling it impossible to look away and equally impossible to say what he had thought with his eyes still fixed on hers.
“Are you really a spiteful person? You don’t look like one. I thought at first you were rather nice.”
‚ÄúI am,‚Äù he replied, trying to be the good-humoured, rather whimsical middle-aged gentleman, and not succeeding at all. ‚ÄúI‚Äôm usually considered specially nice. ‚ÄòHere comes that nice Mr.¬ÝJollifant,‚Äô they say.‚Äù He put on the indulgent smile of forty-five, but felt it wobble.
“Are you? I wonder.” She stared at him with a kind of innocent speculation for a moment. “But you mustn’t try to patronize me just because you’re about three years older than I am, you know. We’re just the same age really.”
This was his chance. “Yes, yes,” he murmured. “And now you’re going to tell me that a girl is always years older than a man. I know. You’ve been reading magazine stories and light fiction from Boots’.”
“I wasn’t going to say anything of the kind,” she protested, almost too swiftly. “I was going to say I’d seen a lot more of life than you have. Then I thought I wouldn’t. ‘It might hurt his nice little conceit of himself,’ I said to myself. So I didn’t. If you want to be friends with a man, you mustn’t ever say anything to hurt his precious vanity, and as that’s always as big as a row of houses and tender all over, you have to be awfully careful.”
“Oh, do you want to be friends, then?”
‚ÄúPerhaps.‚Äù She stood up now, gave a twirl or two. ‚ÄúI haven‚Äôt made up my mind‚ÅÝ‚Äîquite.‚Äù
“Do make up your mind. I’m all for it, absolutely,” he said, turning into an eager youth again. “What’s the good of being a Good Companion, if you’re not friends.”
‚ÄúMr.¬ÝOakroyd‚Äôs my new friend,‚Äù she remarked, still twirling. ‚ÄúAhr Jess. Did you know his name‚Äôs Jess? It‚Äôs Jesiah, really. Isn‚Äôt that too sweet? He comes to me and asks all about curtains and footlights and spotlights and props, and he goes about looking so important when he‚Äôs anything to do. He‚Äôs already mended my basket for me. He says ‚ÄòIt‚Äôll do champion nar, Soos.‚Äô He calls me ‚ÄòSoos,‚Äô and tells me all about Shuddersford and the Gurt North Roo‚Äëad. We‚Äôre very thick, I can tell you. I heard him saying to Miss Trant, ‚ÄòHer and ahr Lily‚Äôs as like as two peeas.‚Äô What d‚Äôyou think of that?‚Äù She hummed a bar or two of ‚ÄúSlippin‚Äô Round the Corner,‚Äù and tried a few steps. Then she smiled at Inigo.
‚ÄúDo you know what you‚Äôre going to do now, Mr.¬ÝInigo Jollifant?‚Äù she cried softly. ‚ÄúYou‚Äôre going to write another song, just as good as that, if not a wee bit better, and that number will be all for me. I can see it coming. And‚ÅÝ‚Äîlisten‚ÅÝ‚ÄîI‚Äôll promise to put all I know into it, and then one day a big manager from the West End will hear me singing it, and he‚Äôll send for you and he‚Äôll send for me, and we‚Äôll both make our fortunes. You‚Äôll have Francis, Day, and Hunter sitting on your doorstep, and I‚Äôll have fifteen agents fighting on the stairs. Now don‚Äôt say you can‚Äôt do it, because I know you can, you‚Äôre so clever. Do you know, I said at once when I saw you, ‚ÄòThat boy with the lock of hair and the ridiculous knapsack doesn‚Äôt look like a pro, but he looks a clever boy.‚Äô That‚Äôs exactly what I said. And now, isn‚Äôt that what you‚Äôre going to do?‚Äù
And, strangely enough, Inigo admitted that it was. He even went so far as to add that already he had a tune in his head that might do, if Jimmy could dig up some words. “And are we friends again now?” he inquired.
“But of course we are,” she replied. “Though we don’t know each other very well, do we? But we’re going to work very hard together.” Then she looked him over rather severely “But, you know, you mustn’t take these little things so seriously. Mind that.”
Before he could reply, she was giving a lightning imitation of a pompous gentleman fingering a large, pointed, and very important moustache. ‚ÄúLittle things, you know, Mistah‚ÅÝ‚Äîar‚ÅÝ‚ÄîJollifant,‚Äù she croaked. ‚ÄúMe‚Äëah difference of o‚Äëpin‚Äëyon, what! The kaind of thing that may happen at any mo‚Äëoh‚Äëment‚ÅÝ‚Äîwhat!‚Äù Then she instantly became herself again, blew him a kiss, and tripped away.
Inigo stared after her and drew a very deep breath. Having had such innocents as Felton and Daisy Callander of Washbury Manor to deal with, he had come to see himself inevitably taking the lead, leaping from position to position and beckoning to the duller-witted who lumbered after him; but he could not help feeling that he had now more than met his match. Susie left him gasping. Being friends with her was going to be very exciting. It appeared that his imagination had probably not deceived him when, hearing her voice in the tearoom, it had seen a curtain go shooting up. That curtain was still going up, higher and higher.
III
In Which Colonel Trant’s Daughter Goes Into Action, Sticks to Her Guns, and May Be Considered Victorious
I
Having taken the plunge, Miss Trant found herself at once in another world. It was, so far, chiefly a world of tea and chops and telegrams. The tea and chops came from her Rawsley landlady, who was very interested, very sympathetic, but unpunctual with meals. It was her habit to offer Miss Trant odd cups of tea the moment she saw her coming in, whatever the hour; and the meals, when they did arrive, seemed to be always a chop‚ÅÝ‚Äîa ‚Äúnice chop,‚Äù which apparently meant one that was burnt on the outside and quite raw in the interior. ‚ÄúSit you down and ‚Äôave a cup o‚Äô tea, Miss Trant, and I‚Äôll do you a nice chop,‚Äù this was the good lady‚Äôs formula. Fortunately, Miss Trant was hardly ever hungry that first week. Perhaps it was the telegrams that took away her appetite. Although the Trants had for generations made a trade, as it were, out of alarms and excursions, a telegram had still been something of an event at Hitherton, and even at the Old Hall the sight of a little brown envelope called up visions of catastrophe. But now the little brown envelopes fell in showers. The telegram was apparently the common method of communication in this extraordinary world, where everybody seemed to be ‚Äúwiring‚Äù everybody else. Prompted by Jimmy Nunn, armed with the current number of The Stage, she ‚Äúwired‚Äù the proprietors of Winter Gardens, Alfresco Pavilions, Kursaals, Chalets, and Playhouses, mostly in places she had never heard of before, and even such people as printers and costumiers had to be ‚Äúwired‚Äù too; and all these wires promptly produced other wires, some of them so compressed that they might as well have been in cipher, and others of a staggering length and fluency, like strange heads coming round the door and screaming at the top of their voices at her. Of all the others, only Mr.¬ÝOakroyd, who frequently trotted round to the Post Office for her, shared her amazement at all this wiring. ‚ÄúEh!‚ÅÝ‚Äîwe‚Äôre keeping all t‚Äôtelegraph lads i‚Äô t‚Äô country on t‚Äôrun,‚Äù he would cry. ‚ÄúIt‚Äôs war ner workin‚Äô for a bookie.‚Äù The waste of money appalled him, but he could not help being delighted by the dash and importance of it all. At the Post Office he soon became a familiar figure. ‚ÄúIf I bring yer onny more,‚Äù he would tell them, ‚Äúhappen you‚Äôll be declaring a divvy this year‚Äù; and the three young women behind the counter would nod and say, brightly, if vaguely: ‚ÄúThat‚Äôs right‚Äù; and they were all very friendly.
Living in such a world of telegraphy, Miss Trant felt she had no right to sit down and enjoy a meal at her leisure. She did sit down‚ÅÝ‚Äîthough she always felt she ought to be standing up‚ÅÝ‚Äîbut she ate her chops as hastily and perfunctorily as her landlady had cooked them. The latter, we may say, proffered a brief sketch of a dinner, and Miss Trant, in her turn, replied with a brief sketch of a diner. It was only late in the evening, when there were no more ‚Äúdates‚Äù to be considered and no more problems to be instantly solved, that she achieved any real sustenance. This she did by drinking a large cup of cocoa (a weakness of hers) and munching her way through innumerable buttered Digestive biscuits while staring at a book. The book was Barlasch of the Guard, borrowed on the payment of twopence and a deposit of half a crown from the little stationer‚Äôs in the marketplace, and very slow the story seemed too, after all the telegrams. She was beginning to read these things with the air of an old soldier listening to a fellow veteran only a year or two older than herself.
The problems she had to solve were numerous and for the most part fantastic. One of the most reasonable was that of costumes. Like many other concert parties, the late Dinky Doos had made a practice of giving the first part of their entertainment in fancy pierrot costume and the second half in evening dress. The Good Companions had decided to continue this practice, though two members of the party had protested against it. Mr.¬ÝJerningham had objected because he delighted himself in evening dress, which he would have worn in the morning if he could have done so. Mr.¬ÝJoe Brundit objected because he always had trouble with his dress collars‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚ÄúThey fairly saw my head off some nights,‚Äù he grumbled‚ÅÝ‚Äîand was very gloomy about laundries. These gentlemen were allowed to argue with one another, but otherwise no notice was taken of them. Miss Trant discovered, however, that she disliked the pierrot costumes worn by the three women. They were cheap, faded, cottony things, and must be replaced at once. There popped up in Miss Trant, who had always dressed herself very quietly, partly because she had been timid and partly because she really thought a quiet style suited her, a long-hidden lover of the gaudy and fantastic in clothes, and this dashing creature hurried off in the car to the nearest large town and showed her shimmering cascades of silk, plunged her into orgies of apple-green and scarlet and lilac and jade, called down a rain of multicoloured frills and tassels and pompoms. And she found two allies. Mrs.¬ÝJoe was useless, simply a born knitter and nothing more. Nor was Susie much better, for though her taste was reasonably good (Mrs.¬ÝJoe‚Äôs was vile), she was much too impatient and not at all clever with her fingers, as she readily admitted herself. This was a disappointment to Miss Trant, with whom Susie was already a favourite. It was the fluffy Elsie, the one she liked least so far, who proved herself to be a treasure in this matter of costumes. Elsie had a passion for clothes; she had good taste; she could design, cut out, and sew like a professional tailor and needlewoman. She also had‚ÅÝ‚Äîas Susie said‚ÅÝ‚Äîa nose for clever, cheap dressmakers, and it was she who brought in the second ally, Miss Thong. There can be no doubt that Miss Thong really was a clever, cheap dressmaker and that she worked miracles for them those few days, but that is not the reason why she deserves a little space to herself. We must glance at Miss Thong because the image of her haunted Miss Trant at odd moments throughout that winter. Miss Thong has a part in the homely epic; it is a very tiny part‚ÅÝ‚Äîno more than that of a whispering ghost‚ÅÝ‚Äîbut we cannot say it has no significance. Miss Trant remembers her to this very day.
She went with Elsie, who knew the way. They walked the length of an unusually monotonous street of little brick houses, which ended in some waste ground, a melancholy muddle of worn turf, clayey holes, wire-netting, and ramshackle fowl-houses made out of orange boxes, and a few dirty and listless hens. The last house on the left was detached from the row, but was yet so close to it, so obviously still a part of it, that Miss Trant felt that this house had just been sawn off, as if it were the crust of a long loaf. It looked like a slice too, for it was severely rectangular and only one room in breadth, being indeed the very narrowest house she had ever seen. It was not old; it was not dingy; it was newish, had a bright glazed look, and was immediately depressing. There were two little brass plates on the door; one said Midland Guardian and Widows Fire and Life Assurance and the other whispered Miss Thong‚ÅÝ‚ÄîDressmaker. The door was opened to them by the Midland Guardian, who had watery eyes, a drooping grey moustache, carpet slippers, and a coat and waistcoat that had seen far too much gravy and egg. Yes, yes, his daughter was in, and they could see her; but she was busy; she was always busy these days, always in great demand; and she wasn‚Äôt too strong, not really strong enough for all the work that came. One of these days, he told them as they went into the tiny sitting-room, he would have to put his foot down, the girl was doing too much. And he shuffled out, to tell her they were there. ‚ÄúI know the sort of foot he‚Äôll put down,‚Äù Elsie whispered. ‚ÄúI‚Äôll bet she keeps him going all right. If he makes enough out of his insurance to keep him in whisky, I‚Äôd be surprised. Silly old blighter! But she isn‚Äôt strong, either. She‚Äôs a queer little thing.‚Äù
She was a queer little thing; no older than Miss Trant herself, perhaps, but very small and crooked, with thin hair pathetically bobbed, hollow cheeks, and a long nose that seemed to flush in a most unhappy manner. Her eyes were bright enough but she had hardly any eyelashes and the lids were slightly reddened. Perhaps she was consumptive. She looked as if she might have anything and everything wrong with that frail body of hers. It seemed as if one winter’s night would extinguish her forever. Nevertheless, as soon as she saw Elsie, her face lit up and she plunged at once into a gasping prattle that never stopped all the way up to the front room upstairs that was her workroom. When she learned that the troupe was to be reformed under the direction of Miss Trant, she was genuinely delighted, almost in an ecstasy. She insisted upon telling Miss Trant all about the two performances of the Dinky Doos she had seen when they had been giving the show the first week.
‚ÄúIt was such a treat to me, you can‚Äôt imagine,‚Äù she gasped. ‚ÄúAnd then when Miss Longstaff came here‚ÅÝ‚Äîand I‚Äôd seen her only two nights before, singing and dancing there and looking prettier than a picture‚ÅÝ‚Äîwell, well, it was a surprise! I stared at her, couldn‚Äôt believe my own eyes! I must have looked a sketch.‚Äù Here Miss Thong laughed heartily at herself. ‚ÄúDidn‚Äôt you think I did, Miss Longstaff? Never mind, so did you, when you came on as that little girl in the choir. That was a skit, that was. Laugh!‚ÅÝ‚Äîyou ought to have heard me. And that Mr.¬ÝNunn‚ÅÝ‚Äîhe‚Äôs a comic, if you like. The way he went on telling everybody they was late! And then betting five pounds with that other one who was it?‚ÅÝ‚Äîthat fine sing‚Äëger‚ÅÝ‚Äîyes, that‚Äôs him‚ÅÝ‚ÄîMr.¬ÝBrundit‚ÅÝ‚Äîoh, that was good! And that Miss Susie Dean! Isn‚Äôt she a card? The way she took people off! Really enjoying herself, she was, you could tell just by looking at her. So pretty too! And what high spirits! Now don‚Äôt you go and be jealous, Miss Longstaff, because I‚Äôll say the same for you. I‚Äôm not going to quarrel with the prettiest customer I‚Äôve got, and a real famous actress too‚ÅÝ‚Äîno, no, no!‚Äù And Miss Thong cocked her head on one side, looked very arch and very cunning at one and the same time, and then laughed at herself so heartily that she burst into a fit of coughing and hastily put a handkerchief to her mouth.
Miss Trant stared out of the window a minute, then said: “I’m glad you enjoyed the show so much, Miss Thong. At least, I imagine you did,” she added, with a smile.
‚ÄúI haven‚Äôt enjoyed anything so much, I don‚Äôt know when,‚Äù cried Miss Thong. ‚ÄúI went twice‚ÅÝ‚Äîdid I tell you? It‚Äôs not usual for me to go even once, but twice‚ÅÝ‚Äîthen it‚Äôs got to be extra special. I said to Pa‚ÅÝ‚Äîhe doesn‚Äôt like me going out much, you know‚ÅÝ‚Äîbut I said to him ‚ÄòI know I‚Äôm very busy,‚Äô I said, ‚Äòand I know it costs money. But I must go again,‚Äô I said, ‚Äòbecause they‚Äôre so good they‚Äôve taken me right out of myself, what with their sing‚Äëging and lovely dancing and their comics and all,‚Äô I said. And when I heard they‚Äôd gone and broken up‚ÅÝ‚Äîoh, the news soon gets round in Rawsley!‚ÅÝ‚Äîwell, I could have sat down and cried. And then Miss Longstaff told me how they‚Äôd been treated, Miss What‚Äôs it‚ÅÝ‚ÄîMiss Trant, I beg your pardon. ‚ÄòWhat a shame!‚Äô I said. There I‚Äôd been sitting here, thinking how lovely they looked and trying to hum some of the songs and telling myself they hadn‚Äôt a care in the world, and there they were all feeling as miserable as anything, not knowing where to look, you might say, and me here with my nice little business. And that only made me feel more miserable. You know how you can get sometimes?‚Äù And Miss Thong laughed again. ‚ÄúBut to think that you‚Äôre beginning all over again!‚Äù
“And going to be better,” said Elsie. “We’ve got two good new men.”
“Just fancy!” cried Miss Thong delightedly. “It just shows you, doesn’t it? You never know what’s waiting round the corner, as I tell Pa. He’ll never believe in anything. Oh, these business men, I say! He never would believe we’d get this house. But here we are. And isn’t it nice here, Miss Trant?” She almost pushed them both over to the window with her. They looked out at the bald turf, the half-bricks and tin cans, the huddle of box lids and wire netting and hens.
“Very nice,” said Miss Trant. Then, with an effort: “Very nice indeed.”
‚ÄúIsn‚Äôt it?‚Äù cried Miss Thong. ‚ÄúIt‚Äôs so open. You‚Äôre in the town and yet not in it, I say. Especially up here, looking right out. That‚Äôs where all the boys down the street play‚ÅÝ‚Äîcricket and football‚ÅÝ‚Äîand though they‚Äôre a bit noisy, I don‚Äôt mind it‚ÅÝ‚Äîquite cheers you up to see them running about and hear them shouting. It‚Äôs a bit of life, isn‚Äôt it? I‚Äôm glad you think it‚Äôs nice here. It‚Äôs made such a difference to me having such a lookout. What with this house and the dressmaking doing so well, they‚Äôll be telling me soon I‚Äôm getting above myself. Perhaps I am, what with actresses coming too, eh, Miss Longstaff? Somebody said to me, the other day, when I told them, they said ‚ÄòYou‚Äôll be going on the stage yourself next, Miss Thong.‚Äô ‚ÄòAnd a fine sketch I‚Äôd look!‚Äô I said.‚Äù Here Miss Thong laughed and coughed again, and Elsie laughed a little too, and Miss Trant tried to laugh, but found it easier to turn away and undo the parcels they had brought with them.
They told her what they wanted, and she frowned and gasped out questions and nodded excitedly and busied herself clearing the worktable. ‚ÄúThere, you can go away,‚Äù she cried to the vanishing pieces of material, ‚Äúand so can you, and you, and you. Coat and skirt‚ÅÝ‚Äîblue serge and braid‚ÅÝ‚Äîfor Mrs.¬ÝMoxon‚ÅÝ‚Äîthat‚Äôs the last of you for a bit and I don‚Äôt care if you are promised. Semi-evening for Miss Abbey‚ÅÝ‚Äîwants it for whist-drives‚ÅÝ‚Äîand you‚Äôll have to wait. Yes, I‚Äôll do it for you, Miss Trant, Miss Longstaff, but don‚Äôt‚ÅÝ‚Äîoh, don‚Äôt‚ÅÝ‚Äîbreathe a word to anyone in Rawsley I‚Äôm doing it, or my custom‚Äôs gone! You see, I‚Äôve promised and promised and better promised‚ÅÝ‚Äîand they come round and ask and ask‚ÅÝ‚Äîjust as if a girl had twelve pairs of hands. But I‚Äôll do it for you. I don‚Äôt care. They can all wait, that‚Äôs what I say.‚Äù The little crooked creature grasped the edge of her table, stood as erect as she could, and, with cheeks paler than ever but with her great nose flushing triumphantly, she seemed to defy a host of clamouring Moxons and Abbeys, coats and skirts and semi-evenings. ‚ÄúSo there you are,‚Äù she cried. ‚ÄúIf I‚Äôve to lock myself in this room, give out I‚Äôm ill again, I‚Äôll do it. Let‚Äôs have a bit of life, I say. Now tell me what you want and show me what you‚Äôve got.‚Äù
“We want a harlequin effect in some of the dresses,” said Elsie. “We’ve got all sorts of remnants and lovely odd bits. Look here. Sateens and light silks and crêpe de Chine and velvet.” And the next minute, the worktable had disappeared, and in its place was a crazy garden of fabrics, a rainbow carnival.
‚ÄúOh, I say! O‚Äëo‚Äëoh!‚Äù After this first rapturous cry, Miss Thong breathed hard, quivered with delight, pressed her hands together, and stared and stared, as if her eyes had long been thirsty and could at last drink their fill. Then she fell upon the glowing heap. ‚ÄúOh, look at this‚ÅÝ‚Äîand this‚ÅÝ‚Äîand these two together,‚Äù she babbled ecstatically. ‚ÄúHere‚Äôs some apricot velvet‚ÅÝ‚Äîlovely cap it would make, wouldn‚Äôt it? And that old rose‚ÅÝ‚Äîlet me smooth it out‚ÅÝ‚Äîlook!‚ÅÝ‚Äîput that with it‚ÅÝ‚Äîwait till I get some pins‚ÅÝ‚Äîhundreds of pins‚ÅÝ‚Äîoh, aren‚Äôt I silly?‚Äù
“I was like that the other day,” said Miss Trant, laughing.
“I’m always like that,” said Elsie, who was indeed nearly as excited as Miss Thong. “They go to my head, I can tell you, Look at that, Miss Thong. Isn’t it lovely?”
“Isn’t it! Oh, deary dear! It’s all lovely, and I don’t know where to start or whether I’m on my head or my heels or laughing or crying, I don’t really. Now aren’t I silly?” And it certainly looked as if something dreadful would happen to Miss Thong, who was trying to laugh and cough and blow her nose and pick up some of the silks and fill her mouth with pins all at the same time. At last, however, she quietened down, the professional dressmaker taking the place of the enraptured woman, and they discussed the dresses they wanted. It was arranged that Elsie should help her when she was not wanted for rehearsal, during the remaining two days at Rawsley.
It was Wednesday evening when Miss Trant called there again. The thin little house, now besieged by the curiously melancholy dusk of autumn, that smoky blue into which the green and gold of summer has vanished, it seems, forever, looked forlorn enough, but its glazed brightness had gone and there was something cheerful and brave, a hint of the indomitable, about that lighted upstairs window. Elsie was there, looking very pink and rounded and robust by the side of Miss Thong, who in the searching gaslight seemed frailer and uglier than before, like a worn-out witch, with that great nose and her dimmed eyes peering between their reddened lids. She was obviously tired out, yet greeted Miss Trant triumphantly. Two dresses were completed.
“And Miss Longstaff’s is one of them,” she began.
“Elsie, I told you,” said that young lady.
“There now!” she cried to Miss Trant, nodding her head. “She wants me to call her Elsie. Aren’t I getting on? And it seems only a minute since I saw her on the stage. Well, then, Elsie’s is finished and it’s the loveliest thing you ever saw, Miss Trant, it really is. Do put it on, Elsie. Slip into my bedroom and put it on. Just to please me.”
After an interrogative glance at Miss Trant, Elsie nodded, went out, and returned in an incredibly short space of time an entirely different person. In that soft shimmer of blues and greens she looked almost beautiful.
“But what a lovely dress you’ve made!” cried Miss Trant with genuine enthusiasm. “It’s like a wood full of bluebells.” She turned to Miss Thong to congratulate her.
But Miss Thong‚Äôs gaze was still fastened mistily upon Elsie. Her lips were quivering a little, and her long clever hands were clutching and twisting. ‚ÄúOh‚ÅÝ‚ÄîMiss‚ÅÝ‚ÄîMiss‚ÅÝ‚ÄîElsie,‚Äù she faltered, moving a step or so towards her. ‚ÄúYou do look beautiful in it. And I made it, didn‚Äôt I? And to think of you‚ÅÝ‚Äîwearing it‚ÅÝ‚Äîsing‚Äëging and dancing in it‚ÅÝ‚Äîgoing all over‚ÅÝ‚Äîthousands of people. Oh, I am silly‚ÅÝ‚Äîbut‚ÅÝ‚Äîjust to think‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù
Elsie put an arm about her, held her for a moment, then stooped and lightly kissed her on the cheek. “You’re not silly, you’re very clever,” she said softly. “There. Isn’t she clever, Miss Trant? We shall have to put her name on the programmes, won’t we? Dresses by Madame Thong of Rawsley.”
‚ÄúOh, go on with you,‚Äù gasped Miss Thong, dabbing at her eyes and laughing and crying. ‚ÄúI really must be tired. I don‚Äôt know when I‚Äôve taken on so. You must be thinking ‚ÄòShe‚Äôs a ridiculous little thing.‚Äô Now aren‚Äôt you? Never mind, we‚Äôre all a bit silly sometimes. Best thing I can do is to put in a bit at Mrs.¬ÝMoxon‚Äôs coat and skirt, that‚Äôll bring me to my senses. Two yards of braid to put on, plenty of machining, that what I want. There now, let‚Äôs talk about the other things.‚Äù
So they settled down to talk about the other dresses and were very businesslike. It was when Miss Thong began to discuss sending them on and to ask about addresses that Miss Trant, who was moved by the thought of their leaving this little woman and never seeing her again, had an inspiration.
‚ÄúTomorrow morning, you know,‚Äù she began, ‚Äúwe leave for a place called Dotworth‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù
“That’s the three-night stand I told you about,” Elsie put in, nodding at Miss Thong.
‚ÄúAnd then next week we go to a seaside place on the East Coast called Sandybay,‚Äù Miss Trant continued. ‚ÄúNow if all the dresses will be finished by about next Monday or Tuesday, why don‚Äôt you bring them yourself‚ÅÝ‚Äîyou needn‚Äôt carry them, you know; we can arrange about that‚ÅÝ‚Äîand then you can try them on.‚Äù
“And I could see you all on the stage too, couldn’t I?” cried Miss Thong eagerly, her face lighting up.
“Of course you could. And it would be a nice little holiday for you too, after all your hard work. You could stay a day or two.”
‚ÄúOh, wouldn‚Äôt that be lovely! Going to the seaside and trying on the dresses and seeing them on the stage perhaps and hearing it all again and better than last time and‚ÅÝ‚Äîoh‚ÅÝ‚Äîeverything!‚Äù For a moment she saw it all, fastened on it in pure rapture. Then the light died out of her face. ‚ÄúBut I couldn‚Äôt do it, Miss Trant. Oh, I wish I could, but I really couldn‚Äôt.‚Äù
“Why not?”
‚ÄúOh!‚ÅÝ‚Äîso many things. There‚Äôs‚ÅÝ‚ÄîI don‚Äôt know‚ÅÝ‚ÄîI couldn‚Äôt begin to think of it.‚Äù
“Of course we should pay your expenses,” said Miss Trant casually. “Naturally, when you’re working for us. It’s the usual thing, isn’t it, Elsie?”
“Done every time,” replied Elsie promptly and with a grateful glance at Miss Trant. Then she looked severely at Miss Thong. “Now you’re being really silly. I don’t believe you want to see me in my dress. You come along. I’ll get you in my digs.”
‚ÄúYes, of course, Elsie, Miss Trant, I know‚ÅÝ‚Äîbut‚ÅÝ‚Äîoh, don‚Äôt ask me! There‚Äôs Pa. He‚Äôd never let me go, I know he wouldn‚Äôt.‚Äù
“Where is he? Is he in now? Downstairs? All right, you leave him to me,” said Elsie grimly. “If it’s only Pa that’s bothering you, I’ll soon settle Pa.”
And off she went, there and then, leaving Miss Thong‚ÅÝ‚Äîas she admitted‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äúdownright flabbergasted.‚Äù It took Elsie exactly five minutes to settle Pa, and there could be no doubt‚ÅÝ‚Äîas a glance at her face promptly informed them‚ÅÝ‚Äîthat on this question the Midland Guardian was settled once and for all.
“And didn’t he mind then?” cried Miss Thong in wonder and delight.
“Not a bit,” said Elsie, still grimly. “He liked it. And he’ll keep on liking it.”
‚ÄúWell, I‚Äôll come then. Yes, I will. I‚Äôll work and work and get them all finished and I‚Äôll bring them. I know there‚Äôs an excursion from here to Sandybay‚ÅÝ‚Äîfour days or something‚ÅÝ‚Äîand that‚Äôll make it cheaper. I don‚Äôt know how I‚Äôll get all the dresses to the station.‚Äù
“I do,” said Elsie. “Pa will take them.”
“And I shall be able to come in and see you all for nothing, won’t I?” cried Miss Thong. “And perhaps go behind the scenes.”
“Of course! Madame Thong, dressmaker to the Good Companions,” said Elsie. “Can’t we put it in the programmes, Miss Trant?”
“We can and we will,” she replied, rising. “We must finish making the arrangements now. I’ve still got heaps and heaps of things to do. I wondered at first how I should find anything to do, but now I seem to be busy from the crack of dawn.”
“I’m sure you like it, don’t you, Miss Trant?” said Miss Thong. “It’s a bit of life, isn’t it? That’s what I feel about doing these dresses. Give me a bit of life, I say.”
And that was one of the things Miss Trant did not forget.
II
It was very exciting being at last on the move. She took with her in the car Jimmy Nunn and Mr.¬ÝOakroyd, setting off early so that these two would have an opportunity of putting the stage in order, for the hall they were using at Dotworth, known as the Olympic, was a picture theatre. The others came on later, by train. On the way, she tried to be very cool about it all, told herself that it was, of course, a most absurd frolic, but nevertheless she was very excited. And that night she would see the party‚ÅÝ‚Äîher party‚ÅÝ‚Äîhow ridiculous that sounded!‚ÅÝ‚Äîon the stage, acting before an audience, for the first time. Just before they arrived there she had to make a confession.
“You know, I feel thrilled already,” she told Jimmy.
He was rather troubled about this. ‚ÄúNot that I don‚Äôt understand; I do,‚Äù he said. ‚ÄúI don‚Äôt care if a man‚Äôs been fifty years in the business, there‚Äôs the same old thrill comes back. Opening night‚ÅÝ‚Äîall of a doodah! I know. I‚Äôve had some opening nights in my time. It‚Äôs that as much as anything that ruins a man‚Äôs digestion.‚Äù
“Isn’t yours any better?”
“Better! Worse and worse! Believe me, I’ve nearly forgotten the motions of eating. A knife and fork worries me. I ate so little at Rawsley that even the landlady complained, said it was putting her off her own feed, and her husband came to see me one night and got quite nasty about it, said their food was as good as anybody else’s, and he was tired of eating my meals cold or warmed-up and being called a glutton by his missis into the bargain. But what I wanted to say is this. Don’t expect anything here, Miss Trant.”
“What haven’t I to expect?”
“Anything at all,” he replied promptly. “The show’s not in shape yet. This Dotworth isn’t a real date. I know the place; played it once before, years ago. It’s a dud. All we’re doing, Miss Trant, is trying it on the dog.”
And Dotworth looked rather like a dog. “One of these forlorn yellow little mongrels,” Miss Trant told herself. In the faint sunlight the little town looked yellowish, and there was something forlorn about the streets through which they were passing.
The Olympic was a very small place, sandwiched between an ironmonger‚Äôs and a draper‚Äôs. On a board in front was pasted one of their new bills. There it was‚ÅÝ‚ÄîThe Good Companions‚ÅÝ‚Äîin bold lettering. The sight of it gave Miss Trant a sense of achievement that was very pleasant.
“But look at that,” groaned Jimmy, pointing, “just look at it, I ask you.”
Undoubtedly the bill was not very impressive. It suffered because underneath it was a highly coloured poster of a film. This poster showed several pairs of legs, apparently supporting the Good Companions’ bill, and underneath these legs were letters of flame that said: A Drama from the very Depths of the Soul.
“That’s what they do to you in these one-eyed holes,” said Jimmy. “You’ll have to cover that poster up, Oakroyd.”
Miss Trant had never heard of a “one-eyed hole” before, but the term kept popping up in her mind during the afternoon and early evening, when she was busy running round Dotworth, going from the station to the Olympic, from the Olympic to her hotel. Dotworth certainly was a one-eyed hole, and by the time the doors of the Olympic were opened, she was convinced that the solitary eye would not be fixed upon the Good Companions. It was not the first time she had been anxious about the size of an audience, for she had helped at charity concerts and the like at Hitherton, but she had never felt so anxious before. When she saw the doors open and people walking past them, she positively winced. But if the people went in, she was not happy about them but busy wondering if they would enjoy it. Before the curtain went up, she was able to count the audience. There were ninety-three altogether; twelve in the one-and-tenpenny seats; thirty-seven in the one-and-twopenny seats (but these included ten free passes for people exhibiting bills): and the remaining forty-four were ninepennies at the back. She tried to do a little mental arithmetic but was not successful, so she called it three pounds and reminded herself that their next three performances could only be considered dress rehearsals.
“I’m not gone on these ’ere pierrots,” she heard somebody say. “Give me pitchers.” Then, a minute later, the same voice went on: “That is so. Just what I’ve said many a time, many and many a time.” The woman cleared her throat mournfully. “Give me pitchers.”
Miss Trant felt like giving her a box on the ears. Pictures indeed! Still tingling, she sat down at the very end of one of the one-and-tenpenny rows, having agreed that for this first night she must keep in front. The great moment arrived. No footlights suddenly and beautifully illuminated the curtain, for there were no footlights. The stage was lighted from above, and now these lights were switched on and those in the body of the hall turned off. There came the thrilling sound of a gong, then the crash of a chord or two, followed by a run, on the piano. The curtain rose about a foot, hesitated, wobbled, then rose another six inches‚ÅÝ‚Äîthen stopped‚ÅÝ‚Äîto reveal several agitated pairs of legs. There was some agonized whispering. Then a voice spoke out from the wings in desperation. ‚ÄúNay,‚Äù it said, ‚Äúshoo won‚Äôt budge an inch.‚Äù
There was some clapping and jeering at the back.
“Sh-sh,” cried Miss Trant fiercely, turning round.
The curtain began wobbling again: jerked up another few inches; stopped again; then suddenly ran up at full speed, presenting the audience with a splendid view of Jimmy Nunn’s back. But that gentleman was equal to the occasion. He did not run off but cooly turned round, made a face at the audience, and said: “Oh, you’re here, are you? Couldn’t make out where you’d got to. I’ll call the others. They’d like to see you.” And he put two fingers to his mouth and whistled, gave Inigo at the piano a nod, sat himself down behind the drums, and they crashed into the opening chorus. It was superbly done. Miss Trant felt as if she had just tobogganed over a chasm. She had not been so excited about anything for years.
It was very odd and amusing seeing her new friends on the stage. She had never known any professionals before, and it was quite different from watching amateurs. When you saw people you knew acting with amateur dramatic societies, they were merely themselves with parts stuck on to them: Mrs.¬ÝCorvison pretended to be a maid, and Major Thompson wore a wig and butler‚Äôs clothes‚ÅÝ‚Äîand that was all. But with these professionals, you lost all sight of the private personalities; they simply came to life on the stage in another sort of way; and as you watched them, you could hardly believe that you really knew them as people. Jimmy Nunn, for example, was all drollery; he had an entirely new voice, very queer and squeaky; and the man she knew who had been so worried about percentages and his digestion completely disappeared. Mr.¬ÝJerningham, whose dancing was so astonishing, became a vivid personality. Mr.¬ÝMitcham was immensely dignified and impressive, and when he was repeatedly contradicted and fooled by Jimmy and pretended to lose his temper, he seemed like an outraged ambassador. Elsie appeared to be ten years younger, and frivolity itself; though her stage personality appealed to Miss Trant rather less than her real one. Even the Brundits, whose singing interested Miss Trant less than any other part of the performance, simply because she had heard much better singing of this kind all her life, at least contrived to be imposing figures. Mrs.¬ÝJoe swam down the stage like a Queen of Song, and acknowledged any applause that came her way with the air of a duchess opening a charity bazaar. And Joe, when he was busy ‚Äúfeeding‚Äù Jimmy, could say ‚ÄúWell, I‚Äôll bet you a fiver, old man,‚Äù and produce a crumpled bit of newspaper, quite in the manner of a gentleman whose pockets are stuffed with fivers. As for Susie, who was best of all, she did not change; she was still her delightful self: but she seemed enlarged and intensified in this new atmosphere; she treated the stage as if it were her own hearthrug and the audience as if it were composed of old friends attending her birthday party. Everything she did was deliciously absurd. She sang ordinary sentimental little music-hall songs, and by letting her voice slide down and down, by catching her breath at awkward moments, by a droll flick of a glance, she turned them inside out and then tossed them away with an easy scorn. Her dancing itself was a delicate parody, a sly comment on Elsie and Jerry Jerningham. And then she contrived to give lightning sketches of all manner of people; just a phrase or two, a walk, a gesture, a grimace, and you were reminded at once of somebody solemn and ridiculous you had known; if she only had to cross the stage, she would do it in character or caricature, and you had to laugh; she was always being somebody and yet she was always Susie too, for you were always conscious of the girl herself, with her dark eyes and tilted nose, her rather square shoulders, her sturdy figure. Unlike Jimmy Nunn, she did not seem to give you a set performance; her acting was a kind of witty romping, an overflow of high spirits; and it was all essentially feminine‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚ÄúAren‚Äôt they absurd, my dear?‚Äù it seemed to say; and Miss Trant, who remembered so well the times she had felt like that, but could do nothing but bottle it up, adored her. The fact that Dotworth evidently thought the girl an amateurish trifler, who ought to learn to sing a luscious ballad or redden her nose and be really funny, only stiffened Miss Trant‚Äôs allegiance and fed the flame of her enthusiasm. Oh, it had been worth it just for Susie! This girl had to go on and on, that was certain.
When the final curtain came, the applause was only halfhearted. Miss Trant stood up and clapped fiercely. There was the company, her company and her friends, who had worked so hard all the evening and the whole week before this evening; there they were, smiling‚ÅÝ‚Äîfor the curtain had risen again just to let them smile‚ÅÝ‚Äîand these poor Dotworth creatures could only stare or go poking about for their hats. It was not fair. Miss Trant clapped harder than ever, and then, when the lights came on, there was some staring in her direction, but she did not care. At least, one Miss Trant did not care, even if the other did‚ÅÝ‚Äîfor now there seemed to be two of her.
There was the Miss Trant who had been growing up so quickly ever since she left Hitherton. It was this Miss Trant who had so suddenly, so recklessly, so absurdly decided to run the Concert Party, who had plunged into this shabby and adventurous world of minor theatres and had so far enjoyed every moment it had offered her, who had become passionately concerned with dates and rentals and seating and production numbers and costumes, who had already plucked out of this dingy wilderness of lodgings, makeshift theatres, and dull little towns, the fine flowers of work and comradeship and loyalty. But there still remained the Miss Trant who had lived so long at the Old Hall, Hitherton, the woman who had arrived in her middle thirties in a very different world, into which none of her new companions, except perhaps Inigo Jollifant, could ever have found their way; a world full of people who would see very little difference between travelling round with a concert party and singing in the streets. It would be idle to pretend that this Miss Trant had been banished forever almost at a moment‚Äôs notice. She was there in the background, wondering and sometimes wincing. She was ready to point out that this was all very well perhaps for a week or two‚Äôs frolic, while they were moving obscurely in little towns, but that sooner or later the two worlds must clash and then there would probably be a catastrophe in one of them. She had her hour when there came a reply from Mr.¬ÝTruby of Cheltenham, the solicitor, who had had to be told something of what was happening so that he could make arrangements with the bank about forwarding money. Mr.¬ÝTruby had replied that he would do his best to carry out her instructions and did not anticipate any difficulty; he was as solemnly courteous as ever and showed no trace of surprise; yet there was that in his letter which announced in effect that Mr.¬ÝTruby was ready to carry out the wishes of any clients no matter how monstrous they might be, until such time as he received a medical certificate proving their insanity. And that was only a beginning. Very soon there must come a real test‚ÅÝ‚Äîand what would happen then? Could this tiny fantastic army of pierrots withstand the massed forces of Hitherton? Those forces could act through the glance of amazement, the lifted eyebrows, the horrified remonstrances, of a single person; and Miss Trant was aware of the fact, though she had not the least idea who the person might be.
She had not to wait for either the test or the person. They arrived together, on the Wednesday afternoon of the following week, at Sandybay.
III
Dotworth had been a failure: they had made neither friends nor money there, and they had all been glad to leave the place. They would really make a start, they told one another, at Sandybay, which some of them knew and proclaimed to be ‚Äúnot a bad date.‚Äù Miss Trant had never heard of it before, but then she knew very little about the East Coast. It was certainly very pleasant after Rawsley and Dotworth, for it was a clean friendly little town, open to salt winds that as yet only had a healthy chill in them. In the mornings, when the October sun struggled through, there was a fine sparkle on the sea, the air was as crisp and sweet as an apple, and it was delightful to swing along the promenade. In the centre, the old part, Sandybay was still a fishing village, a fascinating higgledy-piggledy of boats, nets, capstans, blue jerseys, mahogany faces, and queer inns. On the outskirts, it was a residential town; it had a ring of little villas and two golf courses; and retired army officers and district commissioners abounded there, battling with weeds in the morning, trying a niblick in the afternoon, and bidding a quite unjustified Three No Trumps in the evening. In the spaces between these outskirts and the old fishing village, Sandybay was a growing but still ‚Äúselect‚Äù resort; and here you found the Beach Hotel, the Sandringham Boardinghouse, the Old Oak Caf√©, the Elite Picture Theatre, Eastman‚Äôs Circulating Library, the Municipal Bandstand and Floral Gardens, and the Pier. This Pier went forward about twenty-five yards, then swelled out in a rather dropsical fashion to support a Pavilion, which looked like an overgrown and neglected greenhouse. However, it boasted a stage equipped with floodlights, a spotlight, and an excellent curtain, a grand piano and several dressing-rooms for artistes, and seating accommodation for six hundred people. After achieving this Pavilion, the Pier went on again for about a hundred yards and ended in a subdued riot of little kiosks and automatic machines, the whole dominated by the Refreshment Room, where the very red-faced men who took out monthly angling tickets could obtain a little Scotch or Draught Bass. It is perhaps worth remarking, in passing, that our friend Mr.¬ÝMorton Mitcham had made the Refreshment Room his headquarters and had become a great favourite with both the staff (one blonde and one brunette) and the patrons, who included in their number two gentlemen who were nearly sure‚ÅÝ‚Äîafter some prompting‚ÅÝ‚Äîthat they had seen Mr.¬ÝMitcham before, one in Singapore in Nought Three, the other in Sydney in Nought Eight. Mr.¬ÝMitcham himself declared more than once that he remembered them both very well, and they were all very happy together.
It was the manager of the Pier who had engaged the Good Companions (on a sixty percent basis, with a thirty-pound guarantee), for Sandybay was trying to extend its season until the end of October and had promised its visitors a “First-class Concert Party every week in the Pier Pavilion” throughout the month. The fact that the Good Companions had found it ridiculously easy to find lodgings (with sitting-rooms wildly thrown in) suggested there had not been any rush of belated holidaymakers during this second week of October. And so far, that is, on Monday and Tuesday evenings, the attendances had been poor. Jimmy Nunn said there were plenty of people in the town, enough to give them a full house every night, but that they had no inclination to walk out to the Pier Pavilion. Miss Trant agreed with him. The town was bright enough in the morning, lit by the huge flickering gem of the sea, but by teatime this brightness had faded, the waters were ghostly, the waves came lapping in melancholy, and the evening, twice accompanied by a drizzle of rain, was forlorn indeed, and there was nothing more forlorn in it than the echoing length of the Pier. A cosy theatre of the old-fashioned kind, all gilt and crimson plush, stuffy and glittering, would have been proof against such evenings, but this Pavilion, like nothing but a huge decayed conservatory, was helpless before the mourning mystery of the autumnal darkness and the moan of the sea. But there was time yet, they told one another; the end of the week was always better than the beginning.
Miss Trant had had an early lunch on this Wednesday so that she could see what was happening in the Pavilion, where Mr.¬ÝOakroyd, assisted by Joe (who was not a bad hand with a paint brush), was making a little set for a new production-number-cum-sketch devised by Jimmy Nunn. This set showed the exterior of a cottage and consisted of a practicable door and window and a few square feet of painted canvas at each side. Mr.¬ÝOakroyd and Joe had nearly finished and were now sitting in their shirtsleeves triumphantly refreshing themselves with a bottle of beer and large sandwiches. Inigo and Jimmy Nunn were at the piano, trying over a new song. Miss Trant walked through the auditorium and then stopped in the centre gangway near the end of the third row of front seats, to examine the set, which was propped up, drying, at one side of the stage. She had just congratulated the two craftsmen, who were very proud of themselves, and was thinking what fun it was to be able to have things like that made, merely to have an excuse to return happily to the play of the nursery, when the Pavilion attendant, a man with one eye and a long melancholy face, came up to her and said: ‚ÄúThere‚Äôs a lady askin‚Äô for yer, Miss Trant.‚Äù
“Who is it?” She was puzzled.
“I dunno, Miss,” he replied, looking at her sadly with his single eye. “She wouldn’t give no name.”
“Well, ask her to come in here then, please,” she said, and exchanged a few more remarks with the craftsmen on the stage. Then she looked round. Somebody had just entered the Pavilion, was approaching her. It was her sister Hilda, and the very last person she wished to see at that moment.
So far Hilda has only entered this chronicle in the conversation of her nephew Hilary, who reported that she was ‚Äúfrightfully down on‚Äù the idea that he should spend his time with The Static. For the last fifteen years she has been the wife of Lawrence Newent, of Porchison, Newent, and Porchison, solicitors; the excellent mother of his two children and the equally excellent ruler of his household in Cadogan Place. She is not unlike our Miss Trant in appearance, but shorter and stouter and glossier; is actually six years older but looks ten. As a wife, a mother, a mistress of the house, she is a sensible and capable woman; it is only as a social being, a member of society, or rather two societies, for she is always leaving one and struggling into another, that she is somewhat ridiculous. In her time she has been the victim of many passing enthusiasms and cults, but it is obvious that though they might necessitate a revaluation of the whole universe (there was Theosophy, for example) they never at their maddest urge came within a thousand miles of managing a pierrot troupe. But for the last twenty years, she has alternately condemned her sister Elizabeth for holding herself in too much and for wanting to break out. During the last years of their father‚Äôs life she did not hesitate to say that Elizabeth had been foolish enough to allow herself to be submerged. At this moment‚ÅÝ‚Äîand it is written in her eyes as she approaches‚ÅÝ‚Äîshe thinks the girl has emerged, broken out, with a vengeance.
They kissed. ‚ÄúBut, Hilda‚Äù‚ÅÝ‚Äîand Miss Trant gave a short nervous laugh‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äúwhat a surprise!‚Äù
‚ÄúIsn‚Äôt it?‚Äù said Hilda, rather vaguely. She was busy looking about her. ‚ÄúThey told me I should find you here.‚Äù Her glance rested on Inigo‚Äôs lock of hair, on Jimmy‚Äôs puckered shining face above the piano, on Joe‚Äôs shirtsleeves, on Mr.¬ÝOakroyd‚Äôs sandwich and bottle of beer. And when her eyes returned to meet her sister‚Äôs, all these things had been quietly extinguished or at least removed a great distance.
“How did you find me?” Miss Trant asked quickly.
“Truby told me,” Hilda replied. “He wrote. He seemed to think it was his duty to write, that we ought to know. And I agree.”
“Well, I think it was rather impertinent of him,” cried Miss Trant. “It was no duty of his at all. I’m sure that’s not the way Lawrence treats his clients. Not that I really mind, of course.”
“Naturally. Unless, of course, you didn’t want us to know.”
Miss Trant coloured. “That’s absurd. I should have told you myself. I’ve had no opportunity yet, really. I’ve been so busy. Honestly, Hilda, I’ve never been so busy before. You’ve no idea what a lot there is to do.”
Hilda closed her eyes, an old trick of hers, effective for once because it seemed to remove still further the shirtsleeves and bottles of beer.
“But tell me,” Miss Trant went on, “how you came to find me here.”
‚ÄúI wired to Truby and he told me where you were. Then I came down the moment I could. It was fearfully inconvenient putting everything off today‚ÅÝ‚Äîyou know what it‚Äôs like in town now, the awful rush‚ÅÝ‚Äîbut I simply had to come. Lawrence wanted to come himself. At first, when he heard about it, he laughed‚ÅÝ‚Äîexercising his precious sense of humour, as usual‚ÅÝ‚Äîbut he soon saw it wasn‚Äôt particularly funny, and he wanted to come because he thought you‚Äôd probably been encouraged to sign some perfectly iniquitous contract or other and would lose all your money. He says this business is full of the most awful swindlers, and he knows all about these things. So he wanted to come himself and get you out of it, he said. But I told him I must see you myself first. There was quite a good train from Liverpool Street, and then of course it didn‚Äôt take me long to guess they would know something about you here. So there you have it, Elizabeth.‚Äù
“I see,” said Miss Trant slowly. Then she suddenly smiled and lightly touched her sister on the arm. “Well, Hilda, I’m very pleased to see you.”
There was a silence between them. From the piano there came a soft tum-tum-tumming. From the other side of the stage came the voice of Mr.¬ÝOakroyd, rather muffled with sandwich, saying very confidentially: ‚ÄúI‚Äôll tell tha what it is, Joe. Ale you get from t‚Äôwood‚Äôs bad enuff naradays, but this ‚Äôere bottled stuff‚Äôs nowt but fizz, blaws you up like a balloon.‚Äù
Hilda sent a glance of despair towards the stage, then moved away, down the gangway. Miss Trant followed her, and together they walked to the entrance, where they stopped.
“Now, my dear,” cried Miss Trant, “I can see you’re nearly bursting. Do begin.”
“And I can see you’re ready to fly into a temper and talk all kinds of nonsense,” replied Hilda good-humouredly. “And I refuse to have a quarrel in this absurd place, it would be too ridiculous.” Then she looked grave. “But I must say something.”
“Well, say it, Hilda, say it at once.”
‚ÄúBut my dear, you must admit I have a right to know. You might at least have told me. What I can‚Äôt understand is how on earth you came to be mixed up with these people at all. The last time I heard from you, you were down at Hitherton furnishing the Cottage and arranging to let the Hall. Then the next thing I hear‚ÅÝ‚Äîand from Truby of all people‚ÅÝ‚Äîis that you‚Äôre wandering round the country with a lot of wretched pierrots. It‚Äôs too absurd. Just as if you were a little stage-struck girl! How did it happen?‚Äù
Miss Trant told her, as best she could, how it happened, giving a very brief sketch of her adventures since she left Hitherton.
“And I suppose it is rather absurd,” she admitted, in conclusion. “But one can’t always be sensible, can one? After all, you’ve always done the sort of things you wanted to do, you know, Hilda. And this is something to do, and it’s fun, and it isn’t doing anybody any harm, in fact it’s doing all kinds, of people some good, me included.”
“I’m not at all sure about that,” said Hilda.
“I am,” said her sister decisively.
Hilda stared at her and was silent for a moment. She gave the impression that she was deciding to change her course of action, discarding a whole set of remonstrances and appeals. ‚ÄúWell, Elizabeth,‚Äù she said at last, quietly, ‚ÄúI‚Äôm not going to be the tremendous elder sister and all the rest of it. I‚Äôm not going to pretend to be an old-fashioned snob. I won‚Äôt remind you what Father would have thought of this‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù She saw her sister smile, and went on hastily: ‚ÄúYes, I know. He didn‚Äôt approve of some of the things I used to do. I‚Äôll admit we shall have to leave him out because he hardly approved of anything that wasn‚Äôt absolutely Victoria and Albert. But nobody has ever called me stodgy, have they? I‚Äôm not stuffy about the theatre and theatrical people. I‚Äôve met them at parties‚ÅÝ‚Äîthe successful ones, I mean‚ÅÝ‚Äîand I‚Äôve invited them myself, and I‚Äôll admit I‚Äôve been glad to see them and meet them. Everybody is, nowadays, except a few old freaks. But this sort of thing is simply shabby and fourth-rate. It‚Äôs nothing but a crowd of beery men and common little girls trailing round from one dirty set of lodgings to another, living in the most awful kind of way on about twopence a week‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù
“Splendid, Hilda!” cried Miss Trant. “I never knew you were such an orator. I don’t agree with you, but go on.”
“Well, you must admit, my dear, there isn’t one of these people you’d dream of asking in even for a cup of tea at Hitherton.”
“I don’t admit it. And even if I did, it doesn’t prove anything. I refuse to regulate everything by what I might do at Hitherton. I’ve had rather a lot of Hitherton, you know,” she added, and in a tone of voice that helped Hilda to remember that she herself had taken care to have very little of Hitherton.
“Oh, I know you had a dull and rather awful time there,” cried Hilda, rather plaintively. “And you know that I didn’t mind at all about all the money and everything coming to you.”
“Of course, my dear. You needn’t tell me that.”
‚ÄúBoth Lawrence and I were glad, and we were hoping you would come and stay with us for some time and meet people and perhaps settle in town if you wanted to. I‚Äôd made all sorts of plans, Elizabeth‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù
“I’m very sorry to have upset your plans, Hilda.”
‚ÄúNo, don‚Äôt be absurd. But you must see that you can‚Äôt possibly go on with this crazy scheme. If it were something decent, I wouldn‚Äôt mind‚ÅÝ‚Äîthough you must admit you don‚Äôt know anything about business‚ÅÝ‚Äîbut this is too ridiculous. To begin with, it‚Äôs too dingy and futile for words. Then you don‚Äôt know anything about this sort of thing.‚Äù
“Well, I didn’t certainly. But I’m learning. And it’s great fun. I like it.”
“And as Lawrence says, these pierrot people are probably robbing you right and left, just living on you and laughing at you behind your back.”
‚ÄúNo, they‚Äôre not,‚Äù replied Miss Trant warmly. ‚ÄúThat‚Äôs certainly not true. They‚Äôre very grateful‚ÅÝ‚Äîand‚ÅÝ‚Äîand loyal‚ÅÝ‚Äîand awfully hardworking. They‚Äôre just as honest and decent as any of the people I‚Äôve known. The only difference is‚ÅÝ‚Äîthey‚Äôre more amusing.‚Äù
“For a time perhaps, that’s all.”
“That may be. Perhaps one can only settle down with the kind of people one’s always known, and been brought up with, but then I’m not settling down, I’m having a change. You see, I wanted something to do, and now I’m doing it. I’m quite willing to admit that I may get tired of this life pretty soon, but until I do I intend to go on with it, to finish my little adventure. So there you are, Hilda!”
‚ÄúOh, but don‚Äôt you see‚ÅÝ‚Äî!‚Äù She was exasperated now. ‚ÄúIt‚Äôs just like talking to one of the children, it really is. Don‚Äôt you see that anything might happen while you‚Äôre going on like this? We can‚Äôt have you wandering round all winter staying in the most dreadful places by yourself, without a single person near you could trust to be sensible. And not only that, but what‚Äôs going to happen to your money? You might easily lose every penny. It‚Äôs monstrous, Elizabeth. Now honestly, have you made any money so far?‚Äù
“Not a ha’penny,” Miss Trant replied cheerfully.
“There you are!” Hilda was triumphant. “You haven’t, and you never will. I expect they’re all hopeless, these people, or they wouldn’t have been stranded like that.”
‚ÄúNo, they‚Äôre not. Some of them are really clever, far too good for the audiences they‚Äôre having. They really are, Hilda. Stay and see the‚Äù‚ÅÝ‚Äîshe hesitated, then brought it out bravely‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äúthe show tonight.‚Äù She laughed. ‚ÄúI‚Äôll give you a free pass, just as if you had exhibited one of our bills in your shop window.‚Äù
‚ÄúNo, that‚Äôs not funny, Elizabeth,‚Äù Hilda snapped. ‚ÄúAnd I can‚Äôt stay tonight, and even if I could, I wouldn‚Äôt. The whole thing‚Äôs perfectly monstrous. Look at those people in there! You know very well you felt uncomfortable the moment I set eyes on them. Good Companions indeed! And all the time you‚Äôre spending your money to keep these feeble creatures in‚ÅÝ‚Äîin‚ÅÝ‚Äîbeer. And they‚Äôre laughing at you, knowing quite well they don‚Äôt even need audiences when they‚Äôve got you to fatten on. And you could be doing so much now, staying with us and meeting the right kind of people, interesting men, and‚ÅÝ‚Äîoh‚ÅÝ‚Äîeverything. I‚Äôd like to know how much money you‚Äôve thrown away already.‚Äù
“Well, I don’t propose to tell you, Hilda.”
“If you’d made some money out of it, that would be the tiniest excuse for going on,” cried Hilda, who plainly held, however, that it would really be no excuse at all, and was only using the first argument that came to hand. “As it is, there’s no excuse.”
‚ÄúThat‚Äôs where you are wrong,‚Äù said Miss Trant eagerly. ‚ÄúIt seems to me all the more reason for my sticking to them. I‚Äôm far keener about it now than I was a week ago. We went to a place called Dotworth‚ÅÝ‚Äîa most deadly little town‚ÅÝ‚Äîand lost money there. Yes, it was a complete fiasco, I admit it. And after that, I told myself I wouldn‚Äôt give up for anything, not until we were really successful. Can‚Äôt you imagine what I feel about it, Hilda? I really like these pierrots‚ÅÝ‚Äîyou‚Äôd like some of them too‚ÅÝ‚Äîand I think they like me and hate the thought of my losing money, and I should hate myself forever if I ran away now and let them down. Besides, I should despise myself just for running away, throwing all the adventure away just to feel safe and comfortable, just because a few people might be shocked.‚Äù
“You’re getting angry and excited now, my dear,” cried Hilda, raising her voice. “I knew you would. And I knew you’d be absurd and stubborn about it. You stuck down there at Hitherton, wouldn’t move, and now of course the minute you feel yourself free, you must go and do something absolutely senseless. Yes, wickedly senseless!” There were tears of vexation in her eyes. “If you want to do something, have adventures, as you call it, there are plenty of things you could do that would be worth doing and wouldn’t make you and the rest of us simply laughingstocks. It’s all so silly and useless. There couldn’t be anything sillier. Singing old music-hall songs and joggling at the knees and repeating stale jokes! Going round making shopgirls giggle! Cadging sixpences from butchers’ boys! And you of all people, Elizabeth! It’s perfectly incredible. And you might be meeting men you could marry, instead of hobnobbing with broken-down actors in awful places like this.”
“I don’t want to marry. And please stop, Hilda.” Miss Trant was not flushed now but pale. For the moment she could not stand up against this vehemence, in which there was real cutting scorn. She was at a grave disadvantage because she was still open to all the attack and could not produce a defence that she knew existed. It was not merely that Hilda would not understand her motives, but that she did not really understand them herself. They came from obscure but vital needs, from desires that had vanished underground, like the limestone country rivers, in girlhood. She did not know herself why there was something strangely satisfying about this life of dancing and singing and tinsel and limelight and odd journeys. She knew it was good to be full of plans, to be responsible, to be the comrade, perhaps the leader of these lovable creatures of the stage, but the rest she could not explain. So, for the moment, she was dumb, helpless.
Hilda saw her advantage but halted for a breathing-space before she pressed it home. And she was too late.
“Oh, Miss Trant!” cried a voice.
“Why, Miss Thong!” cried Miss Trant delightedly. “I’m so glad.”
“Yes, isn’t it nice? And what a journey! But here I am, with the dresses all ready. We’ve brought them too, you see. Elsie carried most, of course. Oh, but I’m interrupting, aren’t I? I’m sorry, I’m sure. You know what I am, I get carried away.”
‚ÄúIt‚Äôs all right,‚Äù said Miss Trant, smiling at her. ‚ÄúThis is my sister, Mrs.¬ÝNewent. And this is Miss Thong, who has been making some absolutely wonderful dresses for us.‚Äù
‚ÄúVery pleased to meet you, I‚Äôm sure,‚Äù cried Miss Thong, who was bobbing about in an ecstasy. ‚ÄúThough if I‚Äôm fit to meet anybody or even to be seen, I shall be surprised, I shall indeed. What with working at the dresses and putting people off and smoothing Pa down and packing up and the long railway ride and meeting Elsie at the station and seeing the sea‚ÅÝ‚Äîwell, well‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù She began coughing, wrestled desperately, and gasped out her apologies to Hilda, who could not help staring at the queer rickety little mortal. ‚ÄúThere, if that doesn‚Äôt just serve me right,‚Äù she concluded cheerfully. ‚ÄúThat‚Äôs me all over. Talk, talk, get excited, won‚Äôt let others get a word in edgeways, then I land myself! Miss Trant‚Äôll tell you how silly I am, Mrs.¬ÝNewark.‚Äù
“We must go into the Pavilion and look at the dresses,” said Miss Trant. “Unless you’re too tired, Miss Thong, and would rather wait.”
‚ÄúI couldn‚Äôt wait a single minute. I said to Elsie, ‚ÄòJust take me to Miss Trant and let her see the dresses or I shan‚Äôt rest,‚Äô I said, ‚Äòor it‚Äôs like being here under false pretences,‚Äô I said, didn‚Äôt I, Elsie? Where is she? She must have taken them in, all but these. Yes, do let‚Äôs go in. Are you interested in these stage dresses, Mrs.¬ÝNewark? I‚Äôm sure you are, being Miss Trant‚Äôs sister, and then having such nice taste yourself. You don‚Äôt mind me saying that, do you? I know it‚Äôs rather personal, coming from a stranger, but us dressmakers we can‚Äôt help noticing, you know. I see in a minute. ‚ÄòShe knows what‚Äôs nice,‚Äô I say to myself. ‚ÄòLondon style and good,‚Äô I said to myself the very moment I saw you, Mrs.¬ÝNewark. You‚Äôre sure you don‚Äôt mind? I don‚Äôt know what I shan‚Äôt say before the day‚Äôs out, and that‚Äôs the state I‚Äôm in. Doesn‚Äôt the air seem good? Can‚Äôt you feel it going inside you?‚Äù
“I’ve only just arrived myself,” said Hilda. “But the air does seem good here, I must say.”
“Doesn’t it?” cried Miss Thong, with so much enthusiasm that the two of them might have been arguing for hours and have only just reached a triumphant concordance. “That’s exactly what I say. I felt the benefit of it as soon as I set foot outside the station. Elsie laughed at me the way I breathed in and out, but get it while you can, I say. Is this where we go?”
“Come along, Hilda,” said Miss Trant. “You must see these dresses.” And then, a bolder stroke: “I’d like your advice too.”
And Hilda followed them in, only making a few faint noises that perhaps suggested it was no concern of hers. She had been offering her sister advice about clothes for the last fifteen years and she was not going to stop now, even if the girl had suddenly turned herself into a manager of pierrots. Once inside, however, she was compelled to listen to the enthusiastic babble of Miss Thong, who seemed to think it was her duty to attach herself to this other visitor.
‚ÄúSo this is where you are then,‚Äù cried Miss Thong. ‚ÄúOh, isn‚Äôt it nicely fitted-up? Proper stage too! And I shall see them all on it tonight and my dresses as well. Where will I be sitting, I wonder. I‚Äôd like to sit on my seat now, just to try it. Where will you be sitting, Mrs.¬ÝNewark?‚Äù
“I shan’t be here. I’m going back to London.”
“Are you really? Isn’t that a shame! But I expect you can see them any time, can’t you, being Miss Trant’s sister and able to come and go, I dare say. It’s a treat for little me, I can tell you. The way I’ve looked forward to it, and coming on top of the journey as well! They are good, aren’t they? And better still now than when I saw them! And fancy seeing the dresses you’ve made yourself coming out on to the stage, part of it all, as you might say, just fancy that!”
Miss Trant was examining a dress that Elsie was holding out.
“Oh, but this is perfectly lovely,” she cried. She looked up, caught her sister’s eye, and saw a gleam of interest in it. “Do look at this, Hilda,” she said.
“Yes, it is rather charming,” Hilda admitted. “But too good for this sort of work, I should think.”
‚ÄúOh, no, Mrs.¬ÝNewark,‚Äù cried Miss Thong. ‚ÄúYou can‚Äôt say that. It‚Äôll wear like anything and wash too. Just you take hold of it and have a good look.‚Äù
And Hilda did have a good look, at that and the others, and though she still maintained a rather stately and condescending attitude, as if she were looking down upon the dresses, their creator, and their prospective wearers, from a great height, she even went to the length of congratulating Miss Thong.
“I had thought of having a sort of mid-Victorian scene,” Miss Trant told her. “Do you remember that pile of old songs we had at home? Some of them could be used. Do you remember how we used to laugh at them, though some were quite charming? And what became of the crinoline? Didn’t you take it to town for a fancy dress?”
“Yes, but you couldn’t use it for the stage,” said Hilda, forgetting herself. “It’s not bright enough. Besides, it’s far too skimpy. Don’t you remember how small it was? I meant to have it altered but I never did.”
‚ÄúYes, I know, Hilda, but I thought if you wouldn‚Äôt mind lending it to me‚ÅÝ‚Äîa mid-Victorian scene would be delightful, wouldn‚Äôt it‚ÅÝ‚ÄîMiss Thong could copy it more or less. You see how clever she is. I quite agree that it‚Äôs not bright enough. Now what colours would you suggest, my dear?‚Äù she inquired demurely.
It was absurd, but Hilda found herself not only promising to lend the crinoline but also suggesting colours and materials and actually discussing the whole question with this fantastic little dressmaker that Elizabeth had picked up on her ridiculous travels. And by the time they had finished, she was ready for a cup of tea. But she did not stay for the performance in the evening. To have done that would have been to suggest that she had no will of her own at all, to say nothing of missing the Dexters’ party. She insisted upon returning, as she had planned, by the 5:35, and said so a good many times, for somehow it sounded like a train that a strong-minded woman would catch.
‚ÄúAnd mind you, Elizabeth,‚Äù she said at the station, ‚ÄúI haven‚Äôt changed my mind in the least. I think you‚Äôre behaving dreadfully. The whole thing‚Äôs too absurd for anything. And you really ought to see Lawrence as soon as you can, because you‚Äôre probably being hopelessly swindled every minute. And do look after yourself, and the very instant you feel less mulish and realize how futile and wearing the whole thing is, let us know, just drop it, and run, and we‚Äôll see‚ÅÝ‚Äîat least Lawrence will‚ÅÝ‚Äîthat these people don‚Äôt try to take advantage.‚Äù
‚ÄúVery well, Hilda. I will,‚Äù said Miss Trant, very quietly, almost submissively, and with only the tiniest flicker of amusement in her face. But she could hear the voice of another Hilda, busy explaining away the antics of her younger sister, Elizabeth, and even making social capital out of them ‚ÄúYes, my dear,‚Äù this voice was saying brightly, ‚Äúit‚Äôs perfectly true. The crazy creature is actually running round the country, managing a concert party. Of course they‚Äôre not the ordinary kind of awful fourth-rate people, but really good‚ÅÝ‚Äîone or two quite young and simply geniuses‚ÅÝ‚Äîand Elizabeth discovered them in some obscure place and said she would make them famous. And there she is, hiring theatres and designing costumes and all the rest of it. Oh, quite crazy, of course! But very amusing and original, don‚Äôt you think? Exactly! Why not? That‚Äôs what I say. As a matter of fact, I‚Äôve given her some pretty good advice about one or two things she didn‚Äôt understand.‚Äù And so that other voice ran on, while Miss Trant lifted her eyes demurely to meet her sister‚Äôs reproachful glance.
After Hilda had given a final caution and a final wave from the 5:35 Miss Trant returned briskly to her little hotel, with a wind from the sea whipping the blood in her cheeks for her flying colours. She did not care now. There were no longer two Miss Trants, wrestling and jabbing in the dark of her mind, but only one, looking boldly upon the world out of two fine grey eyes. The test had come‚ÅÝ‚Äîand gone. If only these people would crowd in and enjoy her Good Companions, instead of staying miserably at home or going to the pictures or sitting in bar-parlours all night, she would be happy.
IV
Wednesday night was better than Monday or Tuesday: there were more people, especially in the cheaper seats, and, perhaps influenced by Miss Thong, who clapped everything, they were a trifle more enthusiastic. Thursday night was better still, but then Thursday was closing-day for the shops. Friday, however, was just as good as Thursday, and rather more appreciative. But none of these‚ÅÝ‚Äîas Mrs.¬ÝJoe said‚ÅÝ‚Äîwere what you could really call Nights. There were still rows and rows of empty chairs (the Wood Family, Jimmy Nunn called them); the applause was feeble, scattered, and there was hardly an excuse for an encore; and it was difficult not to feel that the mournful night was drifting in and smothering such enthusiasm as there was in the half-empty pavilion. And now the great question was, Would Saturday be a Night?
‚ÄúIf Saturday‚Äôs a fizzle,‚Äù Mrs.¬ÝJoe announced on Friday night, in the ladies‚Äô dressing-room, ‚ÄúI shan‚Äôt dare to look Miss Trant in the face, my dears. Dotworth didn‚Äôt matter‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù
“There wasn’t tuppence in the whole rotten little town,” Elsie put in, rubbing her face far too vigorously. “If they had a whist-drive there, they’d want to knock off and stay at home for six months.”
‚ÄúBut this place is different. It‚Äôs supposed to be a good date, and after all it‚Äôs only the middle of October. And look what we‚Äôve done,‚Äù Mrs.¬ÝJoe added, dejectedly. ‚ÄúMiss Trant will think we‚Äôre a lot of Jonahs, that is, if she understands the expression, which I doubt.‚Äù
‚ÄúLucky for her!‚Äù cried Susie, that child of the theatre. She pulled her dress over her head, and then remarked on emerging: ‚ÄúI must say I‚Äôd like to show her a real Night. She‚Äôs cheerful enough‚ÅÝ‚Äîbless her!‚ÅÝ‚Äîbut I fancy, a full house, money turned away, encores all round, five curtains, speeches, thanks from the manager‚ÅÝ‚Äîthe usual ‚Äòriot‚Äô that everybody talks about in the adverts, and hardly anybody ever sees‚ÅÝ‚Äîwould buck her up no end. I know it would. And that new number of mine that Jimmy and Inigo have written is only waiting for an audience that isn‚Äôt sitting there just to hear ‚ÄòGod Save the King‚Äô. It‚Äôs just crying out, ladies, for a few live ones in front.‚Äù
‚ÄúExactly,‚Äù said Mrs.¬ÝJoe. ‚ÄúExperienced as I am‚ÅÝ‚Äîand very few artistes who are artistes have struck more dead frosts than I have in my time‚ÅÝ‚ÄîI cannot, no, I can not, sing to chairs. I can feel the empty spaces, my dear, I assure you I can, and you‚Äôve no idea how it wrecks my interpretation. I told Miss Trant this morning when I met her on the front: I said ‚ÄòProperly speaking, you‚Äôve not heard me really interpret a song yet.‚Äô But I didn‚Äôt tell her why. I felt it would have been adding insult to injury‚ÅÝ‚Äînot that I‚Äôve done her any injury, but you know what I mean?‚Äù
They did know what she meant, and they all sighed in chorus for a Night.
Jimmy Nunn and Mr.¬ÝMorton Mitcham, having what they called ‚Äúa quick one‚Äù with the manager of the Pier, Mr.¬ÝPorson, in the Refreshment Room on Saturday morning, could not keep away from the subject.
‚ÄúYes,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝPorson, ‚Äúwe‚Äôre round about forty-three pounds so far. That means you‚Äôll just about make up to your guarantee tonight, unless of course there‚Äôs a rush. A wet night might bring ‚Äôem in, though they‚Äôre not fond of walking out to the Pier on a wet night. If it‚Äôs fine, then they don‚Äôt want to come inside, and if it‚Äôs wet they don‚Äôt fancy the Pier.‚Äù And Mr.¬ÝPorson added the short and rather cheerless laugh that he always tacked on to this observation, which he had made already at least fifty times this season, to say nothing of other seasons.
‚ÄúIf you ask me,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝMitcham impressively, ‚ÄúI think we‚Äôre getting going in the town. Some of the fellows who come in here, fellows who never go in to see a show, are beginning to talk about it. They‚Äôve heard something, you see. If we were here another week, we‚Äôd be playing to capacity. I know. I‚Äôve seen it before. But there you are, we‚Äôre not.‚Äù
‚ÄúJust what I think,‚Äù Jimmy Nunn admitted sadly. ‚ÄúWe‚Äôve got going, but too late. And damned hard cheese, I call it. As I told you, Mr.¬ÝPorson, this lady who‚Äôs the boss, Miss Trant, she‚Äôs put up a lot of money for us‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù
‚ÄúA lot of money,‚Äù Mr.¬ÝMitcham repeated emphatically, with the air of a man who knows money when he sees it.
‚ÄúShe‚Äôs new to it, you see, Mr.¬ÝPorson,‚Äù Jimmy continued, ‚Äúand she‚Äôs one of the best, a real lady too‚ÅÝ‚Äîgeneral‚Äôs daughter, they say. It‚Äôs time she began seeing something for her money.‚Äù
‚ÄúShe‚Äôll think we‚Äôve sold her the gold brick,‚Äù Mr.¬ÝMitcham put in mournfully.
“And the show ought to go,” said Jimmy.
‚ÄúIt oughter go big,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝMitcham, who, in this despondent mood, seemed to become more Transatlantic.
Mr.¬ÝPorson had heard something like this, usually in this very bar, every week since April, but he immediately agreed that it was a good show. ‚ÄúI don‚Äôt say it‚Äôs everybody‚Äôs show,‚Äù he said judicially. ‚ÄúIt‚Äôs not one of your bustling knock-‚Äôem-about, come-on-let‚Äôs-have-the-applause shows. But I‚Äôll tell you frankly‚ÅÝ‚ÄîI like it. You can put me down for that. It‚Äôs a fine little show, and we‚Äôre as disappointed as you are.‚Äù He finished his drink ‚ÄúWell, I must be trotting.‚Äù Mr.¬ÝPorson was always trotting, as Miss Trant and Jimmy and other people who had business with him knew to their cost. He trotted so much that he could never be found. The other two watched him go, and then looked at one another with slightly raised brows, which announced that they had no great opinion of Mr.¬ÝPorson, that Mr.¬ÝPorson might be pleasant enough over a drink but nevertheless was a thoroughly incompetent person, the kind of manager who would ruin the chances of any show.
“What about finishing these and then walking down to see if there are any bookings?” Jimmy asked. The box office was at the entrance to the Pier. It took them ten minutes to reach it, but by the time they did they had quietly dismissed nine men out of every ten who had found their way, obviously by influence, my boy, into management, as creatures who merely cumbered the ground.
‚ÄúGood morning, my dear, you‚Äôre looking very bright this morning,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝMitcham to the young lady in the box office, who looked anything but bright. ‚ÄúAnd how are things?‚Äù
But the young lady, who suffered a good deal from bronchial trouble, really did brighten now. “Quite picking up today,” she replied. “I’ve booked out about two and a half rows of the two-and-fourpennies already, and I’ve had several inquiries on the telephone. I shouldn’t be surprised if a lot of the better-class people aren’t coming, for once. I believe you’re going to get a good house tonight.”
‚ÄúBless you, my child, for those kind words,‚Äù said Jimmy. Then he exchanged a glance with Mr.¬ÝMitcham. ‚ÄúIt looks better, ol‚Äô man.‚Äù
‚ÄúIt‚Äôs just as I said,‚Äù replied Mr.¬ÝMitcham. ‚ÄúWe‚Äôve got going in the town, though only at the last minute. Another week and it ‚Äôud be capacity every night.‚Äù
‚ÄúWell, a good send-off will be something. It‚Äôll cheer us all up and look well in the adverts. ‚ÄòThanks for wonderful send-off at Sandybay. Last night a riot!‚Äô And I‚Äôll tell you what I think, Mitcham,‚Äù Jimmy added earnestly. ‚ÄúMr.¬ÝPorson ought to get more chairs in. He told me himself he‚Äôd lent about fifty to the corporation. Let him put ‚Äôem back, I say. There‚Äôs time this afternoon. I‚Äôll leave a message.‚Äù Miss Trant herself saw the extra chairs being taken in, late in the afternoon. Mr.¬ÝOakroyd was there, lending a hand.
“I suppose they’re expecting something rather wonderful next week,” she said to him with a touch of bitterness. “They don’t want any more seats for us.”
“Nay, Miss Trant, they do,” he told her, pushing back his little brown cap as usual, for he always wore his cap and always saluted her in this manner. “It’s going to be a right big do, they tell me, and even wi’ these extras ther’ll nobbut be standing room for them as comes at last minute, I dare say. All t’fowk where I’m lodging and ther friends and relations is coming. I do knaw, and all t’better seats is booked up, two and fower a time.”
‚ÄúOh, but that‚Äôs splendid, isn‚Äôt it, Mr.¬ÝOakroyd?‚Äù she cried.
“It’ll be a bit of a change,” he admitted dryly.
She looked at him reproachfully. “Is that all you can say?”
Mr.¬ÝOakroyd did not blush because he was not in the habit of blushing, but he looked a trifle confused. ‚ÄúNay,‚Äù he protested, ‚ÄúI‚Äôm right glad. It‚Äôs champion.‚Äù
Miss Trant, rather excited now, returned to the Pavilion earlier than usual in the evening, and though there was the usual mournful drizzle, making the Pier look as forlorn as ever, already people were streaming along towards the Pavilion. Sandybay had discovered, at the eleventh hour, that the Good Companions were offering it an unusually good show. Ten minutes before the performance began, all the unreserved seats were filled and there were numbers of people standing at each side and at the back. In another five minutes, after a few more had been squeezed in, the ‚ÄúHouse Full‚Äù notice was put up and they were actually turning money away. Miss Trant, who was sitting in a corner in the wings, near the ladies‚Äô dressing-room, had the news from Mr.¬ÝPorson himself, and immediately both dressing-rooms and wings buzzed with it: ‚ÄúTurning money away, my dear‚Äù; ‚ÄúCapacity to the roof, ol‚Äô man‚Äù; and they took turns at peeping through the curtain. ‚ÄúGoing to be a Night, my dear,‚Äù they cried to one another. ‚ÄúWhat did I say? Something told me.‚Äù
‚ÄúNow, Miss Trant,‚Äù said Mrs.¬ÝJoe, ‚Äúcan‚Äôt you feel a difference?‚Äù
Miss Trant could. The whole atmosphere of the place was changed. You knew at once that on the other side of the curtain there were no longer any cold spaces and empty chairs and yawns and languid stares; that everybody there was expecting to be delightfully entertained, had already met the players more than halfway, was only waiting to hum and laugh and break into gigantic hailstorms of applause. Miss Trant tried hard to be coolly amused at the excitement of the others, but she did not succeed. She was as excited as they were, and was only thankful that she herself had nothing to do. Oh, this might be absurd, but it was thrilling, it was fun!
Jimmy had a last-minute inspiration. “Let’s open with the band behind the curtain. Our two numbers. ‘Slippin’ Round the Corner,’ then Susie’s number.” Inigo had been able to score these two songs of his for the little jazz band, with some assistance from Morton Mitcham, and they had both been well rehearsed. They got their instruments and took up their places: Inigo at the piano; Jimmy at the drums; Mitcham with his banjo; and Joe, Susie, and Elsie respectively with cornet, violin, and tenor saxophone, instruments they all played in a slapdash but sufficiently adequate manner. In less than a minute they were waiting for the signal to begin.
House lights out and footlights up. Applause already. Then‚ÅÝ‚Äîone, two, three, and off they went. Rumpty-dee-tidee-dee. Rumpty-dee-tidee. Quietly at first, then louder, louder, then letting it rip. You could feel the whole house moving to its rhythm through the curtain. They were tapping; they were humming; they were eating and drinking it. A final flourish, crowned by Jimmy, who crashed his drumstick against the hanging cymbal. A moment‚Äôs silence. Then the Pavilion seemed all clapping hands.
“Instruments away,” shouted Jimmy through the tumult; “All on and the opening chorus as usual! Come, on, come on. Now then, Inigo! Ready with that curtain, Oakroyd! Gosh! it’s going with a bang tonight!”
And with a bang it went. They clapped when Joe warned them against the mighty deep, and clapped again when Mrs.¬ÝJoe discovered Angus Macdonald coming home from the war. They rose as one man when Elsie tunefully announced she was looking for a boy like them. They reduced Morton Mitcham to mere sweat and grinning bone, and he did so many tricks and played so many tunes that both cards and strings must have been red-hot by the time he had done with them. They roared with laughter every time Jimmy opened his mouth or crossed the stage. And when Jerry Jerningham did his ‚ÄúSlipping Round the Corner‚Äù and Susie brought out her new song about going home, then they had no mercy but clapped and stamped and whistled and drummed their feet time after time to bring the two back again. When the final curtain came, it was nearly eleven, three-quarters of an hour past the usual time, and even then the enraptured audience would not stop applauding. ‚ÄúSpee‚Äëee‚Äëeech!‚Äù some of them were calling.
Jimmy beckoned to Miss Trant, who was standing in the wings, at once excited and exhausted, dithering, because instead of being a mere spectator she had seen both actors and audience. “Come on and say something,” Jimmy’s mouth shaped at her.
Instantly she waved a frantic negative. She could no more have tottered into that lighted space and spoken to the loud if friendly monster there than have flown to the moon.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Jimmy began.
But that was the signal for another outburst, and in the middle of it the attendant could be seen pushing his way up to the stage, carrying a magnificent bouquet of roses. The lights were up now and everybody on the stage could see that approaching bouquet. The three women never took their eyes away from it. Mrs.¬ÝJoe was not without her hopes, for might there not be a Music Lover in the house? It flashed through Elsie‚Äôs mind that probably some gentleman friend‚ÅÝ‚ÄîElsie was rich in gentlemen friends‚ÅÝ‚Äîwas in front. Susie was already preparing a special smile and curtsy, for it was hardly possible that the bouquet could be for anyone else. If ever a girl had earned a bouquet, she had tonight. The attendant held it up, and Jimmy came forward with a skip and a jump to receive it. He read the label, and the three women held their breath. He turned and, with a droll gesture and smirk, handed it‚ÅÝ‚Äîto Jerry Jerningham.
Mr.¬ÝJerningham, very warm, very tired, a little shiny perhaps, but still exquisite, bowed his acknowledgement very gracefully, then, after a quick glance at the label, which said To Mr.¬ÝJerry Jerningham from an Unknown Admirer and said it in a flowing and feminine handwriting, smiled again at the audience and smiled at his fellow-players, three of whom were attempting to disguise looks of mingled amazement and disgust. And it may be admitted, here and now, that there was talk of that monstrous bouquet for weeks afterwards in the ladies‚Äô dressing-room, that we ourselves have perhaps not heard the last of it, that the Unknown Admirer may turn up again.
It was over at last. Inigo, hotter and even more weary than Mr.¬ÝJerningham and not at all exquisite, hammered out something that approximated to ‚ÄúGod Save the King,‚Äù and then, safe behind the lowered curtain, nearly fell off his chair. ‚ÄúThis is the boy that ought to have a bouquet,‚Äù said Mrs.¬ÝJoe, who had a great opinion of Inigo. ‚ÄúLook how he‚Äôs worked. And never even got so much as a hand!‚Äù
‚ÄúYes, it‚Äôs a rotten shame,‚Äù said Susie, smiling at him. ‚ÄúLook‚ÅÝ‚Äîhis lock of hair‚Äôs nearly coming out. Never mind, you were wonderful, Inigo, and the song‚Äôs a darling, darling, da‚Äëar‚Äëling.‚Äù And off she ran.
Miss Trant found Mr.¬ÝPorson at her elbow, saying something about returns and a future date, but at the moment it was impossible for her to be quietly sensible. They were all still shouting congratulations to one another and clearing away their props. It was like the end of a crazy party. After a minute or two, she decided to wait outside until some of the others had finished changing. And very strange it was to go outside and find the night there, the glitter of the promenade, the mysterious and murmuring dark of the sea, the lonely lights far out, the chill salt breath that now seemed so sweet.
Out they came, dim shapes with jubilant voices. A cigarette went curving over the side like a tiny meteor, and a voice said: ‚ÄúAh, I‚Äôd rather taste the air than that.‚Äù They gathered round her. ‚ÄúWell, this was a Night, wasn‚Äôt it?‚Äù they chorused: and ‚ÄúWhat a send-off!‚Äù and ‚ÄúA riot at Sandybay, my dear!‚Äù Jerry Jerningham held out his roses to Elsie, who condescended to smell them. Mrs.¬ÝJoe found Mr.¬ÝJoe, who tucked her arm in his and gave the scene a pleasantly domestic flavour, so that you could almost see little George himself there with them. Inigo went dodging round so that he could place himself by the side of Susie, a bafflingly elusive girl. Mr.¬ÝMitcham was still in the middle of an anecdote to which nobody was paying any attention. Jimmy Nunn came up, giving instructions to Mr.¬ÝOakroyd. Then suddenly, all at once, they were telling one another how tired they were.
“And so am I,” cried Miss Trant, “although I haven’t done anything. I feel as if I could go to bed for three days. Thank goodness it’s Sunday tomorrow.
‚ÄúYes,‚Äù said Jimmy, ‚Äúand by the way, I‚Äôve looked up the trains for Winstead. I‚Äôve got it down in my notebook and I‚Äôll look it up when we get to the entrance. No Through, of course. The usual cross-country business‚ÅÝ‚Äîan hour‚Äôs wait at Mudby-on-the-Wash and then another hour at Washby-on-the-Mud, and so on. Who are you taking in the car, Miss Trant? You‚Äôd better let us know now.‚Äù
“Oh, good heavens. I’d forgotten!” she cried, in such droll dismay that they laughed. “I was thinking I was going to have a nice quiet day here, breakfast in bed with a book and then a little sewing. I’d forgotten all about Winstead. Isn’t it terrible? We’ve got to begin all over again.” And then they laughed at her again, for there was something in her tone that told them she was now much happier about it all and seemed to establish her companionship with them. They moved slowly towards the Pier entrance, planning the next day’s journey.
IV
Mr.¬ÝOakroyd Plays ‚ÄúThe Hunted Man‚Äù for a Short Season
I
At the beginning of that week at Sandybay, Mr.¬ÝOakroyd was a happy man. Never in all his dreams of being an independent craftsman had he been so independent or so much the craftsman as he was now. He put in as many hours working as he had done at Higden‚Äôs mill, and sometimes he put in a great deal more, achieving a day‚Äôs labour that would have horrified every Trade Union secretary in the country. But you could hardly call it work; it was like a kind of hobby; it was nothing but a pleasant dream of work; and it made old Sam Oglethorpe, with his ‚ÄúJoinery and Jobbing Work Promptly Attended to,‚Äù his hen-run, and his cottage, look like ‚Äútwo-pennorth o‚Äô copper.‚Äù When Mr.¬ÝOakroyd remembered that only a week or two before, he had envied old Sam, he was amazed at his good fortune, which indeed had still something unreal about it. True, he had a lot to learn about this business; all this messing about with curtains and bits of scenery and electric lights was new to him; but then he was learning fast and liking it. So long as they did not want him to appear on the stage‚ÅÝ‚Äîhe drew the line at that, even if it was only choosing a card out of a pack for Mr.¬ÝMitcham‚ÅÝ‚Äîhe was ready to do anything they asked him to do. And if he made any bit of a thing for these people, they were pleased and thankful and went on about it until he hardly knew where to look. This attitude towards work seemed to him astonishingly novel. At Higden‚Äôs, if you didn‚Äôt put all your back into a job, they asked you what you thought you were there for; but when you did put your back into it, finishing the job in fine style, then they said ‚ÄúAy, that‚Äôll do.‚Äù And he could not help thinking that these strange theatrical people‚ÅÝ‚Äîindeed, all these Southerners he was meeting now‚ÅÝ‚Äîdid overdo this patting you on the back and making a fuss when you did some little bit of a thing: it made you feel soft. But he was also compelled to admit that it did oil the wheels and put heart into you when you had to tackle something new. Oh, the job was a gift! Then there was the travelling. Talk about being on t‚Äôroad! Talk about being down South! Why, at this rate, there would hardly be anywhere in England where they hadn‚Äôt been, after six months. The places these theatre folk had seen! Even Susie, only a bit of a lass, could talk by the hour, like Joby Jackson himself, about the towns she had been to, dozens and dozens of them. As for Mr.¬ÝMitcham, if you only believed half he said, he must have played that banjo of his and done his conjuring in nearly every place under the sun, in places too where you would not think they would want to hear a banjo or see any conjuring. Such folk, who could afford to be particular, might well think nothing of Rawsley and Dotworth, but Mr.¬ÝOakroyd had enjoyed himself in both these towns. They seemed to him delightfully foreign. At Rawsley the woman at his lodgings had given him for supper one night some little dry dumplings with bits of bacon in them, something that Bruddersford had never set eyes on; and in a pub there he had met a man who thought Bruddersford United was a rugby team. Dotworth was equally outlandish. There they had put nothing but Swiss milk in tea, called buns ‚Äúcakes,‚Äù did not know that wool had to be washed and combed before it was spun, and got terribly mixed up between Yorkshire and Lancashire all the time. It was in a pub at Dotworth that he had been able to set a chap right very nicely. This was a scene he had often wistfully amused himself by imagining back at Bruddersford, when he dreamed of being a travelled man. He had imagined himself taking his pipe out of his mouth and saying quietly, ‚ÄúHalf a minute, mate! You‚Äôre wrong there. I‚Äôve been and I knaw.‚Äù And it had actually happened like that. This chap, who drove a cart and seemed to fancy himself, was laying down the law a bit and got on to talking about the Great North Road. He said it went through Lincoln and York, and all the Dotworth innocents, gaping at him over their half-pints, said that he was quite right. Then it happened. Mr.¬ÝOakroyd took his pipe out of his mouth and said quietly: ‚ÄúHalf a minute, mate! You‚Äôre wrong there.‚Äù Ho. ‚Äôe was, was ‚Äôe? Yes, he was, and had he ever been down the Great North Road? No, he hadn‚Äôt, but he had pals who had and knew it well. ‚ÄúWell, yer pals is wrong too, mate,‚Äù Mr.¬ÝOakroyd had told him and the company. ‚ÄúGreat North Road nivver sees Lincoln and York. I‚Äôve been and I knaw. Only come down it t‚Äôother night, on a lorry.‚Äù And for the next quarter of an hour he had told them a thing or two, and the landlord himself had stayed in the taproom to listen.
Neither of these places, however, could compare with Sandybay. He was ready to put Sandybay in front of the other seaside towns he had visited, Morecambe, Blackpool, and Scarborough, not because there was more ‚Äúgoing off‚Äù there (most people say ‚Äúgoing on‚Äù but in Bruddersford they say ‚Äúgoing off‚Äù‚ÅÝ‚Äîa subtle and significant difference), for in that respect it was inferior to the other three, especially Blackpool, where there were more amusements than in any other town in the world. No, he preferred Sandybay because it had more of the sea about it. There were the boats drawn up on the beach, the nets and all the other paraphernalia, the lifeboat, and the fishermen themselves, with their blue jerseys, brown faces, and white whiskers, just like the fishermen in pictures. One old man down there was the very image of the man he had seen so often on the packets and advertisements of his favourite tobacco, Old Salt. Mr.¬ÝOakroyd had actually spoken to him. He had a word or two with a good many of these fishermen, down at the beach or over a glass at one of the funny little pubs near the harbour. He found it hard to understand what they said, and they seemed to find it hard to understand him, but that only made it all the more interesting, like being among foreigners, except that they seemed to like a drop of beer and a pipe of tobacco and were not above cadging one or the other. Joe liked to talk to these chaps too, and sometimes went round with them. All the pierrots were friendly enough‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äúthey got on champion,‚Äù as Mr.¬ÝOakroyd admitted‚ÅÝ‚Äîbut Joe was really the only one he could go about with a bit. Joe might be a singer‚ÅÝ‚Äîand a rare old noise he could make too‚ÅÝ‚Äîbut he was a solid and sensible chap, with arms on him like two, who liked his pipe and glass of bitter and was a good talker when you once got him going. By the time they had reached Sandybay, the two of them were quite confidential. Joe talked to Mr.¬ÝOakroyd about their George, and Mr.¬ÝOakroyd talked to Joe about their Lily.
Then again, Mr.¬ÝOakroyd was happy because so far he liked being in lodgings. He discussed this subject with Joe when the two of them were working at that little set in the Pavilion. Joe had been grumbling, saying he was sick of being in lodgings. He wanted a home of his own.
‚ÄúWell, I can fancy that, Joe,‚Äù replied Mr.¬ÝOakroyd, ‚Äú‚Ää‚Äôcos you‚Äôve been at it a long while. But being i‚Äô lodgings is a change for me, and I‚Äôm not pining for any home of me awn or wanting to go back to t‚Äôone I‚Äôve got. It‚Äôs a bit of a treeat to me being a lodger, Joe.‚Äù
“How d’you make that out?” asked Joe. “It’s not your own place. You can’t do what you like. You’ve got to put up with anything they give you.”
“Nay, I find you’re a deal better off. When I were at home, place didn’t belong to me but to t’wife. She may ha’ done what she liked but I knaw I didn’t. And if I didn’t put up wi’ owt she gave me, I nivver heard last on it for days. If you tell t’woman at your lodgings you don’t want rice pudding all t’week, she might bang t’door a bit as she goes out, but she won’t stand there calling you ivvery name she can lay tongue to and then start afresh next morning or look at you as if you’d been trying to set fire to t’place.”
“Now, Oakroyd,” Joe protested, “you’re not going to tell me you were henpecked like that.”
‚ÄúNo more ner t‚Äônext man,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝOakroyd grimly. ‚ÄúBut I nivver even heard tell of a henpecked lodger.‚Äù
“Maybe. But you’ve heard tell of many a one that’s been swindled and diddled and robbed. And if you haven’t, there’s one here, talking to you. Some of ’em would take the milk out of your tea and the laces out of your boots. They’d charge you for the stairs going up to bed if they could. I could tell you some tales.”
‚ÄúNo doubt you could, Joe,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝOakroyd earnestly, ‚Äúand I‚Äôm not denying that gurt fat woman I lodged wi‚Äô i‚Äô Dotworth were a bit on t‚Äôskinny side when it come to laying table. For all that, I‚Äôm doing better ner I‚Äôve done for some time. Nah, as you knaw yersen, three pound i‚Äô t‚Äôweek isn‚Äôt a big wage. I‚Äôve had more ner that afore today and thowt I were badly off. But when you‚Äôve nobbut yersen to keep and you‚Äôre i‚Äô lodgings it seems to me you get more out on it than you do at home. You pay your two pound or whativver it is to t‚Äôlandlady and she treats you like a good customer, as if you wor somebody. At home you pay all you can but you‚Äôre nobody. ‚ÄòOh, it‚Äôs you, is it?‚Äô they say when you come home. ‚ÄòWell, you‚Äôll have to wait for your tea ‚Äôcos I haven‚Äôt finished what I‚Äôm doing. And how many times have I to tell you to tak‚Äô them big boots off when you come in! Look at mess you‚Äôre making!‚Äô That‚Äôs what you get at home, Joe. But when I walk into my lodgings, it‚Äôs a bit different. ‚ÄòYou‚Äôre just in time, Mr.¬ÝOakroyd,‚Äô they say. ‚ÄòYour tea‚Äôll be ready in one minute. I shan‚Äôt keep you waiting. Nice afternoon it‚Äôs been, Mr.¬ÝOakroyd.‚Äô D‚Äôyou see, Joe?‚Äù
Joe did see but was not convinced. “And when you’ve lived a year or two on landlady’s cooking, old man,” he said, “you’ll change your mind. There’s Jimmy Nunn there always grumbling because he can’t eat anything, but I sometimes think he’s lucky. He knows he can’t get it, but I think I’m going to get something and I don’t.”
‚ÄúPass me up them inch nails, Joe,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝOakroyd. Then he reflected a minute or two. ‚ÄúWell, I must say I‚Äôve seen better cooking i‚Äô my time than you get round these parts. That‚Äôs because you‚Äôre out o‚Äô Yorkshire. Down South here t‚Äôwomen doesn‚Äôt bake and you can‚Äôt get a curran‚Äô teacake or a flat cake or a fatty cake or owt like that. Eh, I‚Äôd a right good laugh yesterda‚Äô. Woman where I am‚ÅÝ‚ÄîMrs.¬ÝCullin her name is‚ÅÝ‚Äîshe‚Äôs a widow woman‚ÅÝ‚Äîher husband were at gasworks here and had a good job too, she tells me‚ÅÝ‚Äîshe‚Äôs a decent clean little body, and friendly like‚ÅÝ‚Äîshe tells me all sorts‚ÅÝ‚Äîwell, Mrs.¬ÝCullin, she says to me yesterda‚Äô, she says, ‚ÄòNow, Mr.¬ÝOakroyd, I‚Äôm going to give you a treat,‚Äô she says. ‚ÄòI‚Äôve a joint o‚Äô beef for your dinner and you‚Äôre a Yorkshireman, so I‚Äôm going to give you some Yorkshire pudding with it,‚Äô she says. In comes my dinner‚ÅÝ‚Äîbit o‚Äô beef, cabbage, potaters. I looks at it and says, ‚ÄòHere, Mrs.¬ÝCullin, what about that Yorkshire pudding?‚Äô I says. ‚ÄòLet‚Äôs have that first.‚Äô She stares. ‚ÄòIt‚Äôs here,‚Äô she says, pointing to t‚Äôplate. ‚ÄúWhat!‚Äù I says. ‚ÄòYou don‚Äôt mean this bit o‚Äô custard, soft batter stuff, under t‚Äôcabbage?‚Äô ‚ÄòYes, I do,‚Äô she says. ‚ÄòIf that isn‚Äôt Yorkshire pudding, what is it?‚Äô ‚ÄòNay,‚Äô I says, ‚Äòyou mun‚Äôt ask me, Missis, what it is. All I knaw is, it‚Äôs no more Yorkshire pudding ner I am. It‚Äôs a bit o‚Äô custard or pancake, likely enough.‚Äô And then I tells her about Yorkshire pudding. And tak‚Äô notice o‚Äô this Joe, ‚Äôcos it‚Äôll happen come in handy some time.‚Äù Mr.¬ÝOakroyd paused to relight his pipe, blew out a cloud or two of Old Salt, then continued.
‚Äú‚Ää‚ÄòTo begin wi‚Äô,‚Äô I says, ‚Äòa Yorkshire pudding is eaten by itsen and not mixed up wi‚Äô meat and potaters, all in a mush. And it comes straight out o‚Äô tooven,‚Äô I says, ‚Äòstraight on to t‚Äôplate. No waiting,‚Äô I says, ‚Äòor you‚Äôll spoil it. If you don‚Äôt put it straight on to t‚Äôplate you might as well go and sole your boots with it. And another thing,‚Äô I says, ‚Äòyou‚Äôve got to have your oven hot, I do knaw that. Then if you‚Äôve mixed right and your oven‚Äôs hot, pudding‚Äôll come out as light as a feather, crisp and brarn, just a top and a bottom, you might say, wi‚Äô none o‚Äô this custardy stuff in t‚Äômiddle. Nan d‚Äôyou see, Missis?‚Äô I says. ‚ÄòNay,‚Äô she says, ‚ÄòI can‚Äôt learn all that at my time o‚Äô life, and you‚Äôre letting your dinner get cold wi‚Äô talking about your hot ovens,‚Äô she says. And then we‚Äôd a right good laugh together, and I heard her telling her daughter‚ÅÝ‚Äîshe‚Äôs in a draper‚Äôs‚ÅÝ‚Äîall about it last night. She has this lass at home and a lad, and another lad away i‚Äô t‚ÄôNavy, and they‚Äôre all courting‚ÅÝ‚Äîeven t‚Äôsailor‚Äôs young woman is allus coming in‚ÅÝ‚Äîso we see a bit o‚Äô company. And they‚Äôre all coming o‚Äô Saturday night to see us.‚Äù
“That’s the idea,” said Joe. “You go on working the town a bit. That’s what I do. Some of the boys and girls laugh at me, but I say it all helps.”
‚ÄúIt does an‚Äô all,‚Äù cried Mr.¬ÝOakroyd. ‚ÄúThey tak‚Äô a right interest in t‚Äôpierrots at Mrs.¬ÝCullin‚Äôs. ‚ÄòIs it a good show?‚Äô they asks me. ‚ÄòGood show!‚Äô I says. ‚ÄòIt‚Äôs t‚Äôbest show as ivver you‚Äôve seen i‚Äô Sandybay,‚Äô I says. ‚ÄòWe‚Äôre nobbut here just to pass an odd week, then we‚Äôre off to t‚Äôbig theaters‚ÅÝ‚Äîcoining brass,‚Äô I says. ‚ÄòCoining what?‚Äô they says. ‚ÄòBrass,‚Äô I says, ‚Äòand that‚Äôs Yorkshire for money. You come and see Good Companions. You‚Äôll nivver get another chance, and when you read about ‚Äôem i‚Äô t‚Äôpapers‚ÅÝ‚Äîand you‚Äôll be doing that afore so long‚ÅÝ‚Äîyou‚Äôll be fair mad if you‚Äôve nivver seen ‚Äôem. Best show on t‚Äôroad,‚Äô I says.‚Äù
And indeed this was Mr.¬ÝOakroyd‚Äôs opinion. He was fully convinced that there was no better concert party than the Good Companions in existence. It is true he did not know much about the others, had never even seen them; but then he could not imagine any one of them being better, could not imagine any other being as good, so that he was quite honest in his opinion. Nor was his enthusiasm merely part and parcel of his loyalty to his new friends and to his employer, Miss Trant. He had never been a constant theatregoer or music-hall patron, though he still liked seven-pennorth of pit at the second house of the Bruddersford Imperial, but nevertheless he considered himself to be a man who knew a good turn when he saw it. Your Bruddersfordian is a hanging judge of anything that costs money. And Mr.¬ÝOakroyd, after having seen the show from almost every possible angle, was convinced that the Good Companions were good turns. He thought least of Elsie, whose rather mechanical little frivolities he dismissed as ‚Äúsummat and nowt.‚Äù On the other hand, the dancing of Mr.¬ÝJerry Jerningham had no more staunch admirer in this island, and Mr.¬ÝOakroyd did not hesitate to give out that he was something of an authority and no ordinary onlooker, for in his youth he had been considered one of the best clog-dancers in the Woolgate and Lane End districts of Bruddersford and had once taken third prize at the Pit Park Gala. For Mr.¬ÝJerningham himself he had a contempt. ‚ÄúYond,‚Äù he would say, ‚Äúis war ner a big lass. Starves his belly to clothe his back, I‚Äôll be bound‚Äù; and, becoming more mysteriously West Riding in his turn of phrase with every added insult, would conclude by muttering that Mr.¬ÝJerningham ‚Äúwer war ner a pike sheep head,‚Äù which final and awful judgement was not the less devastating because nobody understood what it meant. But Mr.¬ÝOakroyd made a clear distinction between Jerningham the man and Jerningham the dancer, and for the latter he had a genuine admiration. And Susie was a favourite with him, on and off the stage. She was obviously a good turn, though he could not always make out what she was getting at, and she was a lively, bonny, and friendly lass, reminding him so much of their Lily that he found her company nearly as delightful and yet disturbing as did Inigo himself. Inigo too he admired as a piano-player and liked as a friendly young chap with not a bit of swelled head about him. (In Bruddersford you are always on the lookout for swelled heads, and if a man does anything at all out of the ordinary there, his head has to be measured at once.) There was too a special bond between him and Inigo, because, as he explained to Joe: ‚ÄúWe‚Äôre both i‚Äô t‚Äôsame boat, both amachoors, as you say, who comes at t‚Äôsame time and is trying to show you what we can do.‚Äù And it was clear from Mr.¬ÝOakroyd‚Äôs tone, as he said this, that he thought the two of them were not only trying but succeeding.
For Miss Trant he had a tremendous respect, though he took pains not to show it. There was something about her‚ÅÝ‚Äîhe knew it was there but did not care to discover exactly what it was‚ÅÝ‚Äîthat commanded this respect, and it was something he had never found in Sir Joseph Higden, Bart, and other men of wealth and standing for whom he had worked in Bruddersford. None of the Good Companions (who had talked it over more than once) knew how much money Miss Trant had, whether she was really rich or merely in possession of a decent income with a few hundreds to spare for this whim of hers; but it was Mr.¬ÝOakroyd‚Äôs opinion that she had plenty of money and had it so long that she never thought about it. ‚ÄúBrass might graw on trees so far as she knaws, or cares,‚Äù he said of her; and this opinion, which would have enraged a democrat of an earlier generation, only tended to increase his wondering respect for her. Bruddersford had its rich and its poor, but he never remembered meeting anyone there like Miss Trant. The two of them were like beings from two different planets who had yet discovered points of contact and sympathy. If Miss Trant had been a man, perhaps his attitude would have been different, but not only was she a woman but, in his eyes, a very personable young woman. He had talked about her to Susie, one afternoon, when the two of them walked the length of the pier. Susie was very fond of Miss Trant and thought her‚ÅÝ‚Äîas she said‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äúreally swish and a dear,‚Äù but of course practically middle-aged, with nothing but a deadly spinsterish sort of life in front of her once she had left the Good Companions. Mr.¬ÝOakroyd had immediately protested against this view of his employer.
“Nay, Soos,” he said, “you’re off your horse there, lass. I wouldn’t be so capped if Miss Trant didn’t marry afore so long. She may have a chap, nah, nobbut waiting for her to say t’word. She’s young eniff for onnybody; you’ve nobbut to look at her to see she’s one o’ the classy sort that happens to ha’ got plenty o’ gumption; and she’s right nice-looking into t’bargain. And if I were a chap, coming courting here, Miss Trant ’ud be t’first I should go for, so nah you knaw.”
‚ÄúSo that‚Äôs it, is it?‚Äù Susie pretended to be very disgusted indeed. ‚ÄúWell, you are a fraud, Mr.¬ÝJess Oakroyd. And after I‚Äôve been so nice to you! What about me, yer gurt nowt?‚Äù
“I wouldn’t be paid to wed thee, Soos,” he declared, delightedly. “A chap ’ud nivver have five minutes’ peace and quiet to hissen wi’ thee, for tha’d be kissin’ him one minute and tormenting him t’next minute and then thrawing pots and pans at him minute after. If tha wasn’t telling him he mun nivver leave thee for half an hour, then tha’d be telling him tha were leaving him ivver, till t’poor lad wouldn’t know whether he wor on his head or his heels.”
“And very nice for him too,” she replied. “He’d like it. Though you’re simply talking rot, of course. You don’t know anything about me really, not the least thing, and it’s simply cheek to say I should go on like that. But do you really think I would?”
“I’m saying nowt,” he began.
“And about time, too!”
“But I do knaw this. There’s a lad i’ this company I’ve got my eye on, and I’m feeling right sorry for him already.”
‚ÄúNow what‚ÅÝ‚Äîjust exactly what‚ÅÝ‚Äîdo you mean by that, Mr.¬ÝOakroyd?‚Äù
“He may be a good pianner-player. I don’t say he isn’t. They tell me he might easy mak’ a lot o’ money out o’ t’songs he’s doing. I don’t doubt it. But I’ve had my eye on him, and I say I’m right sorry for him. If he goes on t’way he’s shaping, he’ll land hissen in a mess, choose how it works out. If this lass he’s getting so sweet on won’t have him, then he’ll nivver knaw no peace. But if she does have him he’ll nivver knaw no peace neither.”
‚ÄúI never heard such stuff in all my life,‚Äù cried Susie. ‚ÄúAs if I‚ÅÝ‚Äîhe‚ÅÝ‚Äîanybody‚ÅÝ‚Äîoh, don‚Äôt be silly! And if he was getting like that‚ÅÝ‚Äîand of course he isn‚Äôt; he hasn‚Äôt known me five minutes, not that that makes much difference, I admit‚ÅÝ‚Äîwell, it wouldn‚Äôt be my fault, would it?‚Äù
‚ÄúNot so much your fault as his misfortin,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝOakroyd, with a grin.
‚ÄúNah, lad, nah, lad!‚Äù Susie snapped her fingers at him. ‚ÄúAnd if somebody had told me that a carpenter from Shuddersford could be beastly nosey, just like an old woman, I wouldn‚Äôt have believed them. Now just run away and do some work instead of talking scandal that you‚Äôve made up yourself and‚Äù‚ÅÝ‚Äîhere her voice sank and took on a bloodcurdling vibration‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äúpoisoning the mind and betraying the heart of A Young Girl, hardly more than a Chee‚Äëild and a Norphan. Go, Sir Jess.‚Äù
And that wicked baronet, pulling his little brown cap further down, did go, giving her a wink as he went. He entered the Pavilion through the stage door. If anybody had told him a fortnight ago he would be marching in through stage doors! Inside there was a nice little job waiting for him. When he had done that, had a chat with Joe and one or two of the others perhaps, smoked a pipe or two of Old Salt, there was the grand walk back to his lodgings and tea at the end of it. ‚ÄúGood afternoon, Mr.¬ÝOakroyd; your tea‚Äôs just ready and I‚Äôve done one of our special fat kippers you like so much.‚Äù
‚ÄúNah that‚Äôs a bit of all right, Mrs.¬ÝCullin,‚Äù he would reply; and then have his tea and a look at the paper, then a walk round and perhaps half a pint somewhere, then back to the Pier, taking his time; his own man, a chap that was knocking about a bit, and one of the Good Companions. Eh, but it was grand!
“Nay, lad,” he warned himself, “steady on, steady on a bit. Tha’s not asleep and dreaming. There’s bahnd to be a catch in it somewhere.”
And the second half of that week at Sandybay brought the catch.
II
It was a letter that destroyed his peace of mind. He had soon seen that he could not cut himself off entirely from the folk at home. They must know where to find him, for though they might think they were better off without him, be glad to see the last of him, still there they were, his wife and his son, and if anything happened to them, they would want to let him know and he would want to know. There was also the question of Lily‚Äôs letters. It took over a fortnight for a letter to find its way to her out there in Canada, and more than another fortnight for a reply to come back; in fact, you could reckon it six weeks, there and back, even if she replied almost at once. He had‚ÅÝ‚Äîas he said‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äústudied this‚Äù when first he joined the troupe. He could write to her as usual, and indeed he intended to write more often now that he had so much to tell her. But how was she going to reply? He could not give her his address six or seven or eight weeks ahead, for he would not always know where they would be then. He saw that she would have to write to him at 51 Ogden Street, Bruddersford, as before, and the letters would have to be sent on to him by his wife or (and that was more likely) by Leonard. All he had to do was to let them know at home where he would be the next week, and he could always find that out. He asked Joe about this, and discovered from him that all that was necessary was to give the name of the troupe, the hall, and the town: Mr.¬ÝJ. Oakroyd, the Good Companions, Pier Pavilion, Sandybay‚ÅÝ‚Äîthat is how you did it, and that is what he sent home, the week before at Dotworth, together with a short letter saying that he had got a job with some pierrots and telling them to send on Lily‚Äôs letters. And he had written again, giving them his Winstead address, before a reply came.
It was on Thursday afternoon that he found a letter waiting for him at the Pavilion. He hurried away with it to a quiet corner and was delighted to discover that it contained a letter from Lily. But she did not say much. It was still very hot out there; she was all right but taking it easy because of the baby that was coming, which she was sure was a boy; and her husband, Jack Clough, was working very hard and looked like getting a rise very soon; and they sent their love to all. When he had read this letter through a second time, Mr.¬ÝOakroyd began to feel miserable. It brought Lily back so sharply to his mind, which could not hold a clear image of her face nor hear her voice distinctly yet was most vividly, poignantly conscious of her. The letter did this, yet at the same time it made painfully plain the distance between them. There she was, but this was all she could say. Tomorrow he would sit down, sucking away at his moustache, pressing so hard on his pen that it spluttered ink on the paper, in an agony of endeavour to tell her something of what he felt and thought, and he would say little more. If only she was here, listening to him, or he was there, looking at her! Not a word yet about him going out there. He folded the letter with mournful care and put it in his inside pocket.
Something had been sent with it. He glanced down at the name at the bottom of the scrawl. It was a short letter from Leonard. He cast a rather negligent eye over it. He was not very interested in what Leonard had to say. But when he had gone through it once, he drew in his breath sharply, pushed his cap to the very back of his head, and began all over again, this time attending carefully to every single word. And this is what he read:
Dear Father,
We got your letter and I am sending you a letter which came from our Lily. I am having to write because Ma says she will not write because she is too ashamed for you and will not trust herself she says to say a word to you. What have you done, you must have done something because after you had gone a few days a bobby called one night and asked about you and where you were. We could not say we said. And that is not the end of it, Mrs.¬ÝSugden told Ma the police had been watching the house and Joe Flather told me they had been to Higdens and asking at the club. So you had best keep away from here and keep out of the way or try a disguise or they will get you. Albert Tuggridge says it is too risky writing, they can open all letters and track you down that way but I am risking it though we are not telling anybody where you are. Ma is disgusted but I must say it is a bit of excitement and agree with Albert that if you have done anything you must have been the tool of others and been used by a gang of crooks. We were surprised you had got a job with some pierots and think you ought to watch out there. United lost again, what a team. I have been moved up to fourth chair at Gregsons allready.
After he had read it a third time, he tore it up and, still clutching the fragments, crept quietly out of his corner, a hunted man.
For the rest of that day, he thought about that letter‚ÅÝ‚Äîa policeman calling at 51 Ogden Street; police watching the house; police inquiring at Higden‚Äôs; police going along to the Club‚ÅÝ‚Äîand the more he thought about it, the more uneasy he became. ‚ÄúNay, but I‚Äôve done nowt,‚Äù he kept telling himself; but that had no effect. He had been so busy and happy in his new job that he had almost forgotten the astonishing series of events that had taken him to Rawsley, or at least he only remembered them as episodes in a tale he had to tell. But now they returned to arrange themselves in a sinister sequence. There was the money that drunken sportsman, George, had said he had had stolen from him. The police had announced that they had a clue, a valuable clue. That very day he had quarrelled with his firm and quarrelled with his union, had torn up his insurance card (the act of a desperate man), and had run away. And that was not all. There was that lorry, loaded with stolen pieces, that he had travelled down on: the police had been after that. And those two fellows, Nobby and Fred, and that horrible fat woman, Big Annie, all of them ready, no doubt, to swear his life away. Even then he had not finished. There was that row at Ribsden Fair, the policeman who had wanted to see his licence, the flight and all the rest of it; he had been in that, and the policeman had had a good look at him. Why, everywhere he had been, he had been mixed up in something that was against the law, at every single step on the road! That fellow who kept the dining-room where he had had to leave a chisel. Poppleby his name was, that fellow would remember him and would give information as fast as it was wanted‚ÅÝ‚Äîtaking the ‚Äúyuman line‚Äù as usual, the big, pasty-faced mess! Looking back, Mr.¬ÝOakroyd saw these hostile witnesses springing up all along the line of his travels. ‚ÄúI‚Äôve done nowt,‚Äù he concluded mournfully, ‚Äúbut I haven‚Äôt a leg to stand on.‚Äù
Mr.¬ÝOakroyd was a respectable workingman, not a member of the criminal classes, and therefore he did not regard the police as his natural enemies. On the other hand, his social level was not that of those comfortable and well-dressed persons who think of the police purely and simply as their protectors, who see them as so many stalwart, kindly, humorous, obliging fellows, all with big hearts of gold beneath their blue tunics. He and his friends in Bruddersford had no quarrel with the police but neither had they any tenderness for them. Their attitude was one of wary neutrality. A bobby was all right in his place, though he had a nasty trick of not keeping in his place. Mr.¬ÝOakroyd in his time had known several policemen, had exchanged half-pints of ale and remarks about football with them, and had found them good, bad, and indifferent, like other people. Of their superiors‚ÅÝ‚Äîsergeants and inspectors and that lot‚ÅÝ‚Äîhe was rather suspicious, believing that they were rather too fond of having ‚Äúcases‚Äù to be entirely just men or desirable companions. And of the Law itself, with all its mysterious routine and artful tricks, he had a real horror. ‚ÄúYou keep out, mate,‚Äù he had heard many a time, had repeated himself more than once. Neither he nor any of his friends was one of your born lawyers, a type known to every ship, every regiment, every factory, and not popular, the kind of men who always have their ‚Äúrights‚Äù off by heart, know exactly what you can‚Äôt be made to do, and positively welcome the chance of standing up in a court of law. Mr.¬ÝOakroyd knew very well that he was innocent, except in that matter of the insurance card, but he was ready to go to considerable lengths in order not to be compelled to prove his innocence. The idea of establishing his innocence and putting himself right with the authorities never once occurred to him; if the police were looking for him, then it was his business to keep out of their way; and if there are any persons to whom this attitude seems incomprehensible, then they simply do not understand Mr.¬ÝOakroyd or anybody else in Ogden Street, Bruddersford.
The only satisfaction Mr.¬ÝOakroyd had was the gloomy one of knowing now exactly where the catch was. By the next day, after much troubled reflection, he felt a hunted and haunted man. He had never noticed any policeman before in Sandybay, but now they seemed to spring up round every corner. He walked past them with his heart pounding away, and their suspicious eyes seemed to be digging in his back. And something was always turning up to remind him of his horrible position. Thus, in the afternoon, the Pavilion attendant, Curtis, the man with one eye and the long melancholy face, had to begin chattering.
“I see in the paper,” said Curtis, “where they’ve got that feller that did the big jewel robbery in the West End.”
Mr.¬ÝOakroyd grunted.
‚ÄúMade no mistake, got him fair and square,‚Äù he continued with enthusiasm. ‚ÄúThey only wanted a bit of time, that‚Äôs all. Now, he‚Äôll get a bit of time.‚Äù And Curtis, who seemed to have found a subject that released him from his usual melancholy, laughed at his own pleasant wit. ‚ÄúFellers say to me, ‚ÄòOh, they‚Äôll never get him,‚Äô but I‚Äôve said all along, ‚ÄòYou wait and see, chum. Give ‚Äôem time.‚Äô What d‚Äôyou say, Mr.¬ÝOakroyd?‚Äù
Mr.¬ÝOakroyd only grunted again. He looked at his companion with shrinking distaste. One eye was lighted up and seemed to rove all over him maliciously, while the other, the glass one, was fixed on his face in a cold dead stare. The effect was most sinister.
‚ÄúPeople can say what they like about the police,‚Äù Curtis went on, ‚Äúbut I know a bit about ‚Äôem and I like to foiler these cases, and the conkerlusion I‚Äôve come to is just this, Mr.¬ÝOakroyd: Give the police time and they never miss their man.‚Äù
Mr.¬ÝOakroyd merely made a clicking sound with his tongue and stared about him.
“Never miss their man,” the other repeated emphatically, at the same time tapping his listener on the arm.
Mr.¬ÝOakroyd drew back sharply. ‚ÄúAr d‚Äôyer mean ‚ÄòNever miss their man‚Äô?‚Äù he said irritably.
‚ÄúThe feller they want they find,‚Äù said Curtis. ‚ÄúIt may not be this week. It may not be next week. But sooner or later‚Äù‚ÅÝ‚Äîand here he held out a large and dirty hand, then suddenly closed it‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äúgot him!‚Äù After this dramatic conclusion, he looked at Mr.¬ÝOakroyd triumphantly out of his one eye.
‚ÄúNowt o‚Äô t‚Äôsort!‚Äù cried Mr.¬ÝOakroyd angrily. ‚ÄúIf you ask me, they miss as monny as they catch.‚Äù
Curtis shook his head and smiled pityingly. “That’s what a lot o’ people think, but they don’t know. It’s organization that does it. Organization, that’s it.”
‚ÄúIt‚Äôs all me eye,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝOakroyd.
‚ÄúNo, chum, it‚Äôs all their eye.‚Äù And Curtis laughed again, and was so irritating that Mr.¬ÝOakroyd told himself he would like to give him ‚Äúa bat on t‚Äôlug.‚Äù
‚ÄúFriend of mine‚Äôs got a brother-in-law in the Metrotropilitan‚ÅÝ‚Äîyou know, up in London, proper Scotland Yard man. You ought to hear the tales he tells. Not a dog‚Äôs chance, they haven‚Äôt got, these fellers that‚Äôs wanted.‚Äù
‚ÄúAll me eye and Betty Martin!‚Äù muttered Mr.¬ÝOakroyd.
‚ÄúWhat with photographs and fingerprints and telegraphs and wireless and flying squads!‚Äù cried Curtis ecstatically. ‚ÄúNot a dog‚Äôs chance! They give ‚Äôem a bit of rope and then‚ÅÝ‚Äîgot him!‚Äù
‚ÄúAy, you did that afore!‚Äù Mr.¬ÝOakroyd sneered. He was now thoroughly exasperated. ‚ÄúWhat do you want to keep doing that for? It looks so daft. Got him, got him! You look as if you‚Äôre trying to catch bluebottles.‚Äù
“I was just illustrating, so to speak, the way they can do it,” said Curtis meekly.
‚ÄúWell, what‚Äôs it got to do wi‚Äô you?‚Äù demanded Mr.¬ÝOakroyd. ‚ÄúOnnybody ‚Äôud think to hear you talk they were makking you t‚Äôchief constable o‚Äô town‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù
“All right, all right, chum. What’s the matter with you?”
‚ÄúNowt‚Äôs matter wi‚Äô me,‚Äù replied Mr.¬ÝOakroyd, ‚Äúonly don‚Äôt keep on about it like that. You‚Äôve told me. Well, let it drop, mate. I don‚Äôt like to hear a man going on i‚Äô that fashion. Like a dam‚Äô bloodhound! They‚Äôve done nowt to you.‚Äù
‚ÄúAr, you‚Äôre too softhearted, that‚Äôs it, Mr.¬ÝOakroyd,‚Äù said Curtis, looking rather relieved. ‚ÄúIt does you credit in a way, but believe me, you can‚Äôt afford it, not in these times. These fellers is best out of the way. I like to see ‚Äôem getting under lock and key.‚Äù
‚ÄúI think yond‚Äôs Mr.¬ÝPorson,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝOakroyd and so put an end to this unpleasant conversation. He took care to have no more little chats with Curtis after that. But now, any out-of-the-way incident began to look sinister. Things that would normally have excited his curiosity and given him the chance of indulging in the most delightful speculations, now made him all the more uneasy and secretive. There was, for example, that little talk he had with the chauffeur outside the Pavilion on Saturday afternoon, when he was helping with the extra chairs. Between two loads, when there was nothing to do, this chauffeur strolled up to him. He was a soldierly-looking chap in a fine blue uniform.
“Hope you don’t mind me asking,” he said, “but haven’t you something to do with this troupe, the Good Companions?”
‚ÄúThat‚Äôs right,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝOakroyd, with a touch of pride. ‚ÄúIf you want to knaw, I‚Äôm t‚Äôstage carpenter and property man for ‚Äôem.‚Äù He looked at the man. ‚ÄúAnd I‚Äôve seen you about t‚Äôplace somewhere, I‚Äôm thinking.‚Äù
‚ÄúBig blue Daimler,‚Äù said the chauffeur. ‚ÄúYou‚Äôll have seen it in the town. We‚Äôre staying at the Great Eastern Hotel, on the front there. We‚Äôve seen this show twice, and when I say ‚Äòwe,‚Äô I mean the missis‚ÅÝ‚Äînot the wife, you know; she‚Äôs at home‚ÅÝ‚Äîthe Daimler‚Äôs missis. I‚Äôve seen it once too. We‚Äôre coming again tonight. It‚Äôs a good show.‚Äù
“You won’t find a better, mate.”
“That is so. And it’s not being patronized as it oughter be. Have a fag?”
“Nay, I nivver touch fags. I’m a pipe man missen.”
The chauffeur lit his cigarette and gave Mr.¬ÝOakroyd a companionable nod or two. ‚ÄúWell, you‚Äôre like me, I expect. One place today and another tomorrow.‚Äù
‚ÄúThat‚Äôs it,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝOakroyd, who liked this sort of talk. ‚ÄúWe‚Äôre allus on t‚Äôroad. Packing up again tomorn.‚Äù
“And where is it this time?” asked the chauffeur, with a casual air that seemed a bit overdone.
‚ÄúPlace called Winstead next week,‚Äù Mr.¬ÝOakroyd replied, with all the nonchalance of a man who is ready to go anywhere at a moment‚Äôs notice.
“Winstead, eh? Lemme see, that’s a smallish town, sort of market town, in Northampton or Bedfordshire, isn’t it?”
‚ÄúNay, I don‚Äôt fairly knaw,‚Äù Mr.¬ÝOakroyd admitted, still quite at ease. ‚ÄúTo tell truth, I‚Äôve nivver set eyes on t‚Äôplace.‚Äù
“And where after that?” the other pursued.
“Nah then, I’ll ha’ to think a bit. Is there a place called Haxby?”
“There is. It’s Coventry way. Is that it?”
“It might be. I’ve heard ’em say summat about Haxby.”
The chauffeur examined his cigarette. “And then where?” he asked.
‚ÄúWell, there wor some talk about Middleford,‚Äù Mr.¬ÝOakroyd admitted, ‚Äúbut that might be t‚Äôweek after or it might be monny a week after for all I knaw.‚Äù
“You couldn’t get to know, I suppose, and give me a sort of a list?”
Mr.¬ÝOakroyd stared. Then his easy friendly manner suddenly disappeared. ‚ÄúHere, what‚Äôs the idear?‚Äù he demanded. ‚ÄúWhat‚Äôs it matter to you where we‚Äôre going?‚Äù
“I just wondered, that’s all,” said the chauffeur, looking rather surprised. “No harm in asking, is there?”
‚ÄúThere might not be and then again there might,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝOakroyd, eyeing him suspiciously. ‚ÄúBut I can‚Äôt see what it‚Äôs got to do wi‚Äô you, Mister. It‚Äôs not all plain sailing i‚Äô this business. Yer nivver knaw who you‚Äôre talking to,‚Äù he observed severely.
“That is so,” said the chauffeur.
“A chap i’ my position has to be careful. I can’t say what I like to onnybody as comes up and asks. There’s wheels within wheels,” he added mysteriously.
“Well, if you want to know why I’m asking,” said the chauffeur, suddenly confidential, “I’ll tell you, though I’m not supposed to. It’s the missis that wants to know.”
‚ÄúThe missis!‚Äù cried Mr.¬ÝOakroyd, staring.
“Lady I’m working for,” explained the other, with a grin. “If you ask me, she’s taken a fancy to this troupe of yours. She’s always taking a fancy to something. Too much money and not enough to do, that’s her trouble. Widow, y’know, and rolling in money. And this morning she asked me to come and find out where you people was going to. Wants to come and have another look at you, though she didn’t say so. So there you have it.”
‚ÄúAy,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝOakroyd reflectively.
“And you can’t tell me any more?”
“That I can’t.”
“All right. No harm done, is there?” The chauffeur gave him a nod, rather a contemptuous nod. “So long!” And off he went.
Mr.¬ÝOakroyd rubbed his chin and watched the retreating figure. ‚ÄúNay, lad,‚Äù he told it, ‚Äútha‚Äôs coming it a bit too thick. Missis wants to knaw! Missis nowt!‚Äù He did not believe this fantastic story, and still felt uneasy and suspicious, and therefore took care not to mention this encounter to any of the party. Perhaps if he had mentioned it, some of them might not have been so puzzled by the arrival of that bouquet for Mr.¬ÝJerry Jerningham and by several other incidents that occurred later.
That last performance at Sandybay, as we know already, was a Night, and Mr.¬ÝOakroyd enjoyed it as much as any of the others. Their triumph was his triumph. His broad face beamed in the wings throughout the show, and was so ruddy and shining that it looked‚ÅÝ‚Äîas somebody said‚ÅÝ‚Äîlike an extra spotlight. But when it was over, when the last applauder had gone and all the props were put away, he saw the shadow creeping over him again. And was there ever such luck! There he was, as snugly suited as any man in England‚ÅÝ‚Äîand yet, Wanted. At any minute they might say ‚ÄúGot him!‚Äù‚ÅÝ‚Äîand then where was he? Worse off than he was before. It made him sweat to think of it. ‚ÄúDone nowt,‚Äù he said again, very bitterly this time, ‚Äúbut not a leg to stand on!‚Äù
‚ÄúNow, Mr.¬ÝOakroyd,‚Äù cried Miss Trant gaily when they were all standing at the Pier entrance, ‚Äúyou must decide. Will you go in the car again, or would you rather go by train this time? Which do you think is the more romantic? I know you‚Äôre a romantic person‚ÅÝ‚Äîlike me.‚Äù
And then he had to think quickly, desperately. Which was the safer? That was the point. He saw himself being collared in a station. He saw himself being hauled out of the car. “Nay, I don’t fairly knaw,” he stammered. “I mun think a minute, Miss Trant.”
“He’s spoilt, that’s what he is,” said Susie. “But that’s because he’s our little mascot, aren’t ta, lad?”
‚ÄúOwd thi tongue, lass,‚Äù cried Mr.¬ÝOakroyd. ‚ÄúI‚Äôll go i‚Äô t‚Äôcar, thank yer, Miss Trant.‚Äù Yes, the car would be safer. And he was not going to leave it at that. He would show them.
When he met Miss Trant the next morning he was very self-conscious, but she was too busy to notice that or anything else about him. ‚ÄúGood morning, Mr.¬ÝOakroyd,‚Äù she said. ‚ÄúYou‚Äôre in good time.‚Äù
His face fell. A casual glance, and she had recognized him. But then, of course, she was expecting him. Then Susie joined them. There was usually a second person taken in the car, but never more than two because they carried as much luggage as possible. He greeted Susie with a sheepish grin.
“Hello, hello!” she cried. “What’s this? Look, Miss Trant. Do you see what he’s done?”
Miss Trant smilingly examined him. “You do look a little different,” she said.
“He’s shaved his moustache off,” cried Susie.
“So he has,” said Miss Trant.
“He’s tired of being behind the scenes. Is that it, Jess? Or did you leave it with your landlady as a little souvenir?”
“Don’t be disgusting, Susie,” cried Miss Trant.
‚ÄúI‚Äôll bet it makes me look different,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝOakroyd fingering his upper lip. ‚ÄúAllus does, shaving off a moustache.‚Äù
“It doesn’t much, you know,” Miss Trant told him.
“It’s just the same sweet face from Shuddersford,” Susie assured him.
His heart sank. It looked as if he had given himself a stiff and raw upper lip for nothing. “But don’t you see owt else different?” he inquired, rather wistfully.
They both looked again. This time Miss Trant was first. ‚ÄúI know,‚Äù she cried. ‚ÄúYou‚Äôve got a new cap, Mr.¬ÝOakroyd.‚Äù
“It looks the same to me, about two sizes too small,” said Susie.
“No, the other one was brown,” said Miss Trant.
‚ÄúI believe it was,‚Äù cried Susie. ‚ÄúAnd this is grey. I remember now. The old one was what they‚Äôd call in Yorkshire a mucky brown, in fact it was a mucky old cap. You can see he wants to be an actor now‚ÅÝ‚Äîwhat with being clean-shaven and going in for being dressy like that.‚Äù
Mr.¬ÝOakroyd grinned nervously, and pushed the cap back a little, for being the same size as the other, that is, too small, it went sliding back equally well. But though he grinned, he was at heart very disappointed indeed. For one wild moment, after he had shaved that morning, he had had a vision of Miss Trant and Susie looking at him as he came up and wondering who it was. ‚ÄúAnd half a crown gone on a cap an‚Äô all,‚Äù he told himself, ‚Äúand I liked t‚Äôowd un. Seems to me I‚Äôll ha‚Äô to grow a beard and wear a big trilby if I‚Äôm to disguise mysen. This is a hopeless case.‚Äù And he had already written to Ogden Street to say he would be in Winstead this coming week. If the police had got hold of that letter, it might be all up with him. He did not look forward at all to Winstead.
III
There is no pleasanter market town in all the East Midlands than Winstead, with its cobbled square and broad High Street, its fine fifteenth-century Parish Church, Elizabethan Market Hall, and old gabled houses. It is not a market town and nothing else, for it manufactures gloves, hosiery, and lace in a discreet gentlemanly fashion; there is plenty of money in the town; the shops in the High Street have quite a metropolitan air; Munsey’s Café has an orchestra (piano, violin, and cello) and gives a thé dansant twice a week; and every ten minutes or so a bus comes into the market square from one or other of the numerous villages that regard Winstead as the centre of all things. It has one picture palace, and one small theatre, the Playhouse, which occasionally sandwiches a concert party in between two seasons of stock companies.
The Good Companions were at the Playhouse, and were doing better business there than they had done at Sandybay. The audiences were not wildly enthusiastic but they were fairly large and responsive every night, especially in the more expensive seats. Winstead‚ÅÝ‚Äîas they all told one another‚ÅÝ‚Äîwas proving a good ‚Äúdate.‚Äù All the players liked the town, with the exception of Jerry Jerningham, who hated the thought of playing in any place smaller than his native Birmingham and said that he was ‚Äúeating his hawt out in these little tawns.‚Äù Their lodgings were better than usual, they agreed; cleaner, more comfortable. They were fortunate in the weather, which was the best golden October brew, its sunshine as mellow as the old redbrick walls. Miss Trant, at home in such a place, enjoyed every hour there. Elsie discovered in the younger Mr.¬ÝLong, of Long and Passbury, estate agents and auctioneers in the High Street, a gentleman friend of her residential season at Cromer, two years before, and a friend ready to combine business with pleasure by taking her out in his two-seater. Susie pottered about, contentedly enough, though in secret she too sighed for cities and crowded streets; and if she was ever alone in her excursions, that was not the fault of her colleague, Inigo Jollifant. Mrs.¬ÝJoe, who was beginning to feel prosperous again, planned and began executing some vast knitting work, told her landlady all about George, and occasionally made a stately entrance into Munsey‚Äôs Caf√©. Joe himself strolled about in the sunshine with his pipe, listened to Mr.¬ÝMorton Mitcham‚Äôs reminiscences, and played snooker with Jimmy Nunn. Jimmy, in his search for a digestion, had discovered a little chemist, just at the back of the High Street, who was a very droll card and might be worked up into a new number and act.
These people, however, were not wanted by the police. Mr.¬ÝOakroyd, who was convinced that he was, did not enjoy himself at Winstead. Everything conspired to rob him of his peace of mind. The very sunlight only lit up his face before the eyes of every passing policeman. On the very second day there he had had an alarming experience. He had decided that it was no use skulking in his lodgings, though he was very comfortable and quite at home there, and so went boldly out, in the full light of the afternoon, to explore the town.
At the corner, turning into the square, he ran into a police sergeant, a large, unpleasant-looking chap, went right into him, with a bump. ‚Äú‚Ää‚ÄôEllo, ‚Äôello!‚Äù the sergeant growled. Mr.¬ÝOakroyd gave him one startled glance, muttered something, and hurried away as fast as he could go without actually breaking into a run. He walked across the square, dodging between the buses, and then, slackening his pace, went down the High Street. There he met Jimmy Nunn, who was carrying a tiny parcel that only a chemist could have wrapped so neatly. Jimmy stopped him. ‚ÄúDid you ever hear of this stuff, Oakroyd?‚Äù he said, holding up his packet. ‚ÄúPepsinate, they call it.‚Äù And he kept Mr.¬ÝOakroyd there for five minutes listening to a description of Pepsinate, which had, it appeared, arrived at its final test, namely, a fight to a finish with Jimmy‚Äôs stomach. At the end of these five minutes, Mr.¬ÝOakroyd chanced to glance across the road. There, standing on the pavement and looking directly at him, was the large sergeant.
He hurriedly said goodbye to Jimmy, but this time took care not to appear as if he was running away, and merely sauntered along, stopping now and again to examine a shop window. The first time he ventured another glance across the road, the sergeant was still there and apparently still keeping an eye on him. The second time he glanced across, however, the sergeant was not to be seen. Mr.¬ÝOakroyd pushed back his cap in sheer relief and admitted that he was a fool to frighten himself in this fashion. He stood staring idly at the side window of a boot shop. After a moment or two, he was still staring but no longer idly. There was something blue moving above that pair of gent‚Äôs box calf. It was a reflection in the mirror at the back, and it was a reflection of a policeman‚Äôs uniform. The sergeant was just behind him. He stooped down, pretending to tie a lace, and cocked an eye at the pavement, waiting to see a pair of regulation blue trousers move past. They did not come. Suddenly, he lunged forward and hurried off, without a glance behind him. As he went, he thought he heard a deep voice saying ‚Äú‚Ää‚ÄôEre, half a minute!‚Äù A few yards farther on, he slipped across the road, between two cars, and was just about to break into a run when he caught sight of another policeman eyeing him severely. The place was full of policemen.
‚ÄúA nice little place like this an‚Äô all! What do they want so monny for?‚Äù He asked himself angrily. ‚ÄúGurt idle nowts! Waste o‚Äô fowk‚Äôs brass, I calls it.‚Äù By this time, however, he had taken the first turning out of the High Street down a narrow side-street, and had come to another road full of shops. Here there were no policemen to be seen. Immensely relieved, he lit a pipe of Old Salt, and walked slowly along. A picture of a large steamer pulled him up. There was also a picture of a man standing in a cornfield, holding out his hands, and saying ‚ÄúCome to Canada.‚Äù He spent several minutes looking at these and other pictures and thinking about Lily and Canada. The shop was a Tourist and Shipping Agency, and Mr.¬ÝOakroyd, peeping in, could see a number of booklets spread out on the counter. He had examined some of those little books before, and they had a kindly trick of bringing Lily a bit nearer. Some of them might have a map that would show him just where she was. He went in and began turning over the booklets. Nobody bothered about him, and when he had looked them all over, he slipped two of the largest into his pocket and walked out. And there, looking straight at him, blocking up the whole pavement, was the sergeant.
“Well?” said the sergeant.
‚ÄúWhat‚Äôs up?‚Äù Mr.¬ÝOakroyd stammered, his heart thumping away.
“What do you want to run away for?” The sergeant sounded very fierce indeed.
‚ÄúNay, I weren‚Äôt running away,‚Äù replied Mr.¬ÝOakroyd.
‚ÄúAnd what‚Äôs the idear ‚Äôaving this brogue?‚Äù the sergeant went on. There was a suggestion of good humour now beneath his fierceness. ‚ÄúWhat d‚Äôyou think you are now‚ÅÝ‚ÄîLancashire comedian?‚Äù
‚ÄúWhat do you mean?‚Äù asked Mr.¬ÝOakroyd desperately. ‚ÄúSorry, Sergeant, but I don‚Äôt foiler yer,‚Äù he added, more politely.
The sergeant stepped forward and looked at him so intently that his heart turned to water. It must, he thought be all up now. But the sergeant was beginning to look puzzled. “You’re either Jimmy Pearson,” he said finally, “or his twin brother.”
‚ÄúNay, I‚Äôm not. I knaw nowt about onny Parsons. I‚Äôm a‚ÅÝ‚ÄîI‚Äôm a‚ÅÝ‚Äîstranger here, Sergeant.‚Äù
“What’s your name?”
‚ÄúOa‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù he began, then recollected himself. ‚ÄúOglethorpe,‚Äù he announced boldly. ‚ÄúSam Oglethorpe. And I come from Wabley i‚Äô Yorkshire.‚Äù
‚ÄúAnd you sound as if you do, Mister,‚Äù said the sergeant. ‚ÄúWell, you‚Äôre the very spit of a feller called Pearson that used to live here. When you give me that bump in the square, I said to myself. ‚ÄòThat‚Äôs Jimmy Pearson come back. I‚Äôll ‚Äôave a word with him.‚Äô Not too fond of us, Jimmy wasn‚Äôt‚ÅÝ‚Äîused to make a book now and again‚ÅÝ‚Äîbut we didn‚Äôt mind him. And the way you was dodging round was Jimmy all over.‚Äù
Mr.¬ÝOakroyd saw that it would not do to pretend he had never seen the sergeant before. ‚ÄúAfter I‚Äôd gi‚Äôen you such a bump at t‚Äôcorner there, I thowt I‚Äôd better keep out o‚Äô t‚Äôroad,‚Äù he said, with an appearance of great candour.
That was all right then. They were friendly enough when they parted, but the encounter had given Mr.¬ÝOakroyd such a shock that its surprisingly happy ending did nothing to quieten his fears. If anything, he was more uneasy than before. He had given the sergeant a wrong name, and trouble might come of that. He had another shock the following night during the performance, when he was at the top of the little ladder working the light. Jerry Jerningham had just kicked both legs in the air when Mr.¬ÝOakroyd noticed a policeman‚Äôs helmet bobbing about in the wings. He nearly fell off the ladder. They had found him. He was free to descend now but he stopped where he was, in the hope that the policeman might overlook him. The next moment, however, he was looking down on the policeman‚Äôs upturned face.
“Finished up there?”
‚ÄúAy,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝOakroyd reluctantly.
“Just come down a minute then,” said the policeman. At every step he expected to find the policeman grasping his collar. It was horrible.
“They said you’d be the feller to tell me,” said the policeman amiably, indeed quite apologetically. “ ’Ave to ’ave a look around yer know. Council here’s very particular. Fire and all that. Won’t take a minute, but I’ve to ask a question or two.” And he pulled out a notebook and immediately looked grave and important.
Mr.¬ÝOakroyd breathed again. ‚ÄúOwt I can tell you, I will, mate,‚Äù he said earnestly, with the air of a man who was ready to put out a fire with his own hands.
The worst of it was that you never knew when you were safe even for an hour. The most innocent things suddenly became sinister, menacing. Thus, on Saturday morning, his landlady, Mrs.¬ÝMason, whose husband was a porter at Long and Passbury‚Äôs, the auctioneers, told Mr.¬ÝOakroyd at breakfast-time that he must make sure of being in to tea. ‚ÄúIt‚Äôs Milly‚Äôs birthday today,‚Äù she announced, ‚Äúand we‚Äôre having a bit of a spread and we want you to join us, if it‚Äôs not asking too much. And Milly‚Äôs young chap‚Äôs coming too. You‚Äôll like ‚Äôim, a bit of good company he is. Six o‚Äôclock we‚Äôre ‚Äôaving it becos that‚Äôs as soon as he can get here.‚Äù
Mr.¬ÝOakroyd liked nothing better than such festive occasions. Not only did he promise to be there but he arranged to get two tickets for the show that night for Milly and her young man, of whom he had heard vaguely but had never seen, as a birthday present. At half past five he was in the parlour, listening, with a show of interest for once, to the ponderous talk of Mr.¬ÝMason, a very slow and solemn man, not too fond of work. Mr.¬ÝMason seemed to think this was a suitable moment to discuss his attitude towards religion. ‚ÄúGive me a bit of ritchool,‚Äù he was saying, ‚ÄúI likes a bit of ritchool, Mr.¬ÝOakroyd,‚Äù when his daughter Milly, a big bouncing girl, who earned good money at the glove factory and had no respect for her father, blew in like a coloured and scented gale and told him to ‚Äúdry up about his old ritchool.‚Äù Mr.¬ÝOakroyd wished her many happy returns and handed over the tickets. For this he was soundly kissed, for he was in favour with Milly, who liked to think she was in touch with theatrical life and had retailed Mr.¬ÝOakroyd‚Äôs gossip to some profit during the week to the other girls at the glove factory. Then Mrs.¬ÝMason, crimson, shining, and unfamiliar in her best, bustled in and said that tea was ready when they were.
“Tom’s not ’ere yet,” said Milly. “We’ll wait. If he keeps us much longer, he’ll ’ear from me when ’e does come.”
“Don’t let ’im ’ear too much from you, Miss,” said her mother, delighted at such a spirit but not above giving a warning.
‚ÄúShe‚Äôll get ‚Äôer master yet in Tom,‚Äù Mr.¬ÝMason observed ponderously. ‚ÄúOr if she don‚Äôt, then I‚Äôm surprised. ‚ÄôE‚Äôs big enough.‚Äù
Tom was big enough. He was nearly six foot, very straight, very broad in the shoulders. He had a red face, a small clipped moustache, a twinkling eye, and any amount of jaw. In his new grey suit, he looked both stalwart and trim, and he was the kind of young fellow that Mr.¬ÝOakroyd at any other time would have taken to at once, but now somehow he did not like the look of him. There was something unpleasant about the way in which he marched in, heavy on his feet.
“Comes in as if he’s going to lock us all up,” cried Milly, asking them all with her eyes to admire him.
‚ÄúWell, you be careful then, my girl,‚Äù said Tom with mock gruffness. And then he and Milly laughed, and Mr.¬ÝMason and Mrs.¬ÝMason laughed. Mr.¬ÝOakroyd did not laugh; he only smiled vaguely; he was feeling rather uneasy. Tom had heard about him and the troupe, and was very pleased to meet him. Mr.¬ÝOakroyd said he was very pleased too, and tried to look pleased, especially after he had had his hand almost pulped. They went in to tea.
Mr.¬ÝOakroyd brightened up at the sight of the tea. There was boiled ham; there was tinned salmon, with vinegar; there was even jam pasty; it was a proper knife-and-fork, company tea that Bruddersford itself would not have despised. It reminded him of old times at home. And then no sooner had they got sat down than Mr.¬ÝMason spoilt it all.
‚ÄúWell, Tom,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝMason, ‚Äúarrested anybody lately? ‚ÄôE‚Äôs in the Force, Tom is,‚Äù he added, turning to Mr.¬ÝOakroyd.
Mr.¬ÝOakroyd nodded, and felt himself turning all colours. This was a nice mess he had landed himself into, having to eat all this tea right under a bobby‚Äôs nose. ‚ÄúBest thing tha can do, lad,‚Äù he told himself desperately, ‚Äúis to car quiet, say nowt.‚Äù And this was easy enough for a time, while Milly and her Tom were busy chaffing one another, but after that there was no escape for him. Grateful for the tickets and anxious to be polite, Tom insisted upon talking to him, asking him questions.
“Where did you say you came from?” said Tom.
‚ÄúLeeds,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝOakroyd.
‚ÄúI thought you said it was Bruddersford the other day, Mr.¬ÝOakroyd,‚Äù cried Mrs.¬ÝMason.
‚ÄúIt‚Äôs all t‚Äôsame,‚Äù replied Mr.¬ÝOakroyd. ‚ÄúYou can‚Äôt tell where one ends and t‚Äôother begins.‚Äù Nothing could be further from the truth, he knew, than this, but it might pass among these strangers. Indeed, strangers who actually visited the West Riding were inclined to take such views, seeing one endless town where natives could see half a dozen entirely different and warring communities.
‚ÄúWe don‚Äôt often get ‚Äôem from your part down here,‚Äù said Tom reflectively. ‚ÄúFunny thing, though, there‚Äôs another chap just come here who‚Äôs from your part, judging by your talk. Our sergeant was telling us about him. He was the very spit image of a little bookie that used to be here called Jimmy Pearson‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù
‚ÄúI‚Äôve ‚Äôeard of him,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝMason with great solemnity.
“So the sarge follered him round to have a word with him, and then it turns out it wasn’t the same feller.”
‚ÄúCase o‚Äô mistaken identity you‚Äôd call that in the Force, wouldn‚Äôt you?‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝMason with even greater solemnity. ‚ÄúAr, I thought so. Mistaken identity, that‚Äôs what they‚Äôd call it, Ma.‚Äù
‚ÄúFancy!‚Äù cried Mrs.¬ÝMason. ‚ÄúLet me give you another cup of tea, Tom. Pass the stewed pears to Mr.¬ÝOakroyd, Pa.‚Äù
‚ÄúAnd this little feller came from Yorkshire the same as yourself,‚Äù said Tom, who was not the man to leave a tale half finished. ‚ÄúSame sort of name too. The sarge did say what it was. Og‚ÅÝ‚Äîsomething or other.‚Äù
‚ÄúIt ‚Äôud be Ogden,‚Äù announced Mr.¬ÝMason complacently. ‚ÄúKnow the name well. I‚Äôve sold at least two up in my time.‚Äù
‚ÄúNo, it wasn‚Äôt Ogden,‚Äù said Tom. Then he looked at Mr.¬ÝOakroyd. ‚ÄúIt was longer than Ogden. A real Yorkshire sort of name, it was. I thought you might know the name. You might know the man. Our sergeant said it was a bit fishy the way this feller kept getting out of his way at first, but he thinks everything‚Äôs fishy, he does. That‚Äôs the way they get to be sergeants.‚Äù
“I don’t like a suspicious nature,” cried Milly. “Don’t you ever ’ave a suspicious nature, Tom, whatever you do.”
This seemed to Mr.¬ÝOakroyd a very sensible remark. He himself tried to convey the impression that he could not be bothered with anything at that moment but stewed pears and custard and brown bread and butter. But he was not to be left alone.
‚ÄúI was wondering if you might know this Og‚ÅÝ‚Äîsomething chap,‚Äù Tom said to him.
He shook his head. “I’ve not heard tell of another Yorkshire chap here, but there may be onny number of ’em for all I knaw.”
Mr.¬ÝMason had been ruminating and now he pronounced judgement. ‚ÄúTom won‚Äôt ‚Äôave a suspicious nature. Tom‚Äôll be too easygoing, that‚Äôll be his trouble.‚Äù
“No, it won’t,” cried Milly. “Will it, Tom?”
‚ÄúHe‚Äôll be there when he‚Äôs wanted,‚Äù said Mrs.¬ÝMason. ‚ÄúPass your cups up while it‚Äôs nice and hot.‚Äù
‚ÄúI‚Äôve got eyes in my head,‚Äù said Tom, and as he said this his gaze wandered round the table and seemed to come to rest significantly on Mr.¬ÝOakroyd, who was so disturbed by it that the pear he was cutting with his spoon suddenly shot off his plate and landed among the lemon-cheese tarts.
‚ÄúEh, dear!‚Äù cried Mr.¬ÝOakroyd. ‚ÄúLook what I‚Äôm doing.‚Äù
‚ÄúYou‚Äôll ‚Äôave to be given in charge, Mr.¬ÝOakroyd,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝMason waggishly. ‚ÄúHere‚Äôs a case for you, Tom. Damaging tarts with a pear.‚Äù
They laughed at this, and Mr.¬ÝMason, thus encouraged, immediately took charge of the conversation. ‚ÄúAnd joking apart, quite apart,‚Äù he began, just as if there were all manner of humorous diversions going forward elsewhere in the house, ‚Äúmentioning no names and intending no offence, I say it‚Äôs time there were a few more cases in this town. Yes, and in other towns, a lot of other towns. And I know what I‚Äôm talking about‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù
“No you don’t, Pa,” said his daughter. “Shut up.”
“And mind your elbow,” said his wife. “Here, move that custard or he’ll have it over in a minute.”
‚ÄúThere‚Äôs people walking about the streets today,‚Äù Mr.¬ÝMason continued, ‚Äúthat ought to be serving their time in gaol. Hundreds of ‚Äôem. We don‚Äôt know when we‚Äôre rubbing up against ‚Äôem. Isn‚Äôt that so, Mr.¬ÝOakroyd? You know that.‚Äù
‚ÄúAr d‚Äôyou mean?‚Äù cried Mr.¬ÝOakroyd, startled.
‚ÄúTake no notice of ‚Äôim, Mr.¬ÝOakroyd,‚Äù said his hostess. ‚ÄúAnd make a good tea. You‚Äôre not eating anything.‚Äù
‚ÄúNo offence and only in a manner of speaking,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝMason grandiosely. ‚ÄúMy meaning is that you‚Äôre a man who sees the world, you‚Äôre knocking about like meself, and you know it as well as I do. Wanted men, that‚Äôs wot they are, and walking about the streets today as free as me and you, Mr.¬ÝOakroyd. If I‚Äôd my way‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù
“If you’d your way,” cried Milly, “we’d all be in a mess next minute. Running down the police like that! Now you tell him something, Tom.”
‚ÄúThat‚Äôs right,‚Äù said her mother. ‚ÄúGive Tom a chance. And give Mr.¬ÝOakroyd a piece of sandwich cake. He‚Äôs eating nothing.‚Äù
“Well, I don’t say we can work miracles,” said Tom, though he said it with an air of a man who might manage one or two if he tried. “We can’t and it isn’t to be expected. But we know more than you people think we know. We can’t pick a needle out of a haystack. And we can’t afford to make mistakes.”
‚ÄúCourse you can‚Äôt, Tom,‚Äù said Mrs.¬ÝMason, who apparently had given this matter a great deal of thought. ‚ÄúPass your father‚Äôs cup, Milly.‚Äù
‚ÄúI‚Äôve done nicely,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝMason. ‚ÄúI want to listen.‚Äù
‚ÄúPut it this way, then,‚Äù Tom continued. ‚ÄúSupposing you‚Äôre wanted for something, Mr.¬ÝMason‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù
‚ÄúDon‚Äôt take me, Tom. I‚Äôm too easy. Anybody knows where to find me in this town. I‚Äôm there at Long and Passbury‚Äôs, have been for twenty years. It‚Äôs money for nothing if it‚Äôs me you‚Äôre after. Take Mr.¬ÝOakroyd ‚Äôere. He‚Äôs on the move. Nobody knows anything about ‚Äôim.‚Äù
‚ÄúThere‚Äôs plenty knaws all about me,‚Äù Mr.¬ÝOakroyd protested indignantly. What did this fool of a chap want to drag him in for! And why couldn‚Äôt they change the subject! Surely they had been at it long enough!
‚ÄúAll right,‚Äù said Tom, ‚Äúwe‚Äôll take Mr.¬ÝOakroyd here. He‚Äôs wanted. D‚Äôyou see?‚Äù He looked very fierce and suddenly pointed a finger at the unhappy Mr.¬ÝOakroyd. ‚ÄúYou‚Äôre wanted. We‚Äôre after you.‚Äù The Mason family laughed heartily at this byplay.
Mr.¬ÝOakroyd had had enough of this. It might have been to his advantage to learn what happened when men were wanted, but he simply could not sit there any longer. ‚ÄúHalf a minute,‚Äù he cried, getting to his feet. ‚ÄúWhat‚Äôs time?‚Äù
‚ÄúOnly ten to,‚Äù Mrs.¬ÝMason told him. ‚ÄúYou‚Äôve ample time, Mr.¬ÝOakroyd. You said this morning you wouldn‚Äôt have to set off until quarter past seven.‚Äù
‚ÄúAy, I didn‚Äôt knaw then,‚Äù he muttered. ‚ÄúI‚Äôve a right lot to do early on i‚Äô the‚Äëater. I mun be off, Mrs.¬ÝMason.‚Äù He departed to wash himself, leaving the others to rise from the table at their leisure.
Just as he was opening the front door, a heavy hand fell on the shoulder. He jumped. “Eh!” he gasped, and turned round. It was Tom, looking a policeman every inch of him.
‚ÄúLook out for us tonight, Mr.¬ÝOakroyd,‚Äù said Tom heartily. ‚ÄúYou‚Äôll hear us clapping. And thanks for the tickets.‚Äù
‚ÄúBy gow! you made me jump,‚Äù cried Mr.¬ÝOakroyd, and hurried away. He was determined that this Tom should not clap eyes on him again that night or any other night. He felt miserable. What with the salmon and the pears and the sandwich cake and all the shocks he had had, he felt queer inside.
“Good house tonight,” said Jimmy Nunn. “Winstead’s been a good date. I’m sorry to leave it.”
‚ÄúWell, you can have it for me,‚Äù Mr.¬ÝOakroyd told him. ‚ÄúI reckon nowt o‚Äô t‚Äôplace.‚Äù
“Why, what’s wrong with it?”
“Iv’rything,” he replied bitterly, and went about his business.
IV
Mr.¬ÝOakroyd felt that he could not go on much longer: his secret was weighing him down. ‚ÄúI mun tell somebody,‚Äù he admitted to himself, ‚Äúor I‚Äôll be going right clean off me dot.‚Äù Some of the others were beginning to ask what was the matter with him. Jimmy Nunn thought he had the look of a man on the fringe‚ÅÝ‚Äîjust on the mere fringe‚ÅÝ‚Äîof stomach trouble: one who ‚Äúwould know about it later on.‚Äù Susie said he was homesick, pining for a sight of Bruddersford. Joe simply shook his head. It was a bad business. Mr.¬ÝOakroyd felt ashamed of himself. He would have to tell somebody but he could not bring himself to do it, and felt worse every day.
They were now at Haxby, playing at The Kursaal, a horribly draughty building that had once been a small roller-skating rink. The audiences were not bad, though apt to be restive and noisy at the back. The town itself, they all agreed, was hateful; a dark and dirty place, full of empty butchers’ shops and men without collars who stood about waiting for the racing specials; and they complained of their lodgings, which were all smelly and uncomfortable, haunted by long-lost cabbages and prickly with old horsehair furniture. It was one of those places in which there is nothing to do during the day. They all hung about or went for listless walks or did some mending or tried to find cheerful company over a bottle of Guinness, and were glad when it was time to walk round to the stage door.
Haxby did not give Mr.¬ÝOakroyd any of the shocks that Winstead had provided, but it seemed to depress him even more. There was something so dark and slinking about it. And his landlady, an elderly woman with a long yellow face, was not at all friendly but appeared to watch his every movement with suspicion. Nobody was better pleased than he was when Haxby was shut out, the lights turned up on the stage, and Inigo was rattling away on the piano, but even at the theatre they noticed he was out of spirits.
On Thursday night, however, he was a changed man. It was Inigo who remarked it first. “Only another three nights in this hole, thank God!” he said, as they were standing together in the wings before the show began. “Every time I come here I pass fifteen little butchers’ shops and every one has nothing but an old, old leg of mutton in the window. I can’t see them again, I really can’t. They turn me up, absolutely, especially as I’m still finishing their elder brother at my digs. Gosh! what a town!”
‚ÄúNay,‚Äù Mr.¬ÝOakroyd protested, ‚Äúit‚Äôs noan so bad as all that. It‚Äôs not t‚Äôplace I‚Äôd like to come to for my holidays, but I‚Äôve seen waar places ner this i‚Äô me time.‚Äù His voice had quite a new ring in it.
“Hello, hello!” cried Inigo, staring at him. “What’s happened to you, Master Oakroyd? Why are you now our little ray of sunshine? There’s mystery here.”
Mr.¬ÝOakroyd seemed rather confused. ‚ÄúNay, nowt‚Äôs happened‚ÅÝ‚Äîmuch.‚Äù
‚ÄúCome, come, this won‚Äôt do,‚Äù said Inigo. ‚ÄúYou have a hidden life. There must be fairies at the bottom of your garden, as Mrs.¬ÝJoe points out sometimes in the key of E flat. What‚Äôs happened?‚Äù
‚ÄúNowt‚ÅÝ‚Äîonly I met a chap from Bruddersford today.‚Äù
‚ÄúAh‚ÅÝ‚Äîso that‚Äôs it,‚Äù said Inigo. ‚ÄúDo you hear that, Joe? Master Oakroyd‚Äôs himself again because he‚Äôs met a fellow-Bruddersfordian on this desert trail. Let the word go round, and song and cheer be all our what‚Äôs its name.‚Äù And the word did go round, with the result that Mr.¬ÝOakroyd was thoroughly chaffed all the rest of the night. Undoubtedly, they said, the little man had been homesick.
Mr.¬ÝOakroyd did not care what they said. He had a welcoming grin for them all. He was happy again, haunted and hunted no longer. A chance meeting that afternoon had wakened him out of his bad dream.
After dinner (a bad one), he had gone for a stroll round the main streets of the town, smoking his Old Salt and wondering whether it would be worth while having a glass of ale before the pubs closed for the afternoon. Outside the White Hart, the largest pub in the place, he had noticed a little car and there had seemed something familiar about it even at a distance. As soon as he was close enough to see that the back seat of this car had been converted into a kind of large box, Mr.¬ÝOakroyd recognized it at once. He knew that car well for he had spent a whole day working on it. That box arrangement (to hold samples) was nothing less than his own handiwork. And there were the Bruddersford registration letters. That car was the one used by Mr.¬ÝAshworth, one of Higden‚Äôs travellers. Mr.¬ÝAshworth was probably inside the White Hart, where he would be giving a good account of himself, at that very moment.
(And let it be said here and now that this encounter with Mr.¬ÝAshworth does not involve any undue stretching of the arm of coincidence. Those who imagine it does are simply living in ignorance, not being acquainted with the West Riding trade. Every week, travellers, local men with broad shoulders and broader vowels, leave Bruddersford to visit all the towns in this island, to cross the seas to Gothenburg, Amsterdam, Antwerp, Lille, and Milan, to sail round the globe itself and pop up in Sydney or Buenos Aires. Higden‚Äôs is one of the largest firms in Bruddersford, and you might meet a man from Higden‚Äôs anywhere and at any moment.)
Then Mr.¬ÝOakroyd had an inspiration. He would tell his tale to Mr.¬ÝAshworth, who had always had a word for him and was undoubtedly a chap with a head on his shoulders. He entered the White Hart. Mr.¬ÝAshworth was not in the bar and not in the Smoke Room, which meant that he was not downstairs at all, for he was not one of your taproom men. While Mr.¬ÝOakroyd was hesitating, he was asked what he wanted, and was then told that one gent was still having his lunch in the coffee-room upstairs. That was Mr.¬ÝAshworth. Mr.¬ÝOakroyd found him in a corner of the deserted room, eating cheese and biscuits and looking idly at a newspaper.
Mr.¬ÝAshworth, a big man with a vast expanse of red cheeks, several chins, and prominent light blue eyes, glanced towards the approaching figure of Mr.¬ÝOakroyd, then stared at him. ‚ÄúHere,‚Äù he called out, ‚ÄúI know you, don‚Äôt I.‚Äù
‚ÄúThat‚Äôs right, Mr.¬ÝAshworth,‚Äù said the other, walking up. ‚ÄúHow are you getting on?‚Äù
“Why, it’s Oakroyd! What are you doing here? I heard you got stopped at Higden’s. Dam’ shame too, the time you’d been there! Here, sit you down.”
But Mr.¬ÝOakroyd first explained how he came to be in Haxby at all, and then said, in conclusion: ‚ÄúAnd I‚Äôd like to tell you about summat that‚Äôs been right bothering me, Mr.¬ÝAshworth, if you wouldn‚Äôt mind.‚Äù
Mr.¬ÝAshworth, who had probably been rather bored, did not mind at all. ‚ÄúBut we‚Äôre not stopping here, lad,‚Äù he said. ‚ÄúWe‚Äôll find a corner downstairs and have one. Then we can talk in comfort.‚Äù And they went downstairs, had a double whisky and a pint put before them, and then Mr.¬ÝOakroyd plunged into his tale, beginning with his adventures with George, the night before he left Bruddersford, and ending with Leonard‚Äôs letter. ‚ÄúAnd, as you see for yersen, Mr.¬ÝAshworth,‚Äù he concluded, ‚ÄúI‚Äôve done nowt‚ÅÝ‚Äînobbut tearing up me card, that is‚ÅÝ‚Äîbut what wi‚Äô one thing and t‚Äôother it looked to me as if I hadn‚Äôt got a leg to stand on.‚Äù
“But how did they come to be looking for you in Bruddersford?” the other inquired.
‚ÄúAll through that big daft George business,‚Äù replied Mr.¬ÝOakroyd. ‚ÄúThat‚Äôs t‚Äôonly thing that could ha‚Äô started ‚Äôem. This bobby, you see, Mr.¬ÝAshworth, tells me not to foiler this George, and he sees me face and he knaws where I live, Ogden Street, ‚Äôcos I told him. Nah then, when this chap, George, says after that he‚Äôs been robbed, this bobby remembers me and begins making a few inquiries like, and they find out I‚Äôve taken me hook all of a sudden and that starts ‚Äôem off.‚Äù
Mr.¬ÝAshworth looked at his downcast face for a minute then burst into a sudden and startling roar of laughter. ‚ÄúWell, I‚Äôll be damned! Nay, Oakroyd, lad! That was George Jobley, wasn‚Äôt it?‚Äù
“Ay, that’s t’name. Do yer knaw him?”
‚ÄúKnow him! T‚Äët‚Äët‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù Mr.¬ÝAshworth went on making this t‚Äët‚Äët noise for about two minutes. ‚ÄúI‚Äôd be a sight better off if I didn‚Äôt know him. He‚Äôs had many a quid of mine for something that didn‚Äôt run or couldn‚Äôt run. But I remember that business. It was all nowt. He was in the rats. He‚Äôs never lost any hundred and twenty pound, not he, and he admitted it after. That‚Äôs the bit they never put in the paper, of course.‚Äù
‚ÄúD‚Äôyou mean to say,‚Äù demanded Mr.¬ÝOakroyd, ‚Äút‚Äôpolice hasn‚Äôt tak‚Äôn t‚Äôcase up?‚Äù
“I should think I do mean to say it. Case! There isn’t enough case to make a pigeon egg. If you’ve been fancying yourself as one of these chaps they’re all looking for and can’t catch, you can stop this minute. I don’t care what your lad wrote, it’s all nowt. He’s been reading penny bloods.”
‚ÄúAre you sure, Mr.¬ÝAshworth?‚Äù
“Certain. You can go and walk up and down Woolgate all day tomorrow, and I’ll give you five bob for every time the police look twice at you. Nay,” he concluded in his broadest accent, “they’ve summat better to do than bother wi’ thee, lad.”
‚ÄúWell, by gow! you‚Äôve tak‚Äôn a load off my mind, Mr.¬ÝAshworth,‚Äù cried Mr.¬ÝOakroyd fervently, ‚Äúyou have an‚Äô all! It‚Äôs been spoiling t‚Äôbest job I ivver had. Eh, I don‚Äôt knaw I‚Äôm born nar.‚Äù He rubbed his hands, finished his pint, then relit his pipe. When he saw that his companion had also finished his drink, he said earnestly: ‚ÄúNah you‚Äôll ha‚Äô one wi‚Äô me, Mr.¬ÝAshworth. You‚Äôve right set me up.‚Äù
Five minutes later, deep in his second pint, he observed happily: ‚ÄúYou knaw, Mr.¬ÝAshworth, when I tinkered up that car o‚Äô yours, I nivver thowt I‚Äôd soon be a bit i‚Äô t‚Äôsame line mesen. But we‚Äôre both on t‚Äôroad, aren‚Äôt we?‚Äù He smoked luxuriously for a minute, and then added: ‚ÄúAnd nah there‚Äôs summat I‚Äôve been meaning to ask you all along and I mun do it afore I forget.‚Äù He took a pull at his beer and looked speculatively at his companion over the top of his glass.
“How’s that new centre forrard doing for t’United?”
Mr.¬ÝOakroyd was himself again.
V
Inigo Jumps Out of a Train and Finds Himself in Love
I
‚ÄúNow this,‚Äù said Mrs.¬ÝJoe impressively, taking up the last little heap of cards, ‚Äúis what‚Äôs sure to come true.‚Äù
“What was all the rest then?” Inigo asked.
“Look here, Inigo,” cried Susie, “whose fortune is this, mine or yours? You’re not a bit funny. Go on, my dear. Don’t take any notice of him.”
Mrs.¬ÝJoe was examining the cards with sibylline gravity. ‚ÄúI see here great success for you, my dear. Money, admiration, power, everything‚ÅÝ‚Äîa really great success. And it‚Äôll come quite unexpectedly in a Five.‚Äù
“Five what? Can’t you tell?”
“No, it’s just a Five. And it’ll all come through a dark man, a very dark man.”
“Perhaps it’s a nigger,” suggested Jimmy Nunn.
“Oh, shut up, Jimmy!” cried Susie. “You’re old enough to know better. How am I going to meet this man? That’s what I want to know.”
‚ÄúTalking of niggers,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝMorton Mitcham to nobody in particular, ‚ÄúI was in New Orleans one time and there was an old nigger mammy there who could tell fortunes. She did it with melon seeds. She told me I was going to break my arm within a week. ‚ÄòDon‚Äôt you go to de North or de West, sah,‚Äô she said to me. But I did, though. And just a week after that, in Nashville‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù He paused and looked from one to another of them.
Joe took his pipe out of his mouth. “You broke your arm, like she said,” he prompted.
‚ÄúNo, I didn‚Äôt do just that,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝMitcham solemnly, ‚Äúand I won‚Äôt pretend I did. But just one week after that I was with a fellow‚ÅÝ‚Äîand I‚Äôll tell you who he was; he was old Horace Carson who used to go round with the Woman in a Barrel illusion‚ÅÝ‚Äîand he broke his leg. Queer, wasn‚Äôt it? And another time, out East, there was an old Chink‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù
‚ÄúWell, Susie, you can‚Äôt want a better fortune than that, my dear,‚Äù said Mrs.¬ÝJoe. ‚ÄúYou‚Äôll have a lot of worries and trouble in a Two, as I said, but after that everything‚Äôs going to be bright for you, and I‚Äôm sure I wish I could say the same for us all.‚Äù
“Don’t you think you could if you tried hard enough?” asked Inigo, looking innocent.
“There he goes again!” cried Susie. “Pretending he thinks it’s all nonsense, and all the time he’s dying to have a good fortune himself and is furious because he can’t have one.”
‚ÄúDon‚Äôt be a scoffer, Mr.¬ÝJollifant,‚Äù said Mrs.¬ÝJoe earnestly. ‚ÄúI‚Äôve known people to scoff at these things once too often, like that young fellow who came to the Rawston Repertory when we were there. What was his name, Joe?‚Äù she called across to him.
“What was whose name?” asked Joe.
“That young fellow who came to the Rawston and who’d once been in a lawyer’s office or somewhere and didn’t believe in bad luck and good luck and all that.”
“Oh, that chap,” said Joe. “I remember him well. Best solo whist player I ever struck, he was. Knew every card in your hand. I remember him all right.”
“What was his name?” screamed his wife. “Don’t keep telling me you remember him. All I want is his name.”
Joe thought for a moment. “I’ve forgotten his name,” he confessed.
“Just like you, Joe,” and she dismissed him with affectionate scorn. “That’s Joe all over,” she explained to the others at her end of the compartment. “He’d keep on for an hour telling me he remembered him, if I’d let him, and then he doesn’t even remember the man’s name. Well, as I was saying, this young fellow came to the company and told us all there was too much of this superstition on the stage and he didn’t believe in it, and to show us he didn’t believe in it, he went out of his way to do all the things that bring bad luck, and put things in the dressing-room, spoke the tag at rehearsals, and everything. He’d show us it was all rubbish, he said. Well, what came of it?” She asked this in a low thrilling voice and fixed her gaze upon Inigo.
“Well, did anything come of it?” asked Inigo, who felt that he was capable of following this young man’s example himself.
‚ÄúI should think it did,‚Äù cried Mrs.¬ÝJoe triumphantly. ‚ÄúHe had his notice in less than a month.‚Äù
“Served him right, too,” said Susie very severely. “But how did it happen?”
‚ÄúOh, we all complained to the management about him,‚Äù replied Mrs.¬ÝJoe. ‚ÄúEither he goes or we do, we said, and so he had to go.‚Äù She stared at Inigo, who had suddenly burst out laughing. ‚ÄúFunny to you it may be, Mr.¬ÝJollifant, but it wasn‚Äôt funny to us and it went to our hearts to have to do it but we couldn‚Äôt have him deliberately ruining the luck for everybody. And he brought on his own bad luck, didn‚Äôt he?‚Äù
‚ÄúBut don‚Äôt you see‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù Inigo began, but then stopped because it was obvious that she did not see. Moreover, Susie was telling him to be quiet and not to talk about things he did not understand.
‚ÄúAi don‚Äôt believe mech in these things,‚Äù Mr.¬ÝJerry Jerningham announced, fluttering his long eyelashes at the company.
‚ÄúYou don‚Äôt believe in anything,‚Äù said Miss Longstaff, who appeared to have wakened up specially to make this remark. ‚ÄúAll you believe in is yourself and White‚Äôs dancing shoes and that stuff that says handsome men are slightly sunburnt.‚Äù It was clear that Mr.¬ÝJerningham could not be numbered among Elsie‚Äôs gentlemen friends.
‚ÄúDewn‚Äôt you be so personal,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝJerningham, permitting his exquisite features to register indignation. ‚ÄúYou‚Äôre always passing remawks. And Ai know whai. Oh yes, Ai know whai.‚Äù There was‚ÅÝ‚Äîas the ladies told one another afterwards‚ÅÝ‚Äîbouquet written all over him.
Susie began chanting a little composition of her own:
“Pretty Mister Jerningham
Came from Birmingham,
Where he’d been learning ’em,
And some say turning ’em
Up up up.”
“Now then, you girls,” said Jimmy, “leave the boy alone. You’re only jealous. If there’s no more fortune-telling going on at that end, we’ll have the cards back, please. What about another game of solo, Joe?”
‚ÄúIt‚Äôs getting quite warm in here,‚Äù Mr.¬ÝMitcham observed, and began taking off his overcoat.
‚ÄúExit the Silver King,‚Äù murmured Susie. This was the name they had given Mr.¬ÝMitcham‚Äôs overcoat, which was no ordinary garment. It had first made its appearance at Haxby (where Mr.¬ÝMitcham had bought it in a secondhand clothier‚Äôs for twenty-eight shillings), and immediately it had seemed as if another person had joined the party. Mr.¬ÝMitcham was now described as ‚Äútravelling an overcoat,‚Äù just as some players are said to ‚Äútravel‚Äù a mother or other relative. It was a gigantic plaid ulster and its collar was decorated with a few inches of fur from some mysterious and long extinct species. It had the air of having been round the world far more times than Mr.¬ÝMitcham himself, and of having seen places that its owner would never be permitted to see. At any moment (as Inigo had remarked), you felt that this astounding overcoat might begin to supplement Mr.¬ÝMitcham‚Äôs travel reminiscences or set him right in a loud voice. And Jimmy Nunn swore that he had to take out an extra railway ticket for it and that every time it was taken into a third-class carriage its fur stood on end. Such was the Silver King, which Mr.¬ÝMitcham now folded and, after some difficulty, found a place for on the rack.
After Haxby the Good Companions had had several three-night and two-night stands in the same neighbourhood, and it was now the middle of November. This Sunday journey to Middleford was the longest they had undertaken so far, for Middleford, as everybody ought to know, is one of those grim coal-and-iron towns of the Northeast. Miss Trant had taken Mr.¬ÝOakroyd with her in the car, on which he now kept a knowing eye, but all the other eight of them, as we have seen, were travelling in this train and they filled the compartment. They had been there for the last three hours, exchanging stories, playing cards, telling fortunes, eating sandwiches and chocolate, reading, smoking, yawning, dozing, staring out of the windows at the vague grey places that went wobbling past. It was a raw day‚ÅÝ‚Äîand, as usual, seemed all the more raw because it was Sunday‚ÅÝ‚Äîand at first the railway carriage had been miserably cold, but now it was not merely snug but downright stuffy. Jimmy Nunn, Joe, Mitcham, and Jerningham played a few more languid hands of solo whist; Mrs.¬ÝJoe knitted; Elsie closed her eyes again; Susie read a few more pages of The Pianola Mystery; and Inigo wrestled with several large Sunday newspapers.
“Hello!” said Jimmy, wiping the window and peering out. “This looks like Hicklefield. We’re running to time today.”
“Don’t we change here?” said Inigo.
“We do,” Jimmy replied. “And we’ve just twenty minutes. Time to get a drink.”
‚ÄúEverybody changes here,‚Äù said Mrs.¬ÝJoe, putting away her knitting. ‚ÄúI seem to have spent half my life in this station. Every time I‚Äôve ever gone North, they‚Äôve run me into Hicklefield, to change trains.‚Äù
The others agreed that Hicklefield was inevitable, and told one another how often they had met people they knew in the refreshment-room. They were now running slowly into the gloomy cavern of the station itself. Then a curious thing happened. Jimmy Nunn, who had let down the window and was looking out, gave a little cry and then suddenly sat down in his corner.
“Well, I’ll be damned!” he gasped, staring before him. All the colour had drained out of his queer puckered face. He looked ill.
“Jimmy! Jimmy! What’s the matter?” they were all crying.
He was pressing his hand now on his heart. His lips were blue. ‚ÄúAll right. It‚Äôs nothing,‚Äù he groaned. ‚ÄúJust a bit of‚ÅÝ‚Äîof‚ÅÝ‚Äîan attack, that‚Äôs all. Get me‚ÅÝ‚Äîthat bag down‚ÅÝ‚Äîol‚Äô man‚ÅÝ‚Äîyou‚Äôll find a flask in it. That‚Äôs it. Ah‚ÅÝ‚Äîthat‚Äôs better!‚Äù The colour returned to his face, beginning with his nose, so that for a moment or two he looked as if he had his comic makeup on and there seemed a horrible touch of drollery in his still chattering teeth.
“Jimmy, my dear!” said Susie, her hand on his shoulder. “What’s happened? You did give me a fright. Don’t do it again, will you?”
There was no time for more. The train had stopped now. Inigo and Morton Mitcham said they would see the baggage into the next train, which was already waiting at a neighbouring platform. The others were going off at once to the refreshment-room, but Jimmy, who was still shaky, refused to accompany them, so Susie insisted upon taking him over to the Middleford train. But when Inigo had finished with the baggage, he found Jimmy sitting there alone.
“Where’s Susie?” he asked.
“I packed her off to get a cup o’ tea for herself,” Jimmy replied. “Is Mitcham trying for a quick one?”
“He is,” said Inigo, helping the porter with the smaller things, which they were spreading on the seats. “There’s still ten minutes, but I’m not going to bother. I don’t like these lightning drinks.”
After a few minutes, Joe and his wife came along, announcing they had seen and spoken with Tommy Verney and Mabel Ross, late of the Merry Mascots. ‚ÄúThey‚Äôre resting now,‚Äù panted Mrs.¬ÝJoe, ‚Äúthen opening at Warrington in Cinderella‚ÅÝ‚ÄîBaron Hardup and Dandini.‚Äù Then Elsie and Jerry Jerningham disengaged themselves from a group of people (the Money for Dust! Company on the Broadhead Tour) at the end of the platform, and came hurrying along, chanting the names of all the acquaintances they had seen. Then Mr.¬ÝMorton Mitcham, magnificent in the Silver King, stalked up, to point out that he had had two while some fellows, there before he was, had not been able to secure a single drink. ‚ÄúIt‚Äôs an art as much as anything else,‚Äù he concluded triumphantly, and Jimmy and Joe acknowledged that he was undoubtedly a fast worker.
“Where’s Susie?” asked Inigo.
Mr.¬ÝMitcham thought he had seen her in the refreshment-room, talking to some people. ‚ÄúThere‚Äôs three minutes yet,‚Äù he added. ‚ÄúShe can make it‚ÅÝ‚Äîeasy. Did I ever tell you how I once caught the Twentieth-Century Limited?‚Äù
At this moment, however, a porter slammed the door. Jimmy and Mrs.¬ÝJoe both tried to look out of the window at the same time. ‚ÄúBy jingo!‚Äù cried Jimmy anxiously, ‚Äúbut she‚Äôll have to hurry up. I can‚Äôt see her, and they‚Äôre getting their flags and whistles ready.‚Äù
“Just a minute!” said Inigo. “Do let me have a look.”
“Can’t see her anywhere,” said Jimmy.
A whistle sounded.
‚ÄúThere she is!‚Äù cried Jimmy. ‚ÄúEh, what‚Äôs your name, guard?‚ÅÝ‚Äîhalf a minute! Oh, the silly devils! Gosh, we‚Äôre off! She‚Äôs missed it!‚Äù
“Then so have I,” roared Inigo. “Get back, Jimmy. I’m getting out.” The train was actually moving now, though very slowly. He opened the door, dropped out, and fell flat on his back on the platform.
Jimmy fumbled desperately in his pocket while the others were shouting. “Here!” he cried. “Tickets!” He threw out two tickets which fell on the platform and were picked up by a porter, whose attention was then directed to Inigo by the frantic gesticulations of Jimmy. The next moment they were out of the station.
‚ÄúWell I‚Äôll be‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù Joe did not say what he would be, but simply blew out his breath. The others, however, appeared to agree with him. ‚ÄúFor the minute,‚Äù said Mrs.¬ÝJoe, ‚ÄúI didn‚Äôt know I‚Äôd a heart in my body.‚Äù
“Well, I’ve thought for some time he was sweet on Susie,” said Elsie, “but I didn’t know it was as bad as that.”
‚ÄúI‚Äôve seen it all along,‚Äù said Mrs.¬ÝJoe, with a huge sentimental sigh. ‚ÄúThat‚Äôs what I call love, that is.‚Äù
“Oh, he’s gone on her, is he?” said Joe, staring innocently at his wife. “Is that why he went and jumped out?”
“Of course it is, Joe. Don’t be silly,” said his wife sharply. “And you needn’t look so surprised about it. He hasn’t gone wrong in his head. If I was stranded like that, you’d jump out of a train, wouldn’t you?”
Joe rubbed his chin and looked bewildered. “I suppose so,” he said finally.
“You don’t seem very sure about it.”
“All right then, I would,” said Joe. “You try me and see.”
“And then go and break your neck, I suppose,” said his wife, still sharply. “And then we’d be in a fine mess, wouldn’t we? I’ve never heard a man talk in such a silly way as you do sometimes, Joe,” she concluded severely.
Joe looked at her in despair. Then he looked at Mr.¬ÝMorton Mitcham, who in his turn was looking at Jimmy. All three gentlemen exchanged glances, and they were glances of a deep philosophical significance, such as may be exchanged among members of a sex not entirely devoid of reason, not wholly given over to whims and fancies and irrational outbursts.
II
“And did you really jump out just to keep me company?” said Susie. “I think it’s sweet of you, Inigo.”
Inigo himself, though he did not say so, thought it was rather sweet of him too. He had just been admonished by the Northeastern Railway, had still a good deal of that railway’s dust on his clothes, and had not quite recovered from his encounter with that railway’s platform. The porter had handed over the two tickets that Jimmy had thrown out, but Inigo had neither overcoat nor hat, and felt chilly, shaken up and somewhat ridiculous.
“The very first thing we must do now,” said Susie rather sternly, just as if he had proposed a few games of chess, “is to find out when the next train goes to Middleford.”
“Yes, I’d thought of that myself,” said Inigo meekly.
Together, they examined the indicator, which informed them that the next train to Middleford would leave No.¬Ý2 Platform at 7:45¬Ýp.m.
“Over four hours to wait here,” said Inigo.
“And when will it arrive at Middleford?” asked Susie. “That’s what it doesn’t say. About the crack of dawn, I suppose.”
“The timetable over there will tell us that,” said Inigo, and led her towards it. After much pointing and running up and down of fingers, they discovered that the 7:45 arrived in Middleford at 11 o’clock.
“That’ll be all right,” said Susie. “Jimmy or one of the others will be sure to meet us. They’ll look up the train too, and they’ll have got us some digs. This isn’t the first time this has happened to me, as Jimmy will tell you.”
Here she was stopped by a cough. It came from a middle-aged woman dressed in black who had been glancing at the timetable next to theirs. She had a long angular face, and her lips were tightly compressed. Inigo had noticed her when they first came up, for she was looking at the timetable as if there might be something wildly indecent in it. And now she coughed, not apologetically but peremptorily; it was like a tap on the shoulder. They looked at her, and she looked steadily from one to the other of them.
“Maybe you’re theatricals?” she asked at last.
Yes, they were.
“Changing trains here?” she asked.
Changing and losing trains, they told her, and then exchanged quick, glances. “Busybody?” Inigo’s glance asked. “Probably looking for lodgers,” Susie’s replied.
‚ÄúAnd when did you come in?‚Äù she inquired. After they had told her that too, and had even indicated the direction of the train, she looked at them more fixedly than ever, and finally said: ‚ÄúYou don‚Äôt happen to have been travelling with a Mr.¬ÝNunn?‚Äù
“What, Jimmy Nunn!” cried Susie.
“James Nunn,” she replied firmly.
“I should think we were,” said Susie. “We’re all in the same show, the Good Companions. And Jimmy’s an old friend of mine. D’you know him?”
The angular woman paid no attention to this question. “Pierrot troupe, is it?” she said. “And where are you going to now?”
Middleford, they told her.
“And where to next week?” she asked.
This was very puzzling. Susie looked at Inigo and hesitated. “Well, if you want to know,” said Inigo, in that special no-concern-of-yours voice we always employ with that opening phrase, “we’re going to a place called Tewborough.”
“Not far from here,” said the woman.
“We’re playing at the Theatre Royal there,” said Susie, not without pride.
‚ÄúHumph. Not much good‚Äôll come o‚Äô that,‚Äù she said grimly, looking still more angular. ‚ÄúWhat is it you call yourselves? Good Companions? And you‚Äôre sure Mr.¬ÝNunn‚Äôs with you, are you?‚Äù
“Of course we are,” replied Susie, rather indignantly. “We shall see him tonight or tomorrow morning. D’you know him? Can we give him a message?”
“James Nunn’ll want no message from me. I saw him on that train, and if I’m not mistaken he saw me.” She looked hard at them both, then gave herself a little shake. “I’m his wife,” she said quietly, and began walking away.
Inigo stared. Susie gasped, then ran forward. ‚ÄúI say though,‚Äù she cried, stopping the woman, ‚Äúhow extraordinary! I‚Äôve known Jimmy for ages and never knew‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù
“He’d a wife. No, I’ll be bound you didn’t.”
“But listen! I’m Susie Dean, and Jimmy used to know my father very well.”
‚ÄúAnd I knew him too,‚Äù said this astonishing Mrs.¬ÝNunn quite calmly. ‚ÄúI might have known you were Charlie Dean‚Äôs girl, for you‚Äôve the look of him.‚Äù
“But how wonderful!” cried Susie. She was almost dancing with excitement.
“Is it?”
“Of course it is.”
‚ÄúWhy?‚Äù said Mrs.¬ÝNunn, without the least flicker of interest. ‚ÄúI don‚Äôt call it wonderful. It takes more than that to surprise me. Good afternoon.‚Äù
“But surely you’re not going away just like that,” said Susie. “I mean, not saying anything at all. You simply can’t go like that.”
Mrs.¬ÝNunn gave her a long level stare. ‚ÄúWhat is it you want to know?‚Äù she demanded.
‚ÄúWell, it isn‚Äôt exactly that I want to know anything,‚Äù Susie explained, ‚Äúbut you see‚ÅÝ‚Äîmeeting you like this‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù
‚ÄúWithout any intention of being rude and while thanking you for answering any questions I might have asked,‚Äù said Mrs.¬ÝNunn, in a very angular voice, ‚ÄúI must tell you that you‚Äôre a good deal too excitable. You get out of the habit of working yourself up about nothing or it‚Äôll grow on you, Miss. And that‚Äôs all there is to it. Good afternoon.‚Äù And she marched off without another word.
“Well, of all the dried-up, bony, beastly women!” cried Susie, rejoining Inigo, who had hung back. “Did you hear her?”
“Jimmy saw her,” Inigo announced. “He saw her on the platform when he was looking out of the window. Don’t you remember how queer he went?”
“And no wonder!” said Susie. “But isn’t it strange? I never knew he had a wife.” And for several minutes she exclaimed at this discovery and then sketched in various accounts of Jimmy’s past, in all of which no blame was attached to him.
“We’ve heard of the skeleton in the cupboard,” said Inigo meditatively.
“And she’s it,” Susie put in quickly. “And now we won’t talk any more about her. The point is, where are we going?” They were now out of the station and had wandered into what was presumably one of the main streets of the town.
“So this is Hicklefield,” said Inigo, looking about him with distaste and shivering a little. “Methinks the air doth not smell wooingly here, my Sue. In fact the place gives me the hump, absolutely.”
There was a light fog over the town. The shuttered shops and banks and warehouses were vague shapes and like the scenery of some dismal dream. Cars came sliding from nowhere, twisted this way and that, hooted like wounded monsters, then slipped away into nothingness. Ponderous trams loomed up, creaking and groaning, stopped to swallow a few morsels of humanity, and lumbered off to unimaginable places. A policeman, an antique taxicab, a man with newspapers, a woman in an imitation sealskin coat, and a few other persons and things, were standing there, apparently waiting for Doomsday to break. Nothing broke the grey monotony but the pavement itself, which was startlingly black in its grime. There was no colour, no sparkle of life, anywhere.
“My God!” cried Inigo. “Let’s get out of this, Susie. Another minute of this and I give up hope.”
“We’ll jump on that tram,” she said, pointing, “and see what happens. Come on.” They raced down the street and boarded the tram just as it was moving off, to the delight of the conductor, who plainly had not expected anything at all to happen that afternoon. The top of the tram was covered, and they climbed up there and sat in a curved little place in front.
“Now this is much better,” said Susie, peeping out at a moving Hicklefield.
“Isn’t it?” he replied. “Like being on a galleon.”
But he was not looking at Hicklefield but at Susie herself, who seemed more vivid and radiant than ever, and as he looked at her he found himself possessed by a most curious feeling, a kind of ache, made up of wild happiness and sickly excitement. He realized at once that this place, the front of this tram in Hicklefield, was the only place in the world for him, and when he thought of other places, where there was no Susie, from the Savoy Grill to the sunlit beaches of Hawaii, they appeared to be nothing but desolations. He realized in a flash that it would be better even to be miserable with her than to be anywhere else, for so long as she was there the world would still be enchanted, whereas if she were not there it would be a mere dark huddle of things. He knew now he was in love with her, and would go on being in love with her forever and ever. This was it, there could be no mistake. He had jumped out of the train simply because he could not bear being without her; he had jumped and had fallen, head over heels over head over heels, in love.
“Susie,” he said, “I say, Susie.” And then he stopped. His voice sounded ridiculous, like the bleating of a sheep.
“Well, Inigo?” Her dark eyes were fixed upon his for a moment, then suddenly their expression changed. She was looking at the conductor, who was now standing at Inigo’s elbow. They asked him where they could go, if there was any chance of getting tea at the journey’s end, and he told them that about half a mile or so beyond the terminus there was a fine big hotel, standing on a main road and largely patronized by “motterists.” It was, they gathered, a most sumptuous establishment, and Inigo decided at once that they must go there and have tea. As it was nearly an hour’s ride to the terminus, they would neatly dispose of the time before the evening train.
After the conductor had gone, Inigo had no further opportunity of telling Susie what had happened. It was she who began talking now. He smoked his pipe, watched the delightful play of her features, and listened half-dreamily to what she had to say. Now and again her voice was completely drowned by the groaning of the tram as it mounted a hill. It was all as odd and queerly moving as a dream: the mysterious stretches of Hicklefield darkening below them; the little place, so cosily their own, on the tram; Susie, with her eyes deepening into reverie, lost in remembrance; the tale of her past that progressed as they progressed, a dream within a dream: it was all so strange. He has never forgotten it.
‚ÄúYou‚Äôre in for an awful time, Inigo,‚Äù she began, smiling vaguely at him. ‚ÄúI‚Äôm going to tell you the story of my life. No, I‚Äôm not really, but I can‚Äôt help thinking about everything in the past. It‚Äôs all going jumbling away in my head. Meeting that woman, I suppose. I keep thinking about my father. Did you hear her mention him? He was on the stage, and so was mother. They were both in musical comedy. He was a baritone lead in touring companies, and she used to do soubrette parts. French maids as a rule. She was half-French and she‚Äôd an awfully good accent. They used to play in those funny old jiggety-joggety things, The Country Girl and The Geisha and The Circus Girl. They were both playing in Florodora when they got married, in Manchester. I can remember a dressing-case thing Dad always had with him and it was a wedding present and had something on it, you know: ‚ÄòWith the Best Wishes of the Florodora Company, Manchester,‚Äô and all the rest of it. It‚Äôs silly but I just want to cry when I think of that. I don‚Äôt know why, exactly, but I can sort of see them there in Manchester and their Florodora and ‚ÄòTell me, Pretty Maiden‚Äô and everything‚ÅÝ‚Äîlittle, little figures, all very excited and happy, and when I think of them, these little figures are all in a bright light, but they‚Äôre ever so tiny and all round them is a huge blackness, and it‚Äôs back there in nineteen hundred and two and not one of them knows what‚Äôs going to happen. Do you see, Inigo? I‚Äôm sure you don‚Äôt, and I simply can‚Äôt begin to make you understand how I see it. But it‚Äôs just‚ÅÝ‚Äîsort of‚ÅÝ‚Äîlife, the real thing, and either you‚Äôve got to laugh at it, or cry, a bit when you see it like that, really you have. Now say I‚Äôm silly.‚Äù
He shook his head, and the look he fastened upon her offered her everything he had. But she was not thinking about him. She was still groping among her memories. When she began again, it was in a very subdued voice, and he could only catch an occasional word here and there. It was something about her mother, who had died only a year or two after Susie was born. He gathered that she had been looked after then by an aunt for several years. Then he heard more, for the tram was quiet and she was raising her voice a little.
‚ÄúThat‚Äôs the queerest part and the one I remember best,‚Äù she was saying, ‚Äúwhen Father decided to take me round with him on tour. I was about five or six when that began, and it went on for several years. It‚Äôs all such a funny muddle, though bits of it are frightfully clear. Going round dozens of towns, but they all seemed alike. Only sometimes the landladies called me ‚Äòpoor little dearie‚Äô and sometimes ‚Äòpuir wee lassie‚Äô and sometimes ‚Äòdoy‚Äô and sometimes ‚Äòhinny‚Äô‚ÅÝ‚ÄîI remember that awfully well. And often when there was a matin√©e, Dad would take me with him, and when he was on I‚Äôd be held up in the wings and sit in the dressing-rooms, sitting on comedians‚Äô knees or in chorus girls‚Äô laps, and I‚Äôd be given chocolates, and everything was always so queer and smelly‚ÅÝ‚Äîgrease paint and powder and gas, you know‚ÅÝ‚Äîbut I‚Äôd hear the band playing and people laughing and clapping, and I loved all that. It was horrible sometimes at night, though, when I had to go to bed before Dad went down to the theatre, and sometimes the landladies were horrible, with huge red faces and smelling of whisky. And the rooms too. I can see one now‚ÅÝ‚Äîit seemed enormous, with giant pieces of furniture and awful dark cupboards with Things in them waiting to spring but on you‚ÅÝ‚Äîand the blinds weren‚Äôt down properly and the horrible greeny light of the lamp outside in the street shone in, and I‚Äôd shiver and shiver there every night, creeping down under the clothes and just waiting for something to come‚ÅÝ‚Äîbump! But then sometimes when Father came back, I‚Äôd wake up and go downstairs and he would be having his supper and perhaps he‚Äôd give me some. He adored cow-heels, done in milk and with onions‚ÅÝ‚Äîand so do I. We had scores and scores of little jokes we used to repeat over and over again. Dad said that bringing out these jokes was the only way he had of furnishing the home. He didn‚Äôt drink much, not then anyhow, but I always knew when he‚Äôd had one too many because he always came and cried over me and said I must promise never to go near the stage, and always ended by giving me what he called elocution and ear-tests and telling me I had only to work hard to get to the top one day because it was born in me. But he was a darling, very handsome and with a jolly good voice, and all the landladies adored him and so did most of the women in the companies he was with; even I could see that. But then he decided it wasn‚Äôt good for me any more, and I had to live with another aunt near Clapham Common and go to school‚ÅÝ‚Äîoh, hateful!‚Äù
By the time he had learned how she fought against the dull horrors of life near Clapham Common, how she returned to her father when she was fifteen, went into concert-party work with him when she was sixteen, saw him taken to hospital, to die there, when she was seventeen, how she had struggled on her own ever since, they were at the terminus. The town had long been left behind. There was nothing to be seen but a tiny shelter and the road that wandered into the gathering darkness. But half a mile down that road, the conductor told them once again, was the grand hotel on the main road going north, the hotel patronized by “motterists.” Off they went, at a brisk pace. “Hope you don’t mind stepping out, Susie,” said Inigo, “but the fact is, I’m finding it rather cold now without a coat.”
“I’ll run all the way if you like,” said Susie. Then she put a hand on his sleeve. “Poor Inigo! I never thanked you properly, did I, for leaving the train just to keep me company?”
Inigo stopped and seized the hand that had just touched his sleeve. He was trembling a little. ‚ÄúSusie,‚Äù he began, ‚ÄúI must tell you now. I‚Äôve made a tremendous discovery. I‚ÅÝ‚ÄîI‚ÅÝ‚Äîadore you.‚Äù
“But, Inigo,” she cried, “how nice! I thought you did, though. Do keep on, won’t you?” She made a little movement that suggested she was ready now to walk on again.
He had hold of both her hands now. “Yes, but it’s much more serious than that. It’s not just friendliness. It’s everything, every mortal blessed thing and forever and ever.”
Her hands slipped away. “You sound as if you were about to propose,” she said lightly. “It’s not as bad as that, is it?”
“Of course it is,” he cried. “And I am proposing and anything else you like. I’m in love with you, absolutely, frantically. It’s marvellous. It’s terrible.” The next minute he would have taken her in his arms but she was not there to take. And then they were walking briskly down the road again.
“I’m sorry,” she said at last, and said it quite gravely.
“I don’t see what you’re sorry about.”
“Well, you’re rather a darling, aren’t you?”
‚ÄúI don‚Äôt suppose I am,‚Äù he replied rather gloomily. Then he brightened up, and said eagerly: ‚ÄúBut if you think that now, it will probably be all right, won‚Äôt it? I mean, I‚Äôm ready to give you a little time, though it‚Äôs frightfully hard‚ÅÝ‚Äîor will be frightfully hard‚ÅÝ‚Äîjust sort of aching about you.‚Äù
“Don’t be absurd, Inigo.”
‚ÄúI‚Äôm not. That‚Äôs how I feel. All the time you were talking in that tram, I was just dying to kiss you. I am now. I don‚Äôt know why I don‚Äôt, except that‚ÅÝ‚Äîwell, this is the kind of love‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù
“Well, what kind is it? Do go on, Inigo.”
“I won’t go on,” he said gruffly. “I’ll tell you some other time. You’re simply laughing at me.”
“My dear, I’m not,” she protested. “And to show you how serious I am, I’ll tell you a secret. I’ve rehearsed this conversation heaps of times.”
“What! With me?”
‚ÄúNo, not with you, stupid, with nobody in particular, just a rather vague but frightfully attractive young man who was in love with me. And he would say a lot of the things you‚Äôve just said‚ÅÝ‚Äîthough he usually went into detail far more‚ÅÝ‚Äîyou know, said what it was about me that made him fall in love‚ÅÝ‚Äîand then I‚Äôd reply and say how sorry I was‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù
“Just as you told me how sorry you were.” Inigo put in, a trifle grimly.
‚ÄúAnd then I‚Äôd tell him we‚Äôd always be the dearest friends but that I‚Äôd made up my mind I‚Äôd never, never marry. I would tell him that I‚Äôm wedded‚ÅÝ‚Äîas they say in the books of words‚ÅÝ‚Äîto my Art. And then very, very gently I would tell him to go away and fall in love with someone else, someone who could love him back, but usually he said he would do nothing of the kind, all other girls having lost their charm for him forever. I liked that part,‚Äù she confessed, ‚Äúand usually left it at that!‚Äù
“There’s only one thing you’ve forgotten, Susie,” said Inigo reproachfully. “I’m a real person, not a vague, but attractive young man you’ve just imagined. Doesn’t that make any difference? It ought to, you know.”
“It does. Now I’m really glad, really excited.”
“Well, there you are then,” he cried triumphantly.
“And I’m really, really sorry. That’s the difference, but that’s the only difference. And now let’s talk about something else. Shall we?”
“There’s nothing else in the world to talk about, absolutely,” said Inigo gloomily.
“There is. There’s the hotel to talk about, and I can see it. It looks like a big one, doesn’t it, really ‘motteristy’? Let’s have an enormous tea. It must be my tea because this is all my fault.”
So these two infants arrived at the hotel, which was evidently used as a halt by motorists going north and south on this main road. A number of cars were standing before the entrance. Big as it was, the place looked cosy and inviting.
Inigo looked at his watch in the lighted doorway. “We can just manage an hour here,” he said, trying to sound as if the conversation along the road had never taken place.
“Then that’s just right,” said Susie, “and I think you’re very clever to have planned it so nicely. But then you are clever, aren’t you, Inigo? And I like you.”
“I’m cold, hungry, and an ass,” that young gentleman replied, and made a desperate attempt to smooth his hair before a waiter caught sight of him.
III
Tea would be served, they were told, in the lounge. There was a large bright fire in the lounge, and there was also a large bright woman. She stood out from the other guests, the assorted “motterists,” like a cockatoo among thrushes. Indeed, she was not unlike a cockatoo. A tiny curved beak of a nose jutted out of her purply-red face; she had big staring eyes and a little round mouth, daubed a fearsome vermilion; her clothes were gaudy and expensive; every time she moved there was a glitter of jewellery; and she seemed to have enough flashing odds and ends of handbags and little boxes to stock a small shop. She sat alone, not far from their table, and was easily the most conspicuous person or object in the room. Susie and Inigo, however, had a further reason for remarking her gorgeous presence, for from the moment they entered she stared at them. At first she gave them a puzzled stare, but that soon changed into a plain stare, which went on and on and did not appear to mean anything.
“Why does she do it?” Inigo whispered. “There isn’t anything wrong with us, is there?”
“That’s what I’ve been wondering,” Susie replied softly. “I’ve been trying to go over myself and I seem all right. You looked a bit blue at first, but now you’re thawing out nicely,” She handed him his cup. “She must be wondering if she knows us.”
‚ÄúShe doesn‚Äôt know me‚ÅÝ‚Äîthank God!‚Äù he muttered.
“No, but she may have seen me somewhere,” Susie went on with a flash of pride. “When you think of it, I’ve played to thousands and thousands of people all over the country, and I must see somebody who had seen me sometimes, mustn’t I?” And then she became very gay, very sparkling, and was so prettily attentive to Inigo that he began to think she must be in love with him a little, after all.
“Unless,” he told himself, as he gloomily devoured a piece of shortbread, “she is doing it out of kindness, just to make up for not caring about me.” By this time he could no long bother his head about the woman who stared. He did not even know if she was still there, for he had gradually moved round his chair until at last he had his back to her. When he had finished his shortbread, however, he noticed that Susie was looking up, with a rather puzzled expression on her face.
“What’s the matter?” he inquired. “Is the starey bird going?”
“Now I know I’m intruding,” said a voice just above his head.
Inigo jumped with surprise, and as he jumped he sent his fat armchair rolling back. It bumped heavily against something, and Inigo, turning round, discovered to his horror that the something was the flashing bosom of the staring woman. She gave the chair a push. He gave it a frantic tug. The result was that the chair shot forward and hurled Inigo against the tea-table. One of his hands knocked over the hot-water jug, and the other flattened itself against a plate.
“I’m sure I must be intruding,” cried the staring woman.
“Not at all,” said Susie, trying to smile sweetly at her and at the same time keep an eye on the hot water, which was now creeping about the table. “Won’t you sit down?”
‚ÄúNot at all! Rather! Absolutely!‚Äù roared Irigo, who did not know what he was saying. He waved a hand towards a chair‚ÅÝ‚Äîit was the hand that had just been flattened against the plate and there was a piece of bread-and-butter sticking to it. ‚ÄúSit here‚ÅÝ‚Äîthere‚ÅÝ‚Äîwon‚Äôt you?‚Äù he went on. He waved his hand again, and most of the bread-and-butter went on the chair.
“I ought to introduce myself, oughtn’t I?” the woman was saying.
“Do be careful of the hot water,” Susie cried to her.
“No, don’t sit there,” Inigo roared again. “It’s all bread-and-butter.”
Having said this, Inigo could say no more. He suddenly lost control of himself. The woman herself, with her staring eyes and little beak of a nose and her magnificent finery, her unexpected arrival, his jump and subsequent antics with the chairs and bread-and-butter, the watery ruin of the tea-table‚ÅÝ‚Äîall these things made a combined assault upon him. The next moment, everything in the lounge, everything in the whole world, seemed wildly absurd. He flung himself down in his chair and gave a yell of laughter.
“I’m Lady Partlit,” their visitor announced, sitting down.
This was quite enough for Inigo, who went off into another fit of laughter. It would have been the same if she had been Mrs.¬ÝJones, if she had merely remarked that the weather was cold. He was helpless now. Whatever happened, whatever was said, would be screamingly funny.
Susie gave Lady Partlit their names, but she only just managed to get them out in time. Her eyes were very bright and she was biting her lips. The next minute she too had fallen helplessly into the giggles.
Lady Partlit smiled at them both a trifle vaguely. Her voice, however, was triumphant. “I thought I knew you,” she said. “You’re in a concert party called ‘The Good Companions,’ aren’t you? Of course you are. I saw you at Sandybay a few weeks ago.”
“Yes, we were there,” Inigo spluttered. He looked hard at the teapot in the hope that he would somehow be able to control himself, but it was hopeless. He pulled out his handkerchief, tried to wipe his eyes, and exploded again into silly laughter.
“I saw you three times,” said Lady Partlit. “So good, I thought you were. Such a change!”
‚ÄúI‚Äôm glad!‚Äù Susie faltered, trying not to look at Inigo. ‚ÄúIt‚Äôs nice to think‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù But then she went off again. ‚ÄúOh, do stop it, Inigo. You are a fool.‚Äù With an effort, she got her face straight, turned to Lady Partlit and said apologetically: ‚ÄúYou must think we‚Äôre awfully rude, but it‚Äôs just his silliness, and now‚ÅÝ‚Äînow‚ÅÝ‚Äîhe‚Äôs started me off.‚Äù And she giggled again.
‚ÄúNot in the least,‚Äù said Lady Partlit, still smiling. ‚ÄúAnd‚ÅÝ‚Äîer‚ÅÝ‚Äîwhere are you people going to now, if you don‚Äôt mind my asking?‚Äù
“Middleford,” replied Susie, and brought out the name as if it were the greatest joke in the world.
“That’s it. Ha-ha,” roared Inigo. “Middleford. Ha-ha-ha-ha. Sorry, but I really have to laugh when I think of Middleford.” And he buried his head in his hands and yelled with laughter. This torrent swept away any tiny reserve remaining with Susie, who promptly joined him. Lady Partlit looked from one to the other of them; her eyes opened wider and wider; her little round mouth gradually widened; her rather heavy cheeks began quivering; then finally she burst into laughter too, a queer soprano sobbing that made the other two want to go on and on forever. And there were the three of them, shaking, watery-eyed, helpless.
“Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear!” cried Lady Partlit, dabbing at her eyes. “I don’t know what it’s all about, but I haven’t laughed so much this long time. I like a good laugh too.” Her speech was far homelier now than it had been before, and any suggestion of the great lady had completely vanished. They saw before them a kindly, rather silly, rich woman in her early forties, who waved away their apologies for their astonishing behaviour.
“I’m sure it’s done me good,” she told them. “I wasn’t expecting to have such a good laugh in this place. My word! Now won’t you let me order you some more tea? Are you sure? Well, what about some cocktails if the bar is open? Or some chocolates? Have a cigarette?” She produced a gold case, and the three of them lit cigarettes and settled down to talk.
“Don’t forget our train, Inigo,” said Susie. “You know how long it took us to get here, over an hour and a half.”
“What’s this?” asked Lady Partlit, and when they told her, said eagerly: “Now you mustn’t think of going to the station that way. I’ve my car here, and Lawley will take you down there in no time, and all nice and comfortable, and you’ll be able to stay here all the longer. And that’ll be nicer for me too. I was going through to Yorkshire tonight, and just stopped here for tea, and then I thought I wouldn’t go any farther tonight because Lawley says there’ll be fog farther up later on, and so I said I’d stay here and go to bed early after dinner with a nice book. Now what do you say to that? Let Lawley take you to the station.”
Susie accepted at once, and though Inigo would rather have returned as they came because he could then have had Susie to himself, he could not offer any objection.
‚ÄúYou mustn‚Äôt think it strange, my coming up like this and talking to you,‚Äù Lady Partlit continued, ‚Äúbecause for one thing you must count me among your admirers. I‚Äôve never seen such a good show at the seaside before, and I‚Äôve told all sorts of people about you. Such an original name too! And then, another thing is, I‚Äôm almost in the business myself in a way of speaking. My late husband‚ÅÝ‚Äîhe was Sir Joseph Partlit‚ÅÝ‚Äîyou may have heard of him‚ÅÝ‚Äîwas very interested in the theatre business himself just as a sideline, you know, and he left me a controlling interest in two West End theatres and some productions.‚Äù
Susie’s eyes lit up at once and flashed a message to Inigo. “Here,” they said, “is the Fairy Queen.”
“What’s the matter?” asked Lady Partlit.
“Nothing at all,” said Susie, “except that you’re the person we dream about every night. Two West End theatres! Productions! Not musical comedy or revue, by any chance?”
“As a rule, yes. I’m glad too, because I like them best, though I like a good romantic play too.”
“I can hardly believe you’re real,” cried Susie smiling at her.
“But you mustn’t think I’ve really anything to do with this business,” Lady Partlit explained amiably. “I’m just a little nobody in the background. All I do is sign things now and again, though I like to keep popping up and seeing what they’re doing. Helps to keep me busy, you know, and a widow without children like me hasn’t much to do. But don’t run away with the idea that I’ve much say in it.”
‚ÄúYou‚Äôve enough say in it to take my breath away. Lady Partlit,‚Äù said Susie sturdily. ‚ÄúMr.¬ÝJollifant there‚ÅÝ‚Äîyou can call him Inigo; he likes it‚ÅÝ‚Äîmay not care, because he‚Äôs only an amateur slightly disguised, but as for me‚ÅÝ‚Äî! And if Jerry Jerningham were here, I wouldn‚Äôt be answerable for him. He‚Äôd probably want to kidnap you.‚Äù
The effect of these last two remarks was astonishing. Lady Partlit’s ruddy cheeks were now like two mounds of pickled beetroot; her eyes were soft and bright; her bosom heaved and flashed.
“You remember him, don’t you?” asked Susie, who had observed these significant symptoms. “Our light comedian and dancer.”
‚ÄúOh, yes, I do. I thought he was‚ÅÝ‚Äîwonderful,‚Äù Lady Partlit faltered.
“He is,” said Susie. “Isn’t he, Inigo?”
‚ÄúAbsolutely. Jerningham himself may be a terrible‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù But here he stopped because he received a kick on the shin from Susie.
“A terribly good dancer,” that young lady prompted.
“Exactly!” cried Inigo. “I must say he’s the best step dancer I’ve ever seen.”
“And so marvellously good-looking of course,” said Susie.
“Yes,” said Lady Partlit faintly.
Susie gave a little laugh that struck Inigo as being the most unreal he had ever heard. “It’s funny,” she said, “the way Jerry attracts all the women in the audience. They’d run after him if they could, but they can’t. He’s never to be found.”
‚ÄúIs‚ÅÝ‚Äîis he married?‚Äù Lady Partlit brought out this question in a tiny stifled voice.
‚ÄúWho on earth‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù Inigo began, but was immediately kicked into silence again.
‚ÄúOh no, he‚Äôs not married,‚Äù replied Susie brightly. ‚ÄúHe‚Äôs not even thinking of it. He thinks about nothing but his work. He‚Äôs very hardworking and frightfully ambitious‚ÅÝ‚Äîlike me.‚Äù
After this, the talk that followed seemed merely casual, but it had a trick of working round to Mr.¬ÝJerry Jerningham. Susie gave Lady Partlit a list of all their future dates she could remember. When at last the car came round for them, Lady Partlit slipped away and returned with a large box of chocolates for Susie and a box of cigarettes for Inigo, and was almost tearfully affectionate in her farewell, though her regret at their departure did not compel her, they noticed, to accompany them to the station.
“Well,” said Inigo, when they had seated themselves in the big limousine, “I must say I don’t understand that old girl. I think she’s a bit mad.”
“Idiot! Don’t you see,” Susie hissed, “she’s the person who sent Jerry that bouquet at Sandybay. She adores him.”
“Gosh!” was Inigo’s comment. But he listened patiently while Susie discussed various aspects of this strange affair. They sat there in comfort, while the limousine rolled through the murk of Hicklefield. When it came to a stop at the station, Susie sighed luxuriously. “People can say what they like,” she said wistfully, “but it must be marvellous to have a lot of money.”
And anybody who saw her getting out of that limousine must have thought she had a lot of money. Her sketch of a very rich and bored young creature, the spoilt darling of fortune, was only offered to an audience of two porters, a taxi-driver, and a nondescript, but nevertheless it was superbly done. Her hatless and overcoatless companion who came out shivering slightly, was left somewhere in the air; he was there, but not in the picture; it was not until he opened the door of an empty third-class carriage for her that he returned to the picture and she was Susie Dean again.
IV
“Figure or no figure,” said Susie, “I must have some.” She was examining the box of chocolates that Lady Partlit had given her. They were very large aristocratic chocolates, and by the time they had eaten two or three, the last glimmer of Hicklefield had left their flying windows. Once again Susie pointed out that it would be marvellous to have a lot of money. She dwelt rather wistfully on the subject of riches.
England is preeminently the country in which it is difficult for two to agree: if one turns realist, the other turns idealist; a cynic instantly creates a sentimentalist. Inigo stoutly denied that money, beyond a necessary competence, was important; he denounced the life of luxury, even going to the length of refusing a third chocolate; and he declared that Susie’s attitude pained him. In a very short time, however, the lover overcame the philosopher in him.
“If that’s what you think,” he said, rather gloomily, “I’ll make a lot of money. I don’t want it, but I’ll do it just for your sake. Didn’t you say I could probably make something out of songs?”
“Heaps and heaps,” she told him. “If the right people hear them, I’m sure your fortune’s made, Inigo. I really mean that. You’ve got a gift that could easily be a goldmine.”
“Well, there you are then. I’ll make a lot of money for you.”
“But I don’t want your money, you absurd creature. I want to be rich myself, all by myself.”
“I don’t believe you know what you want,” he declared, seeing that it was obvious she did not want him.
‚ÄúThat only shows you don‚Äôt know anything about me,‚Äù she said. Then she thought a moment. ‚ÄúI want to be a star. I want to be Susie Dean‚ÅÝ‚Äîbang!‚ÅÝ‚Äîlike that. Enter Susie Dean‚ÅÝ‚Äîbang! ‚ÄòHere she is!‚Äô I want them to say. Not just for myself, either, but for my mother‚Äôs sake and my father‚Äôs sake‚ÅÝ‚Äîto make up for all their dreary journeys and digs and hard work and rotten pay and no chances. I know it won‚Äôt make up for all that, yet I feel it will in a way if I go right to the top. Not that I don‚Äôt want it myself, of course,‚Äù she added.
“Of course,” he said.
“I believe you’re being sarcastic.”
“No, I’m not. Go on.”
‚ÄúWell,‚Äù she said, looking at him but not seeing him, ‚ÄúI don‚Äôt care about having my photographs in papers and little paragraphs about me and my name up in electric lights‚ÅÝ‚Äînot that it wouldn‚Äôt be rather nice, you know‚ÅÝ‚Äîbut that‚Äôs not what I think about. I‚Äôd like to have a nice little flat‚ÅÝ‚Äîwhere managers rang me up and asked me to look at parts‚ÅÝ‚Äîand a dresser who adored me and perhaps a very cosy car, small but frightfully posh; and enough money to spare to give all sorts of people delightful surprises, holidays, and presents; and now and then I‚Äôd like to run away from it all; go on a voyage perhaps under some other name, and not let anybody know who I was, and then somebody would come up and say, ‚ÄòYou do remind me of Susie Dean,‚Äô and then I might admit I was Susie Dean, and everybody on the boat would say, ‚ÄòThat‚Äôs Susie Dean,‚Äô and they‚Äôd probably get up an entertainment specially so that I could appear in it, and‚ÅÝ‚Äîoh‚ÅÝ‚Äîall kinds of things.‚Äù She ended breathlessly.
“It sounds a lonely sort of life to me,” said Inigo cheerlessly.
“Oh, but I’d have heaps and heaps of friends,” she cried. “I couldn’t exist without ’em. You’d be one, wouldn’t you, Inigo?”
“I suppose so.” He saw himself somewhere dodging in the background, holding her cloak, while all manner of important and handsome males held her attention.
“You do sound miserable about it. I don’t believe you want me to be successful. I believe you’re one of those men who can only be friendly if they’re allowed to patronize.” She looked haughtily out of a window through which there was nothing to be seen. He tried to look out of the window on his side too, but found it impossible to avoid glancing at her. After a minute or two, however, he noticed she was peeping at him. He smiled, and instantly she jumped round and faced him.
‚ÄúAren‚Äôt we absurd?‚Äù she smiled. ‚ÄúWe‚Äôre nearly as bad as Joe and Mrs.¬ÝJoe. Last summer they bought a ticket for the Calcutta Sweep, and one day, just before the draw was announced, they began to talk about their chances. Then when they‚Äôd awarded themselves a favourite, they began to wonder what they would do with the money. Joe said he would buy an hotel at one of the big seaside places. Mrs.¬ÝJoe said she would invest all the money and live on the income from it. No hotel for her, she told him. He insisted on his hotel. They argued for hours and got crosser and crosser and crosser until it ended in a quarrel and they never spoke to one another for two days, the poor darlings. Now come and sit on this side and then you won‚Äôt have to stare at me and make me think I‚Äôve done something dreadful to you.‚Äù
Inigo rose and stood for a moment looking down on her and listening to the rhythmical rattle of the train. “It’s melancholy, you know,” he said slowly. “I ought to be happy here alone with you, Susie. I believe it’s been my idea of happiness for some time.”
“Why, Inigo?”
“I’m not going to tell you again. What I was going to say is that it’s rather melancholy. But then there’s always been something melancholy to me about Sunday night, something a bit heartbreaking, absolutely.”
“I know,” she replied softly. Then she looked fierce. “No, I don’t,” she said in a loud voice. “Sit down here, Master Jollifant, Master Inigo Absolutely, and if you don’t cheer up, I’ll shake you. Unless, of course,” she added, peeping at him, “you’re sad about me.”
So they sat side by side and talked idly as the train went clanking through mysterious regions of night towards the still distant Middleford. As time went on, Susie said less and less, began to yawn, and drooped away from him, into her corner. She had just nodded off to sleep when a ticket collector came in and wakened her. Then she yawned and drooped again, and this time her head sank in his direction until finally it rested against his shoulder, where it remained, to his delight. There was perhaps a certain bitter flavour of irony in this delight, for she had made it plain that he had little to hope from her and this was only the surrender of sleep. But it had something trusting in it, and his hopes revived under the slight pressure of that head against his upper arm. The very cramp that soon invaded his limbs took on a romantic beauty.
Where it was the train stopped, shortly after ten, Inigo never knew. It seemed a fairly large station. Susie opened her eyes, sighed then went to sleep again, leaving Inigo praying that nobody would disturb them. At the very last moment, however, when the whistle sounded, the door was flung open to admit some raw November night and a large man. Inigo looked at the man in despair. The man looked at Inigo with cheerful interest. He sat in the middle of the opposite seat, removed his hat, mopped his brow, relit the stump of a cigar, put a fat hairy hand on each knee, and blew little benevolent clouds of smoke at Inigo and the sleeping Susie. He was a well-developed specimen of a type of large man seen at all race meetings, boxing matches, football matches, in all sporting clubs and music-hall bars. His head was pear-shaped, beginning with an immense spread of jaw and ending at a narrow and retreating forehead, decorated by two little loops of hair, parted in the middle. His eyes protruded; his nose shone; his little moustache was ferociously waxed. There was a suggestion that innumerable double whiskies were hard at work illuminating his vast interior. All these details Inigo noted with distaste.
The man removed the stump of cigar and winked slowly, ponderously, at Inigo. “Just caught it,” he said companionably. “In the bar of the White Horse at ten, and here I am. That’s moving, y’know, that is.”
Inigo merely nodded, but that seemed quite enough to establish a firm friendship with this genial intruder.
“Here,” he said, producing a flask as unexpectedly as a conjurer, “have a drink of this. Go on, there’s plenty for all. No? Well, will your wife have one? No, she’s not your wife, is she? She’s your sweetheart. Our wives and sweethearts,” he proclaimed, holding up the flask, “and may they never meet.” He drank this toast with enthusiasm.
‚ÄúMind you,‚Äù he said sternly, ‚Äúthat‚Äôs just my fun, that about wives and sweethearts never meeting. If I say that to the missis, she just laughs. She knows me well enough to know that that‚Äôs my fun. My wife is my sweetheart, and we‚Äôve been married twelve years at that. Twelve years and always the best of pals‚ÅÝ‚Äîthe best,‚Äù he added fiercely, as if Inigo had just contradicted him. ‚ÄúThe very best,‚Äù he went on, ‚Äúthe very, very best. Here‚Äôs to her.‚Äù And he took another pull at the flask.
‚ÄúAnything she wants,‚Äù he observed, ‚Äúshe can have‚ÅÝ‚Äîin reason. There‚Äôs reason in ev‚Äôrything, isn‚Äôt there? All right then. She‚Äôs only gotta ask, that‚Äôs all. She knows it. Her mother knows it. ‚ÄòYou‚Äôre lucky,‚Äô she says to my wife. ‚ÄòYou‚Äôre lucky.‚Äô She wasn‚Äôt lucky‚ÅÝ‚Äîthat‚Äôs my missis‚Äôs mother I‚Äôm talking about now‚ÅÝ‚Äîand I say she wasn‚Äôt lucky. She got nothing. The old man wouldn‚Äôt part. But that‚Äôs not me. Get on the right side of me, and there‚Äôs nothing I‚Äôve got you can‚Äôt have. My missis knows that. She‚Äôs on the right side of me. We‚Äôre the best of pals, the very best. And the same with the wife‚Äôs mother‚ÅÝ‚Äîjust the same‚ÅÝ‚Äîthe very best. Here‚Äôs luck to the old lady.‚Äù This toast apparently emptied the flask, which was now laid down on the seat, while its owner, after breathing hard, looked at Inigo, looked at the unconscious Susie, and slowly and sentimentally wagged his head.
At any other time, Inigo might have enjoyed this gentleman’s society, but now he found it difficult even to tolerate him. Somehow that railway carriage was not the place it had been an hour before.
‚ÄúPretty!‚Äù said the stranger, still wagging his head at them. ‚ÄúVery pretty! As good as a picksher to me.‚Äù He sighed hugely as he stared at Susie. The last draught from the flask appeared to have washed away any lingering reserve, and now he was very tender and mellow indeed. ‚ÄúI know what it is. I‚Äôve done my courting, holding her up half the day and half the night, the same as you now. Happy times‚ÅÝ‚Äîyou can‚Äôt beat ‚Äôem. Look at her now, just dreamin‚Äô there, happy and trustin‚Äô. And a nice little girl you‚Äôve got hold of too, young feller, I can see that. Look after her, and then you‚Äôll be one of the lucky ones, like me.‚Äù
“It’s been a rotten cold day,” said Inigo desperately.
‚ÄúWhat‚Äôs a cold day to a warm heart?‚Äù cried the other reproachfully. ‚ÄúDon‚Äôt tell me you‚Äôve noticed it‚Äôs a cold day. I‚Äôll bet your little sweetheart there doesn‚Äôt know it‚Äôs a cold day. Ah, I wish I was your age, young feller. Put your arm round her properly. Cuddle up to her. Don‚Äôt mind me. I‚Äôve been young. I‚Äôm young yet. I know what makes the world go round. It isn‚Äôt money. It‚Äôs love. It‚Äôs two hearts beating as one, as the song says.‚Äù He leaned back, tried to fix a goggling stare on Inigo, and sang softly, beating time with one hand: ‚ÄúMy swee‚Äëeet-heart when a boy‚Äëyer‚ÅÝ‚Äîin days of long ago-er.‚Äù
Inigo closed his eyes and pretended to go to sleep. It was all he could do. The wretched song went droning on for some time then gradually died away, to be succeeded finally by a snore. Inigo moved his cramped limbs cautiously, and let his thoughts go jog-jogging with the train through the night.
“Mid-ford! Mid-ford!”
Immediately the stranger opened his eyes, sprang up, grabbed flask, hat, bag, and vanished.
“Are we there?” cried Susie. “I must have been asleep. Who was that?”
“That,” said Inigo with deliberation, “was our fellow-passenger, a large and rather tight gentleman with a mind like a cheap Christmas card. And most of the way he’s been calling you my little sweetheart.”
“Poor Inigo, how disgusting!” she said coolly. “Do look out and see if you can see Jimmy or anybody there.”
He crept out, very stiff and feeling rather cold. “I can see Jimmy farther up the platform,” he announced at the door. Then he stood there looking up at her. Their day was all over now. “Well, that’s that,” he said, a trifle mournfully. “Come along, Susie.”
She looked at him curiously. “Help me down,” she said. “I’m rather stiff.” Then when she had got down and her hand still rested in his, she cried softly: “Cheer up. And thank you for looking after me, Inigo. There!” And it came and went so swiftly, that kiss, that he hardly knew if it had really existed.
“Susie!” he cried.
“There’s Jimmy.” And she hurried away, waving a hand.
We catch a last glimpse of him following her down the platform.
VI
The Black Week
I
It began, that awful week, before they reached Tewborough. It began‚ÅÝ‚Äîat least for eight of them‚ÅÝ‚Äîon the Sunday night at Middleford. The week at Middleford was a steady plodding affair, but it could boast one exciting event. This was the visit of a rich and eccentric old lady, Mrs.¬ÝHodney. She had driven in by car to the town to see her solicitors on Wednesday, had stayed to see the show, and after it was over had insisted upon being introduced by the local manager, who knew her as a ‚Äúcharacter,‚Äù to Miss Trant, to Jimmy, to everybody. She was so delighted with them all, she said, that she wanted them to do a queer old woman a favour. Would they all go out to her house, Custon Hall, twenty miles away, on the edge of the moors, and give a performance on Sunday there for her, her maids, and any of the villagers who were not too stupid to enjoy themselves for once on a Sunday night in November? They must not think of it as a matter of business‚ÅÝ‚Äîthough she was rich enough to pay for her whims, and if twenty pounds would compensate them for their trouble, there it was‚ÅÝ‚Äîbut they must think of it as a matter of cheering up a lonely old woman who found it difficult to be pleased with anything and who would not be staying long in this world. Thus Mrs.¬ÝHodney, a very staccato but vehement old lady, who patted all the younger players on the back as she talked.
So it was arranged that all the actual performers should stay in Middleford on Sunday night, catching a cross-country train on Monday morning to Tewborough, and give a special show (in evening dress) at Custon Hall, which would have waiting for them, they were assured, a very large drawing-room; a grand piano, and a good supper. ‚ÄúAnd mind you,‚Äù said the local manager, ‚Äúthe old lady‚Äôll do you well. She‚Äôs a queer old stick‚ÅÝ‚ÄîI‚Äôve heard all sorts of tales about her‚ÅÝ‚Äîbut she‚Äôs taken a fancy to you and she‚Äôll see that you‚Äôre all right, I give you my word.‚Äù This visit was the great topic during the latter part of the week. Miss Trant had waived any claim to part of the fee, so that it meant they would receive two pounds ten shillings each, and there were many exciting discussions, between Joe and Mrs.¬ÝJoe, Elsie and Susie, as to what might be done with this windfall. Then again the command performance‚ÅÝ‚Äîas it came to be called‚ÅÝ‚Äîwas both a compliment and an adventure. Miss Trant and Mr.¬ÝOakroyd were pitied because they would not be there. Had they been going anywhere else, these two might have stayed on too, but Tewborough was no ordinary date and there was much to be done on the Monday. At Tewborough they were playing at the Theatre Royal, a real theatre, not a mere Pavilion or Assembly Room or anything of that kind. Miss Trant knew nothing about Tewborough and, curiously enough, neither did any of the others, but she had seen an advertisement in The Stage, offering this theatre at a fairly moderate rent, and for once she had acted on her own responsibility and had taken it for a week, in spite of Jimmy‚Äôs advice. ‚ÄúIt‚Äôs buying a pig in a poke,‚Äù he said darkly, but Miss Trant, who could be both venturesome and obstinate on occasion, refused to be warned, and was encouraged by most of the others, who were anxious to see themselves on the stage of a real theatre again. Having thus committed herself to Tewborough, Miss Trant considered it the great date of the year, their grand opportunity, and it was necessary that she and Mr.¬ÝOakroyd should travel by car as usual on Sunday so that they could get to work at once on Monday. And they refused to be pitied because they were missing the command performance, for to them would fall the pleasure of first seeing Tewborough and its Theatre Royal.
There had been some difficulty at first in finding anybody or anything to take them out to Custon Hall, which could not be reached by train. The garage proprietors of Middleford seemed curiously reluctant to send one of their larger vehicles to Mrs.¬ÝHodney‚Äôs remote village. At last, however, a man was found. His name was Dickenson; he owned a bus, he said, that could seat twelve and had taken eighteen in its time; and he would drive them there and back for two pounds. Under that, he told them, he would not budge; and they found they could not make him budge. Nevertheless, they were all relieved when they heard about Mr.¬ÝDickenson and his bus.
The rendezvous was Jimmy‚Äôs lodgings, and by half past six, the appointed time, all eight were there, in evening clothes and carrying instruments and portfolios of music and an astonishing assortment of cloaks, overcoats, shawls, and scarves. They were all in high spirits. This was a break in the routine, an adventure. Mr.¬ÝMorton Mitcham, looking gigantic and very impressive in the Silver King and a long green scarf, said once again that it was quite like old times, and Mrs.¬ÝJoe, struggling with her two woolly coats, an imitation Spanish shawl, and a very worn opera cloak, once more agreed with him. All they wanted now was Mr.¬ÝDickenson and his bus. After another five minutes, these two arrived and brought with them a flat-faced youth, one Arthur, who blew on his hands a good deal and appeared to have no roof to his mouth.
“You’re a bit late,” said Jimmy, pleasantly.
‚ÄúLate!‚Äù cried Mr.¬ÝDickenson bitterly. ‚ÄúI‚Äôm early to what I thowt I was going to be. Bother I‚Äôve ‚Äôad with ‚Äôer, haven‚Äôt I, Arthur?‚Äù
“Ee oo ah,” replied Arthur, and then blew on his hands. Having done that, he went on: “Ee oh oo ee oo ah.”
‚ÄúThat is so,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝDickenson. ‚ÄúAnd now if we‚Äôre going to start, let‚Äôs start. Though I‚Äôd as lief go back hoam and call it off, I would that.‚Äù
‚ÄúNow what sort of night is it going to be, driver?‚Äù Mrs.¬ÝJoe inquired graciously, in her best Duchess of Dorking style.
‚ÄúIt‚Äôs going to be a mucky cold neet, Missis,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝDickenson. ‚ÄúTickle ‚Äôer up, Arthur. And get in, all on yer, and let‚Äôs get off.‚Äù
‚ÄúThese rugged North-country characters,‚Äù Mrs.¬ÝJoe was heard to murmur. ‚ÄúRough perhaps but staunch as oak.‚Äù
“I wish his bus was a bit less rugged,” said Susie, looking inside.
It was certainly not a very luxurious vehicle. To begin with, it was obviously very old, and when the engine started everything else started too, jumping and rattling in sympathy with it. The seats were very narrow and hard, and it had not a proper enclosed body but was merely roofed in with some sort of canvas. And though it may have held twelve persons, the fact remains that when the eight of them, with their instruments and music and wraps, were all inside, there was not an inch of room to spare. Once they were on the road, the jolting was very unpleasant, but nobody grumbled much. It was all part of the adventure of the command performance.
‚ÄúThis to me,‚Äù gasped Mrs.¬ÝJoe in the darkness, ‚Äúis Romance and a great change. A drive out into remote places, the show in a different setting, against the background of one of our stately old mansions, an appreciative audience, a pleasant repast to follow.‚Äù
“Not so much of the ‘follow,’ ” said Elsie. “I vote we have the supper as soon as we get there. I thought that was the idea, and I’ve had nothing but a cup of tea and a bun since half past twelve, and I’m peckish now.”
‚ÄúNow you settle that between you,‚Äù said Jimmy Nunn. ‚ÄúYou can‚Äôt expect that to interest me. A drink of something, a piece o‚Äô dry toast, and perhaps a bit o‚Äô chicken‚ÅÝ‚Äîbreast‚ÅÝ‚Äîthat‚Äôs quite enough for me. I dare say there‚Äôll be chicken.‚Äù
‚ÄúSure to be.‚Äù This was the deep grave voice of Mr.¬ÝMorton Mitcham. ‚ÄúThey always do you well on these occasions‚ÅÝ‚Äîthat‚Äôs my experience, ladies and gentlemen. Everything of the best‚ÅÝ‚Äîchampagne too, with luck, though being a woman she may be a bit slack about the drinks. You ought to have seen some of the spreads the old colonial governors‚ÅÝ‚ÄîSir Elkin Pondberry and one or two more‚ÅÝ‚Äîused to give us, after command performances. Sumptuous is the only word‚ÅÝ‚Äîsumptuous!‚Äù
“Well, I’m for splitting it like,” said Joe, rather apologetically. “A bit o’ supper before we start, and a good bite after we finish. One’ll put heart into us before we begin.”
‚ÄúAnd completely ruin your upper register,‚Äù said his wife coldly. ‚ÄúI know what happens to you. You‚Äôll fill your stomach, and then you‚Äôll stand in front of Mrs.¬ÝHodney, trying to sing, with your upper register in rags.‚Äù
“I can’t sing at all empty,” he pleaded, “and you know you said yourself at teatime. ‘Save your appetite for tonight.’ So I say a bit before and then a good bite to come home on.”
‚ÄúIf Mrs.¬ÝHodney, obviously a lady, refined if a trifle eccentric, heard you at this moment, she‚Äôd ask for your name to be crossed off the programme,‚Äù cried Mrs.¬ÝJoe. ‚ÄúAnd I shouldn‚Äôt blame her, Joe. I should say at once, husband or no husband and as good a baritone as you‚Äôll find in concert-party work, it serves him right and teaches him a lesson.‚Äù
This mention of the programme immediately set them all talking at once. They wondered if they had really chosen the best numbers. Would Mrs.¬ÝHodney like this item and that? They were still talking about the programme when the bus suddenly came to a stop. As it was impossible to see anything inside, Inigo looked out of the flap at the back.
“Are we there?” somebody called out to him.
“We don’t seem to be anywhere,” he replied, and got out, to find himself in a cold and drizzling blackness.
‚ÄúWe‚Äôre eight mile off,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝDickenson, who was now examining the engine. ‚ÄúGive ‚Äôer another turn, Arthur. It‚Äôll be teeming down in a minute. That‚Äôll do, Arthur. Let ‚Äôer alone.‚Äù
“Eh oh oo ah oh ee,” said Arthur mournfully.
‚ÄúWell, I‚Äôll ‚Äôave to get ruddy mag out, that‚Äôs all,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝDickenson, who did not seem to be in a very good temper. ‚ÄúI thowt she was bitching ‚Äôerself up all along. ‚ÄôEre, ‚Äôold this. Now then, we‚Äôll try that. Give ‚Äôer another turn, lad.‚Äù The engine began spluttering noisily. ‚ÄúThat‚Äôll do. It‚Äôll be pouring down in five minutes and ‚Äôere to Custon‚Äôs one o‚Äô the foulest roads you ever set eyes on. I ought to ‚Äôad more sense than to come on this daft trip.‚Äù
“Never mind, you chaps,” said Jimmy, who had joined Inigo outside. “We’ll soon be there, and then you can put some beef and beer away and make yourselves cosy by a big fire.”
“Ee oh oo ah oo,” said Arthur, and blew on his hands very despondently.
‚ÄúThis expedition would be gayer, I think, without Arthur,‚Äù said Inigo, as he and Jimmy climbed in again. ‚ÄúThere is something about Arthur that depresses me‚ÅÝ‚Äîa sort of ‚ÄòQuoth the Raven‚Äô sound about him.‚Äù
The bus went very slowly now but rattled more fiercely than ever. Apparently the roads were narrow, winding, and steep, and it was clear that Mr.¬ÝDickenson was not enjoying himself. The drizzle was steadily turning itself into a downpour, and very soon the passengers too found it difficult to enjoy themselves. Not only were they bumped about most unpleasantly but they also began to feel odd drops and trickles of rain. Evidently the canvas top was by no means watertight. They pulled their wraps and scarves about them, held on grimly to the backs of seats or whatever else there was to hold on to, and assured one another that it would not be long before they were there. But never had any of them known eight longer miles.
At last, however, they stopped, and Inigo, looking out again, reported that they had arrived at a large gateway leading to a drive.
‚ÄúThis is it,‚Äù yelled Mr.¬ÝDickenson. ‚ÄúCuston ‚ÄôAll, this is. Shall I take it right in if I can get in?‚Äù
‚ÄúOh, yes!‚Äù they cried happily, in chorus, he must take it up to the very door if he could. Already they saw the triumphant arrival, the great front door of the Hall wide open, the lights shining out, the stir of excitement among the crowd of retainers and villagers. As they went curving round the drive and everybody was trying to collect instruments and music and wraps, it was instantly decided that they should have something to eat and drink before beginning the show, for it was eight o‚Äôclock now, half an hour later than the very last moment they had expected to arrive at, and they all admitted they were hungry‚ÅÝ‚Äîall, that is, except Jimmy Nunn, who said he was dying of thirst. Out they tumbled, cold and rather damp and a little battered, hollow inside perhaps, but still in good spirits, delighted to be there, and ready to give old Mrs.¬ÝHodney the show of her life. They emerged into a downpour of that slashing cold rain of the moorland, but that did not matter when they were at the very door of the Hall.
That door, however, was closed, and there were no lights at all in the lower rooms, and nothing anywhere but a faint glimmer in one or two of the bedrooms. The house looked an inhospitable black mass.
‚ÄúI thought you said they were expecting you,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝDickenson, giving a most unpleasant short laugh.
“So they are,” said Jimmy uneasily, as he pulled at the bell handle.
‚ÄúThis part of the mansion,‚Äù Mrs.¬ÝJoe observed hopefully, ‚Äúis little used, no doubt. Everybody is busy with various preparations at the back. Come under the porch, my dears, until the door is opened.‚Äù
Jimmy tugged away at the bell and at last a flicker of light was seen below. The door was opened a few inches, then another few inches. “What d’you want?” asked a voice.
“Come along, please,” cried Jimmy impatiently. “We’re the concert party, the Good Companions, come to give the show.”
The door was opened wide now but only in order that an elderly and weary-looking manservant could stare at them in amazement. “What is it you want?”
Jimmy explained again.
“Well, you’ve come to the wrong place,” the man told him.
‚ÄúNay, they‚Äôve not,‚Äù cried Mr.¬ÝDickenson, ‚Äúthis is Mrs.¬ÝHodney‚Äôs, I do know.‚Äù
“Of course it is,” said the man.
But when Jimmy explained at greater length, the man still stared in amazement. ‚ÄúWell, it‚Äôs no use your coming here tonight, or any other night as far as I can see. Mrs.¬ÝHodney‚Äôs poorly, right bad. She had a stroke o‚Äô Thursday and she‚Äôs in a bad way. Doctor‚Äôs here now and he‚Äôs sent for a nurse. That‚Äôs how it is.‚Äù
‚ÄúWell, I‚Äôll be‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù Jimmy gasped.
“Just hold on a minute,” said the man. He let the door swing to, and they heard him walking away.
Then the voice of Arthur prophesying woe was heard above all others. “Ee ee ah oo oo oh, oo ee eh, oo.”
‚ÄúBy gow! Arthur,‚Äù cried Mr.¬ÝDickenson bitterly, ‚Äúyou‚Äôre right an‚Äô all.‚Äù
“If Arthur makes another sound,” said Susie in a low tense whisper, “I shall scream and scream. I can’t bear it.”
Now the door was flung wide open and they found a pocket electric torch shining on them. ‚ÄúI don‚Äôt understand this,‚Äù said a very testy voice from behind the torch, ‚Äúand I don‚Äôt want to understand it. I haven‚Äôt the time to spare. Mrs.¬ÝHodney‚Äôs very ill indeed, very ill. I doubt if she‚Äôll recover but we‚Äôre doing our best. Now kindly go away and make as little noise as you can. Good night to you.‚Äù The torch vanished; the door was swiftly but quietly closed, locked, bolted.
“Good night to you,” cried Jimmy softly. “With love and many happy returns of the day. Creep away, boys and girls. It’s all off.”
“My God!” This was from Elsie, and for once she spoke for them all.
‚ÄúDo yer meantersay‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù Mr.¬ÝDickenson began, but was cut short by Jimmy.
“I meantersay,” said Jimmy, “that we’re going back to Middleford as sharp as we can, and the sooner you get that bus started the better.”
‚ÄúBeef and beer!‚Äù cried Mr.¬ÝDickenson, in a very ecstasy of savage irony. ‚ÄúCosy by a big fire! Gorrr! You‚Äôre mugs yerselves and you‚Äôve made me into one.‚Äù
“Ee oh oo oo ur oo oo,” said Arthur indignantly.
This last remark enraged Mr.¬ÝJerningham, of all people. ‚ÄúOh, you shet erp,‚Äù he screamed.
‚ÄúHo, ho! And what‚Äôs Arthur want to shut up for, eh?‚Äù Mr.¬ÝDickenson sounded very menacing. ‚ÄúNar, for two blurry pins‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù
‚ÄúKindly start your car, driver,‚Äù said a forlorn and dripping object, with astonishing dignity. ‚ÄúAnd don‚Äôt talk about pins in that way when ladies are present.‚Äù And having delivered this reproof, Mrs.¬ÝJoe climbed into the bus, removed her sodden opera cloak, sneezed twice, and burst into tears.
‚ÄúLadies!‚Äù Mr.¬ÝDickenson sneered. ‚ÄúGorrr!‚Äù He was then tapped upon the shoulder. After that he was taken to one side.
“Now you see me, don’t you,” said Joe, speaking very softly. “I’m a quiet sort of chap, I am. But I’m feeling sorry for that old lady in there. And I’m very disappointed because there’s no show. I’m also very hungry and I’m wet. And that’s my wife who’s just spoken to you. Now, another word, just one more word, from you, and I shall have the great pleasure of relieving my feelings by knocking your silly ugly head right off.” And as he spoke, Joe came nearer and nearer, a most formidable figure even in the darkness. “Just say some more, that’s all,” he added, almost persuasively.
‚ÄúBe ready to give ‚Äôer a turn, Arthur,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝDickenson despondently, and he sought his seat in front.
The return journey was horrible. It seemed to go on and on for hours and hours. Three times the bus had to stop, twice for engine trouble, and once because Mr.¬ÝDickenson had missed the way. On the other hand, the rain never stopped at all, and the canvas cover merely acted as a distributor. There had not appeared to be any room to spare on the way up, but now everybody was in everybody else‚Äôs way, and everybody was very wet and cold and hungry and so snapped at everybody else, and everybody else, being also very wet and cold and hungry, promptly snapped back again. Mr.¬ÝMorton Mitcham, attempting a reminiscence of a similar experience, was told at once that nobody was interested. When Mr.¬ÝJerningham complained that he was wet through, he was informed that a drop of water would do him good. Elsie announced that this time she really was through with the rotten Stage. Mrs.¬ÝJoe pointed out, between sobs, that she had always been one to take the Bad with the Good, but that having ordered a complete outfit for little George, boots and all, on the strength of this extra engagement, she was now at the End of her Tether. Susie told Inigo how depressed she was at the thought of Mrs.¬ÝHodney, the queer little old woman who had been so lively the other night and was now dying perhaps in that lonely dismal house; but when, in sympathy, he put his hand on hers, she pushed it away, said it was like a fish, so cold and wet, and asked him not to be a fool. Jimmy Nunn groaned from time to time, but only uttered three words during all the journey. ‚ÄúThe Good Companions!‚Äù he cried, with a ghastly chuckle, and after that nobody spoke for quite a long time.
Middleford was going to bed when they finally arrived there. They considered desperately, miserably, their chances of obtaining food and drink and hot baths at that late hour on Sunday. They heard already the outraged tones of landladies preparing to retire. Shivering, their best clothes so much sodden pulp, they crawled out of the bus, and it seemed the last straw when Jimmy plaintively announced that he would have to collect five shillings each from them to pay for it. While they were fumbling for their money, however, Inigo, who had disappeared for a moment, came back and said quietly: “It’s all right. I’ve paid him. You can settle up some other time. Let’s get away.”
It was a miserable party that met next morning to catch the eleven o‚Äôclock train to Tewborough. They stared at one another‚Äôs pale faces and reddened noses; they listened to one another sniffling and sneezing; they talked gloomily of aspirin and quinine; they yawned and shivered and groaned. Mrs.¬ÝJoe and Elsie had colds in the head; Susie said she felt feverish; Jerry Jemingham was watery about the eyes; Inigo‚Äôs voice was rather hoarse; Joe moved stiffly and talked of ‚Äúrheumatics‚Äù; and as for Morton Mitcham and Jimmy, both of whom looked queer enough at any time, they were now a sad spectacle indeed, Mitcham being nothing but a gaunt yellow ruin, and Jimmy, who really looked ill, a stricken gargoyle. It was just their luck, they told one another, that they should be in such a state when Tewborough and its Theatre Royal were awaiting them. They admitted, however, that a packed and enthusiastic house on the first night might pull them through. ‚ÄúIll as I ab,‚Äù said Mrs.¬ÝJoe, between sniffs, ‚ÄúI cad respod to the publig. That‚Äôs my tebremend. Tewborough‚Äôs a big dade and we‚Äôll blay ub to id.‚Äù This was the only topic that could rouse them out of their staring and shivering apathy.
It was teatime when they arrived there, and too dark to see anything of the town as the train crawled into it. Miss Trant and Mr.¬ÝOakroyd were there on the platform. Inigo seized hold of Mr.¬ÝOakroyd at once. ‚ÄúYou‚Äôve got to save our lives,‚Äù he said. ‚ÄúWe had a hell of a time last night.‚Äù Briefly he described the great fiasco. ‚ÄúYou were lucky to be out of it, I can tell you,‚Äù he concluded. ‚ÄúNow then, what about Tewborough? How are you getting on? What‚Äôs it like?‚Äù
Mr.¬ÝOakroyd drew him to one side. ‚ÄúI‚Äôve nobbut been i‚Äô t‚Äôplace a day, as you knaw,‚Äù he said cautiously. ‚ÄúBut you‚Äôve got to talk of a place as you find it.‚Äù
“Well,” said Inigo impatiently, “and how do you find it?”
‚ÄúHere,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝOakroyd, bending forward and curving a hand round his mouth. ‚ÄúIt‚Äôs bloody awful.‚Äù
Having delivered this verdict, he looked solemnly at Inigo, shook his head, then stumped away to find the baggage, with the air of a man who would continue to do his duty whatever it cost.
II
Cathedral cities, market towns, ports forgotten by the sea, spas long out of fashion, all these can decay beautifully, and often their charm increases as the life ebbs out of them. Industrial towns, like steam engines, are only even tolerable if they are in working order and puffing away. Tewborough was like an engine with a burst boiler lying on the side of a road; it was a moneymaking machine that had almost stopped working, for only a wheel here and there shakily revolved or a pulley gave a groan or two; it was a factory that could now show you nothing but broken windows and litter and mouldering ledgers and a mumbling caretaker; it was nothing but an old cashbox containing only dust and cobwebs and a few forgotten pence. Trade in Tewborough had nearly disappeared altogether, and it was quite obvious that it would never come back again, would always prefer other and pleasanter places. It was a town of dwindling incomes, terrifying overdrafts, of shopkeepers who lived by stretching one another‚Äôs credit, of working men who were rapidly becoming nothing but waiting men, their chief occupation being to hang about the doors of buildings that were known‚ÅÝ‚Äîwith a fine irony‚ÅÝ‚Äîas Labour Exchanges. Tewborough had always been one of the ugliest towns in the Midlands, and now it was easily the most depressed and depressing. Its wealth had long ceased to accumulate but its men still decayed. The days when Tewborough‚Äôs coal and lace-curtains and tin-tacks were in brisk demand everywhere, when many a local man who still liked his tea in a pint pot could ‚Äúbuy up‚Äù the county‚Äôs Lord Lieutenant and was known to have shaken Gladstone himself by the hand, these days had gone and had left nothing behind them but a few public buildings in a bad Gothic style, two bewhiskered and blackened statues, some slag heaps, disused factories and sidings, a rotting canal, a large slum area, a generous supply of dirt, rickets, bow legs, and bad teeth‚ÅÝ‚Äîand the Theatre Royal.
When Mr.¬ÝOakroyd brought out his verdict on the place, he and Miss Trant had not spent a whole day there, but their roseate visions had long faded and vanished. It was impossible to like the town, though they had both tried hard and had perhaps succeeded in concealing a little of their dislike for it from one another. Miss Trant told herself she had never imagined that any town could be so hideous and depressing: she wanted to run away at once and never even think of it again. Sitting in the dingy coffee-room of the hotel, with a plate of congealing mutton fat in front of her, she had felt she was ready to cry at any moment. She knew already that Tewborough could not be amused by their show or any other show. When the man at the hotel had heard she had taken the Theatre Royal, he had stared at her and then given a short and disconcerting laugh. ‚ÄúHaving a pop at it, are you?‚Äù he had said. ‚ÄúWell, I suppose there‚Äôs nothing like trying. You‚Äôre not the first, and I dare say you won‚Äôt be the last, even yet. I thought old Droke was looking pleased with himself, last time I saw him. Met him yet? He‚Äôs a queer old stick, if you like, as rum as they make ‚Äôem round here‚ÅÝ‚Äîand rummer. Well, well, well!‚Äù And Miss Trant did not like the sound of this at all.
Early on Monday morning she made the acquaintance of Mr.¬ÝDroke, and though she did not spend much time in his company, it left her in no doubt that Mr.¬ÝDroke certainly was as rum as they made them. He was a very little old man, with an immense head and quite tiny legs and feet, so that he looked like a dirty and dingy gnome. His senile voice came whistling through his browny-white moustache and beard, and he had a horrible trick of coming quite close and punctuating his jerky statements with vigorous upward nudges of his elbow. ‚ÄúIt‚Äôs a good theatre,‚Äù he would say. ‚ÄúIsn‚Äôt better round here, go where you like.‚Äù Nudge. ‚ÄúBeen some famous actors there, they tell me. I don‚Äôt know ‚Äôcos I wasn‚Äôt here then, I wasn‚Äôt.‚Äù Nudge. ‚ÄúHad a shop in Liverpool then. Sold it and came back here. Got a shop here now.‚Äù Another nudge. Miss Trant in retreat and Mr.¬ÝDroke in close pursuit, ready for the next nudge. ‚ÄúBelonged to my brother, this theatre did, and he left it to me. I don‚Äôt bother with it much, too busy, and don‚Äôt care about theatres. They used to be always wanting me to be doing this and doing that to it, but I couldn‚Äôt be bothered, d‚Äôyou see, and having my shop too and trade being so bad. Nothing wrong with it, though, nothing at all.‚Äù Nudge. ‚ÄúA good theatre still. All fads, that‚Äôs all. Nothing wrong with it. You‚Äôre not faddy, are you?‚Äù More nudges. ‚ÄúWell then, it‚Äôll suit you all right, very cheap at the price, very cheap. Too many faddy people now, aren‚Äôt there? Don‚Äôt know what they want.‚Äù
Miss Trant was not sure that she knew what she wanted but as soon as she saw the outside of the building, she knew at once that she certainly did not want the Tewborough Theatre Royal. Her heart sank. Its position was bad, for it was down a dark side-street; and its appearance was worse. Missing panes of glass, unpainted and rotting woodwork, dirt and litter, everywhere. The only things that were bright and new there were their own playbills, and they looked pathetic, so young and hopeful, so utterly out of place. The inside was worse than the outside. It was smaller than most old-fashioned theatres, but it was built on the usual plan, with stalls, pit, dress circle, and separate gallery. The seats in the gallery were narrow wooden benches, and those in the pit were similar benches with backs to them, and both pit and gallery stank abominably. The stalls and dress circle had the usual plush chairs, but they were all old and worn and stained. At one time the place may have made a pretty show of gilt, but now the dust and grime were so thick on the gilding that it returned no answering gleam to the lights. On the ceiling and the proscenium were some cracked nymphs and peeling cupids. Such carpets as there were on the corridors were threadbare. Old playbills lined the greasy walls: Are You a Mason? The Girl from Kay‚Äôs; the Tewborough and District Amateur Operatic Company in Dorothy; The Face at the Window; Dr.¬ÝFaustein in his Great Mesmeric, Thought-Reading, and Mystical Oriental Entertainment; and here and there were yellowing photographs of heroic actors in togas or bag wigs, bewhiskered old ‚Äúheavies,‚Äù and simpering leading ladies of the Nineties, all of them catching her eye as she passed and whispering: ‚ÄúWe‚Äôre dead and gone.‚Äù She peered through a dirty glass door labelled Saloon Bar and saw a counter and a few bottles all thick with dust.
‚ÄúThat‚Äôs shut up now,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝFinnegan. ‚ÄúWe ‚Äôad the licence taken away. ‚ÄôArd on a management, very ‚Äôard!‚Äù This Mr.¬ÝFinnegan, to whom she had been handed over by Mr.¬ÝDroke, was called the manager, but he was obviously a general factotum in receipt of a mere pittance. He was old, shabby, and gently steeped in liquor, and such a pitiful figure that at any other time Miss Trant would have felt sorry for him, but now, as he shuffled down these grimy corridors with her, she could only regard him with distaste. When they returned to the auditorium, its atmosphere seemed more unpleasant and oppressive than ever: it was like walking into a drawer full of old rubbish that had not been turned out for twenty years. Miss Trant shuddered.
‚ÄúOh, but it‚ÅÝ‚Äîit‚Äôs awful!‚Äù she cried. ‚ÄúAll so dirty and depressing.‚Äù
‚ÄúWell,‚Äù Mr.¬ÝFinnegan mumbled, ‚ÄúI don‚Äôt say it wouldn‚Äôt do with a cleanup, but‚ÅÝ‚Äîbless yer‚ÅÝ‚Äîit‚Äôs a prince to some. You‚Äôre new to it, aren‚Äôt yer? Thought so; tell it in a minute. Wants tidying a bit, I dare say, but wouldn‚Äôt be worth it just now. And theatres is all alike when you come in during the day and they‚Äôre all empty, all alike they are: put you off if you don‚Äôt know ‚Äôem. I‚Äôve seen this place packed to the roof‚ÅÝ‚Äîeverybody here‚ÅÝ‚Äîmayor and corporation, everybody! When Wilson Barrett opened ‚Äôere with his ‚ÄòSign o‚Äô the Cross,‚Äô there was over a nundred pounds in the youse, over a nundred pounds, Monday night, and that was when a quid was a quid, when you could buy something with it. Can‚Äôt do that now, of course. There isn‚Äôt the money in the town.‚Äù He shook his head mournfully.
The faded crimson curtain began shaking too. It gave a creak, then finally parted and rose. Two figures in shirtsleeves walked on to the stage, and Miss Trant, approaching, discovered that one of them was Mr.¬ÝOakroyd. When she drew near, she saw that he was very gloomy and disgusted.
“Eh, Miss Trant,” he cried, “it is a mucky noil at t’back here. You nivver saw such a muddle. We’ll have some trade on getting this right, we shall an’ all. Come and have a look at it.”
Miss Trant went round, looked at the stage, peeped in a dressing-room or two, sent for Mr.¬ÝFinnegan (who could not be found), telephoned to Mr.¬ÝDroke (who did not reply), and went in search of two charwomen to assist Mr.¬ÝOakroyd and his shirt-sleeved colleague, who had a glassy stare and a perpetually open mouth.
‚ÄúHe‚Äôs not all there, isn‚Äôt Charlie,‚Äù whispered Mr.¬ÝOakroyd. ‚ÄúThat‚Äôs his name‚ÅÝ‚ÄîCharlie. He‚Äôs a bit soft but he‚Äôll ha‚Äô to do. If he were right, he wouldn‚Äôt be working here. If this is a the‚Äëater, give me them pavilions and kursals ivvery time. This is nowt but a ragbag. It‚Äôll cap me, Miss Trant; if we do much here. Town‚Äôs got a bit of a miserable look about it.‚Äù
“It has,” replied Miss Trant emphatically. “And I never saw a miserabler.”
‚ÄúNo more did I,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝOakroyd. ‚ÄúWe‚Äôve nobbut been here a two-three hours, you might say, and it might improve a bit on acquaintance, but so far it‚Äôs a right poor do.‚Äù
Mr.¬ÝOakroyd, as we know, was not difficult to please. No man can live in Bruddersford for over forty years and be hypercritical; your Bruddersfordian is never one of those sensitive creatures who are entirely at the mercy of their surroundings. But already Tewborough had been too much even for Mr.¬ÝOakroyd. Before meeting the others at the station, he returned to his lodgings, thus making further acquaintance with the town and disliking it more. His terse comment to Inigo summed up his view of the whole situation, the theatre, the town, the lodgings, everything. After making that comment, he walked away, partly because he had to see to the baggage but also because he had a good sense of the dramatic. After a few minutes he returned to Inigo‚Äôs side.
“You and me has to share rooms,” he announced.
“Oh, how’s that?” Inigo asked. “Is the town full?”
“Nay, there’s nowt on here at all. But they won’t let. We’d a right job getting lodgings and they’ve all got to share. It’s allus alike. Less brass fowk’s makking, less they want to mak. If you go to a place where they’re as throng as they can be, they’re allus ready to mak’ a bit more. You come to a place like this here, where all town’s on t’dole and they’re all pining, and you can’t get ’em to let you have a room or two and sell you a bite and a sup o’ summat. Fowk’s so badly off, they won’t be bothered.”
“Reluctant as I am, Master Oakroyd, to break in upon this deep philosophical strain,” said Inigo, “I must put a question. What are the digs like?”
‚ÄúWell, you‚Äôll see for yersen in a minute,‚Äù replied Mr.¬ÝOakroyd. ‚ÄúThere‚Äôs plenty o‚Äô room, I will say that. We‚Äôve getten a big bedroom, with a gurt double bed in and one o‚Äô these little uns, campbeds. It‚Äôs number nine, Billing Street, and it‚Äôs right handy for t‚Äôthe‚Äëater. But by gow!‚ÅÝ‚ÄîI don‚Äôt know whether I‚Äôm not feeling up to t‚Äômark or what‚ÅÝ‚Äîbut there‚Äôs summat about this place that seems to tak‚Äô t‚Äôheart right out o‚Äô me. I hope you don‚Äôt mind being wi‚Äô me, lad,‚Äù he added shyly.
“Of course I don’t,” said Inigo, who didn’t.
“ ’Cos I’ll be right glad of a bit o’ company i’ yond place,” he concluded.
There was certainly something very cheerless about Billing Street. It was narrow and dark, and had far more than its share of listless ailing women and children with grey faces and reddened eyes. It had two or three little warehouses with broken windows; a greengrocer‚Äôs that seemed to have nothing but potatoes and paper bananas for sale; a chip-and-fish shop that smelt of tallow; a tiny grocer‚Äôs that apparently specialized in black lead and sardines; a furtive little newsagent‚Äôs, full of announcements about special wires and tips from the course; an undertaker‚Äôs, with a specimen brass plate and a blackening wreath in the window; a herbalist‚Äôs establishment, adorned with a large placard that said Your Stomach Wants Watching, a number of mysterious green packets, and a highly coloured drawing that had some reference to skin diseases; a secondhand shop filled with bamboo tables, flatirons, and rolls of oilcloth; and two of the dingiest and dreariest-looking little public-houses that Mr.¬ÝOakroyd, a man of experience, ever remembered encountering. Just behind the street was a building with a fantastic tower, a sinister conglomeration of pipes and ladders and tanks, and this, it appeared, was a sulphuric-acid works. Nobody seemed to knew whether it was still making acid or not, but if its pipes and vats were idle, their smell was not, for it descended into the street in sudden and sickening gusts.
Number 9 was the largest house in the street, and it looked the gloomiest. You could only imagine it existing in a perpetual series of dark Novembers. No sooner had Inigo set foot in it than he thanked God that he was not there alone. No wonder Mr.¬ÝOakroyd had talked about ‚Äúa bit o‚Äô company.‚Äù The bedroom was quite large enough for two of them and it seemed reasonably clean, but there was something strangely chill and depressing about it.
Inigo sniffed. “What is this queer smell? I’ve met it before. Wait a minute. I know. It’s just like the smell of old magazines. When I was a kid, I used to dig out ancient copies of the English Illustrated Magazine from the lumber-room, and they had a smell just like this. Odd, very odd!” He looked about him. “Not very jovial, is it? I feel as if there were a body in the next room.”
‚ÄúThere is,‚Äù replied Mr.¬ÝOakroyd grimly.
“What!” Inigo jumped.
‚ÄúWell, it‚Äôs as good as one,‚Äù Mr.¬ÝOakroyd went on. ‚ÄúT‚Äôland-lady‚Äôs owd mother‚Äôs i‚Äô there, ower eighty and bedridden. You‚Äôll hear her coughing. I only hope she‚Äôll last t‚Äôweek out. They‚Äôve all gotten summat wrong with ‚Äôem here. It‚Äôs war ner an infirmary. Mrs.¬ÝMord‚ÅÝ‚Äîthat‚Äôs t‚Äôlandlady‚ÅÝ‚Äîher you‚Äôve just seen‚ÅÝ‚Äîshe‚Äôs not ower-strong‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù
“A bit blue about the face, certainly,” said Inigo gloomily. “I don’t know that I want to hear any more.”
‚ÄúYou might as well nar we‚Äôve started. Her husband‚Äôs been off his work a long time‚ÅÝ‚Äîhe wor a clurk in one o‚Äô them warehouses‚ÅÝ‚Äîand I don‚Äôt know fairly what‚Äôs he‚Äôs got, but I‚Äôve nivver seen a feller so swelled up, all purple he is and puffed up; it taks him five minutes to do owt for hissen and he can hardly talk. Eh, he‚Äôs in a bad way. You‚Äôll be seeing him soon.‚Äù
“I won’t.”
‚ÄúAnd you haven‚Äôt to excite him‚ÅÝ‚Äîthat‚Äôs what t‚Äôlandlady says‚ÅÝ‚Äîhe hasn‚Äôt to be excited‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù
‚ÄúI don‚Äôt want to excite him. I don‚Äôt want to set eyes on him. I‚Äôm sorry for him, very sorry for him‚ÅÝ‚Äîhe sounds like a human fungus‚ÅÝ‚ÄîHello!‚ÅÝ‚Äîwhat‚Äôs that?‚Äù
“That’s only t’owd lady coughing.”
Inigo breathed hard and looked thoughtfully at the things he was unpacking.
‚ÄúAy, they‚Äôre a rum lot here,‚Äù Mr.¬ÝOakroyd continued. ‚ÄúThere‚Äôs a sort o‚Äô young woman. I haven‚Äôt had a proper look at her, and Mrs.¬ÝMord says nowt about her, and I don‚Äôt know who she is.‚Äù
“For the love of Mike,” cried Inigo, “don’t tell me there’s something wrong with her too! It’ll finish me, absolutely.”
‚ÄúWell, all I knaw is she doesn‚Äôt seem to do owt and there‚Äôs summat funny about her. When you‚Äôre going up and down t‚Äôsteps or along t‚Äôpassage, you suddenly see her face peeping out from nowhere and then she lets out a sort o‚Äô laugh and next minute you hear her scampering away as if somebody wor after her. I‚Äôve seen her three times nar and I‚Äôm getting a bit used to it‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù
Inigo had stopped unpacking. He was now sitting down and staring at his companion. “She sounds as mad as a hatter,” he said despairingly.
“Ay, I fancy she must be a bit soft. They seem to run to it here. There’s a feller at the the‑ater called Charlie and he’s not quite all there. No harm in him, yer know; just hasn’t got twenty shilling to t’pound.”
Inigo stood up. “I’m going,” he announced.
“Nay, lad, stick it, stick it! It’s best we can get. And I only got in here ’cos I said there’d be two of us.”
“There must be an hotel. I shall go to an hotel. You can come too.”
“Nay, I’m going to no hotel. I’ve takken these lodgings and I’m staying here. They’ve gone to a lot o’ bother to get it right for us. It’s all nowt. Stick it, nar you’re here.”
“All right,” Inigo replied gloomily. “I shall spend most of my time at the theatre. That’s the only thing to do. No wonder you said it was bloody awful. The adjective was justified, absolutely.”
‚ÄúEh, I wasn‚Äôt talking about this place,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝOakroyd.
Inigo looked at him with horror. “What were you talking about then?”
“Well, t’general carry on. Town itself, to begin wi’, and t’the‑ater.”
“Theatre?” Inigo’s voice almost rose to a scream. “Don’t tell me there’s anything wrong with that!”
But Mr.¬ÝOakroyd insisted upon telling him what was wrong with the theatre, and they were halfway through tea before he had done. ‚ÄúThis Tewborough do‚Äôs a washaht,‚Äù he concluded, ‚Äúand you can mak‚Äô up your mind about that. We shall do nowt here.‚Äù
“This is where we look sick,” Inigo groaned. “I told you about last night, didn’t I? And everybody’s half dead today. All the way we’ve been saying that only a good week here will pull us together. Tewborough or death has been our motto, absolutely. Lord help us!”
It certainly looked, Mr.¬ÝOakroyd admitted, as he took out his pipe and packet of Old Salt, as if they were in for it.
III
‚ÄúTalk about a frost!‚Äù cried Mrs.¬ÝJoe, immediately after the performance on Monday night.
“You could skate on it for weeks,” said Susie gloomily. “And I’ll swear I’ve a temperature of 102.”
‚ÄúAnd I‚Äôm sure you look it, my dear,‚Äù Mrs.¬ÝJoe told her. Then she went on, passionately: ‚ÄúWas there an audience at all tonight? Was there anybody in the house? I thought I heard a sound once from somewhere, but was I mistaken? Does Tewborough know we‚Äôre here?‚Äù she asked wildly.
“It knows but it doesn’t care,” said Susie.
‚ÄúI said to Joe last night: ‚ÄòMark my words, Joe, this is going to be a bad week. I feel it in my bones,‚Äô I said. Tomorrow, I shall spend most of the day in bed‚ÅÝ‚Äîand what a bed, my dear!‚ÅÝ‚ÄîI‚Äôm sure it‚Äôs one of those beds that rise in the middle, like a camel. And the room has no outlook and no cosiness. Not over-clean and the walls all covered with photographs of Oddfellows. But I shall spend most of tomorrow in it, nursing myself, and, then I shall come down again tomorrow night, but if I‚Äôm no better the next day I shall not be here, I shall go sick. The last thing that can be said of me is that I disappoint my public, but what I have to ask myself now, my dear, is this: Have I got a public in Tewborough?‚ÅÝ‚Äîand‚ÅÝ‚ÄîIs it worth it?‚Äù Mrs.¬ÝJoe produced these questions with an air of triumph.
“No, it isn’t worth it,” said Elsie crossly, “and I wish you’d shut up. What’s the good of talking?”
“Jimmy looked really bad tonight, I thought,” Susie said reflectively.
‚ÄúI expect we all looked bad.‚Äù Elsie sniffed hard. ‚ÄúI know I feel rotten enough, and feeling rotten isn‚Äôt a hobby of mine like it is of Jimmy‚Äôs. Me for some aspirin tonight. Come on, Susie, you are slow. Let‚Äôs get out of this thing they call a theatre. Theatre Royal‚ÅÝ‚Äîmy God! Theatre Dustbin‚ÅÝ‚Äîif you ask me. Oh, ca‚Äëar‚Äëm on!‚Äù
On Tuesday night there were exactly fifty-three people in the audience. It was miserable when they kept silent, and it was worse when they applauded, for then you seemed to hear the empty spaces mocking the thin faint clap-clap-clap. Not that they applauded often. All the heart had gone out of the Good Companions. They trailed through the performance, and the only time they showed any signs of liveliness was when their growing irritation got the upper hand. Elsie complained bitterly of Jerry Jerningham; Susie openly accused Inigo of murdering her accompaniments; and even the good-humoured Joe began grumbling. Several of them declared it was high time Mr.¬ÝOakroyd had learned his business, and were instantly told by that indignant little man to go and mind their own, which was, he asserted, ‚Äúin poor fettle.‚Äù Jimmy Nunn was strangely listless, and it was queer and disconcerting to see him so quiet, so yellow, and shaky. Miss Trant, who felt very apologetic about her disastrous venture, though it was she and not the others who would suffer most from the certain dead loss on the week, tried to smooth out these prickly relations and to cheer everybody up, but the heart had gone out of her too. The dismal town and the miserable waif of a theatre kept her spirits forever sinking, for to leave one was only to encounter the other.
Wednesday brought a fog, not one of the choking yellow London horrors, but still a good thick blanketing fog, which settled on the town early in the morning and stayed there all day. The Good Companions sat huddled in their several rooms, trying to make the most of tiny fires and horsehair armchairs or sofas, reading papers that seemed to describe another planet, under greeny-white tattered gas-mantles, dozing and shivering and occasionally getting up to peer out of the steaming windows at the grey woolly nothingness outside. Of all of them, perhaps Inigo was the most cheerful, simply because the aspiring author in him now rose to the occasion. That author, who worked more fitfully than ever in these days, had not yet finished “The Last Knapsack,” having set it aside on the plea that wintry weather brought about an unpropitious atmosphere, but nevertheless he now made his appearance again.
‚ÄúOff with the motley and on with the inkstand‚ÅÝ‚Äîthat‚Äôs what I say,‚Äù Inigo told Mr.¬ÝOakroyd, in their common sitting-room. ‚ÄúI was in the middle of a song, but I can‚Äôt think about songs now. The mood, the mood‚ÅÝ‚ÄîMaster Oakroyd‚ÅÝ‚Äîis dead against any pierrotry. I was intended to be a man of letters and not a mountebank, and today I begin an essay‚ÅÝ‚Äîvery bitter‚ÅÝ‚Äîthat I shall call ‚ÄòEngland‚Äôs Pleasant Land.‚Äô It will deal with the town of Tewborough, with a few such other resorts thrown in, and will be devilish ironical, bitter, absolutely. It will relieve my feelings, and it‚Äôll also make some of ‚Äôem sit up.‚Äù
‚ÄúThat‚Äôs the idear,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝOakroyd, puffing comfortably at his pipe and beaming across the hearth at his companion. ‚ÄúIf you can‚Äôt do it wi‚Äô Tewborough, you‚Äôll nivver do it with owt. But who‚Äôs these that‚Äôs going to be made to sit up?‚Äù
‚ÄúWell‚ÅÝ‚Äîer‚ÅÝ‚Äîthe‚ÅÝ‚Äîer‚ÅÝ‚Äîpeople responsible for such a state of things,‚Äù replied Inigo, vaguely but severely.
‚ÄúI nivver knaw who they are,‚Äù Mr.¬ÝOakroyd confessed. ‚ÄúOther fowk allus knaws, though. It‚Äôs allus either capitalists or t‚Äôworkingmen, or it‚Äôs this Parlyment or t‚Äôlast, or it‚Äôs landowners and employers or it‚Äôs Bolshies. I can nivver mak‚Äô nowt out on it mysen, can‚Äôt tell whose fault it is, but then I‚Äôm not one o‚Äô t‚Äôclever sort. It‚Äôs allus all a right muddle to me. But you‚Äôll mak‚Äô summat owt on it, I dare say. And while you‚Äôre at it, just slip in a nasty piece about yon‚Äô Droke who owns t‚Äôthe‚Äëater. Put us i‚Äô t‚Äôcart and right, he has. I call him a mucky mean old man, who owt to be going round wi‚Äô a little rag-and-bone barrer, he owt. But get thysen going, lad. Get it aht o‚Äô thy system.‚Äù
Inigo nodded gravely, lit a pipe, then without hesitation and with a fine flourish wrote at top of his first sheet: ‚ÄúEngland‚Äôs Pleasant Land: by I. Jollifant.‚Äù Nor did he stop there. He actually began the essay itself. ‚ÄúIt is eleven o‚Äôclock,‚Äù he wrote. Having stared at this for a minute or two, he crossed it out and put in its place: ‚ÄúI have just looked through the window, which is gemmed with moisture.‚Äù This did not please him, so out it came, and he began a new sheet, at which he frowned for nearly ten minutes. Then he wrote: ‚ÄúOutside, this morning, the spoil of many clanking years‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù; crossed out ‚Äúclanking‚Äù; crossed everything out; then drew six faces and absentmindedly decorated them with curly moustaches; then sighed, filled and lit his pipe again, and leaned back in his chair.
From the hall outside came the sound of a very slow dragging footstep. Mr.¬ÝOakroyd looked up from his newspaper.
‚ÄúThat‚Äôll be Mr.¬ÝMord,‚Äù he announced, ‚Äúand he‚Äôs coming in here‚ÅÝ‚Äîif he can nobbut manage it.‚Äù Mr.¬ÝOakroyd said this with a certain relish, as if he rather liked breaking bad news.
Inigo groaned. We have already heard Mr.¬ÝOakroyd describe their landlady‚Äôs husband, and since then Inigo has had two encounters with the purple and swollen invalid. ‚ÄúI‚Äôm sorry for him, my heart bleeds, absolutely,‚Äù Inigo muttered quickly, ‚Äúbut I can‚Äôt stand having him about. It‚Äôs like watching a ghastly slow-motion film. Have I time to get out?‚Äù
He had not time to get out. There was a vague knock at the door. Then the door opened slowly, very slowly, a maddening inch or two at a time, and finally admitted the stricken Mr.¬ÝMord, who looked purpler and puffier than ever. He stood just inside the room for at least a minute, and then, having partly recovered from the journey, he produced, with all the care of a man saying something for the first time in a foreign language, the words: ‚ÄúGood morning, gen‚Äëel‚Äëmen.‚Äù Then he nodded, very slowly. Then he smiled, and his smile was so leisurely that there was time to remark the appearance and disappearance of every crease in his dark swollen face. Then he made a step forward, then another step forward, then another. He saw a chair, seemed to examine it very thoroughly, and finally moved towards it. ‚ÄúI‚Äôll take‚ÅÝ‚Äîa seat‚ÅÝ‚Äîif‚ÅÝ‚Äîit‚Äôs all‚ÅÝ‚Äîthe same‚ÅÝ‚Äîto you‚ÅÝ‚Äîgen‚Äëel‚Äëmen,‚Äù he said; and when he spoke it seemed as if every syllable was an achievement. Then he lowered himself into the chair, carefully placed a puffy hand on each knee, turned his head round slowly to look first at one and then at the other, and ended by attempting speech once more. ‚ÄúSeems‚ÅÝ‚Äîto me‚ÅÝ‚Äîa foggy‚ÅÝ‚Äîmorning,‚Äù was his verdict. ‚ÄúUsed‚ÅÝ‚Äîto get‚ÅÝ‚Äîlot o‚Äô fog‚ÅÝ‚Äîhere‚ÅÝ‚Äîone time.‚Äù
‚ÄúRather, yes! Awful lot of fog! Nasty thing, fog! Never liked it myself.‚Äù Inigo found himself jerking out these idiotic phrases at what seemed an incredible speed. ‚ÄúMust excuse me now, Mr.¬ÝMord. Awfully busy. Have to rush off.‚Äù And off he rushed, at least until he found himself outside the room, when he stopped and wondered where to go and what to do. The bedroom was miserably cold and cheerless, and he would have to sit in his overcoat there and probably have to listen to the old woman coughing in the next bedroom. If he wandered about the house, at any moment he might meet that mysterious and terrifying female who peeped round corners, gave a sudden screech, and then went scampering away. On the other hand, he could not possibly stay in the sitting-room and watch Mr.¬ÝMord‚Äôs horrible slow-motion performance. He went to the front door and looked outside. It was chill and ghostly. He crept upstairs to his bedroom, snuggled under his overcoat on the bed, and read a stained old copy of Tom Bourke of Ours.
It was chill and ghostly too in the theatre that night. They played and danced and sang like people in a miserable dream. Nobody was completely laid up yet, but nobody was any better. There were more grumblings and complaints, and it looked as if there would soon be downright feuds between the various bickering and snarling members of the troupe.
On Thursday the fog turned into black rain. This was the day on which most of the shops closed in Tewborough and the surrounding districts, and there were hopes of a better audience for that night. Mr.¬ÝOakroyd, who had been round to the theatre for half an hour, returned in the middle of the afternoon to smoke a pipe with Inigo by the fire, and told him there were a few scattered bookings.
“Shop fowk here’s got a bit more to spend than t’other fowk, so happen we’ll ha’ summat like a nordience tonight,” he remarked. “But if it isn’t one thing, it’ll be t’other.”
“And what do you mean by that, my sage Bruddersfordian?” asked Inigo lazily.
‚ÄúBother wi‚Äô t‚Äôtroupe,‚Äù replied Mr.¬ÝOakroyd with great promptness. ‚ÄúBound to be a bit of bust-up soon, mark my word. All at it. And some on ‚Äôem‚Äôll get rough edge o‚Äô my tongue afore so long an‚Äô all, way they‚Äôre going on. And there‚Äôs owd Jimmy there, looking fit to drop, right poorly. And another thing. When I were going on, I saw yon Morton Mitcham coming out of a pub and I could see he‚Äôd had a few. Well, just afore I leaves the‚Äëater in he comes wi‚Äô that chap, Finnegan‚ÅÝ‚Äîboth on ‚Äôem a bit goggly‚ÅÝ‚Äîand they‚Äôve getten a bottle o‚Äô whisky wi‚Äô ‚Äôem, a full un. They‚Äôll be at it nar, pair on ‚Äôem. Just you keep yer eye on yon Mitcham tonight. If he isn‚Äôt three sheets i‚Äô t‚Äôwind by tonight, call me a liar, lad.‚Äù
Inigo could not keep an eye on Mr.¬ÝMitcham before the performance began because Mr.¬ÝMitcham was nowhere to be seen. When the curtain went up, he was still missing. There were more people in the theatre that night than there had been on all the other three nights put together; the place was about half-full, a good many people having come in from neighbouring small towns and villages, and it had a livelier air; with the result that the players themselves felt more cheerful. The only exception was Jimmy Nunn, who was more listless and shaky than ever. At the end of the third item, a song by Joe, and while the audience was still clapping, Mr.¬ÝMitcham made his entrance. His makeup was very sketchy and he appeared to have a rather glassy stare. He was fairly steady but nevertheless contrived to knock a chair over before he sat down himself. For quite ten minutes, during which his assistance was not required, he sat, a huge huddled figure, staring at his banjo. At the end of that time, when Jimmy Nunn was about to announce the next item, Mr.¬ÝMitcham suddenly sat up and began playing. Jimmy, who had no idea what was wrong, stared at him, but there was no help for it. So Mr.¬ÝMitcham went on playing, very loudly and at top speed, and the rest of them had to pretend that it was part of the programme. Ten minutes, quarter of an hour, twenty minutes passed, and still Mr.¬ÝMitcham went twanging away, until at last the audience, half-admiring and half-bored, burst into applause. Then he stopped, staggered forward, bowed, and suddenly roared out: ‚ÄúLa‚Äôies shenelmen!‚ÅÝ‚Äîone thing wanner say‚ÅÝ‚Äîone thing‚ÅÝ‚Äîthas all‚ÅÝ‚Äîjus‚Äô one.‚Äù And then, taking a deep breath, he bellowed: ‚ÄúFour times roun‚Äô the worl‚Äô‚Ää‚Äù; and bowed again. At this the audience applauded again, while the other performers, now stiff with horror, tried to look as if nothing out of the ordinary was happening.
Smiling idiotically, Mr.¬ÝMitcham now held up a long shaky hand, and said: ‚ÄúProsheeding ennertainmen‚Äô‚ÅÝ‚Äîpermission, la‚Äôies an‚Äô shenelmen‚ÅÝ‚Äîfew fea‚Äôs leshermain. Will any la‚Äôy‚ÅÝ‚Äîany shenelman‚ÅÝ‚ÄîAny la‚Äôy‚ÅÝ‚ÄîAny shenelman‚ÅÝ‚Äîany-any-anybody‚Äù‚ÅÝ‚Äîhe stopped for a moment‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äútake-a-card?‚Äù And he held out his banjo.
Inigo, catching an agonized glance from Jimmy, immediately started playing as loud as he could, and Joe was able to hustle Mr.¬ÝMitcham off the stage in such a way that the incident appeared to be a well-rehearsed gag. Once in the wings, Joe took care that it should not be repeated, hurrying the protesting Mitcham down to the dressing-room, while the others went on with the performance.
Miss Trant always confessed that she went in terror of drunken men, but there was no sign of it that night. She was so angry that she insisted upon seeing Mr.¬ÝMitcham as soon as she could. Even when he rose or wobbled to his feet, towered above her, and brought out again that large idiotic smile, she found she was not at all frightened but only wanted to shake some sense and decency into the great silly old disgusting baby.
“Goo’ eening, Miss Tran’,” he said genially. “Goo’ housh to-ni’ and I gorrem goin’, didden I now?”
‚ÄúPlease go home at once, Mr.¬ÝMitcham,‚Äù she cried. ‚ÄúYou ought to be ashamed of yourself.‚Äù
He looked pained, and for a moment or two regarded her in silence with reproachful goggly eyes. ‚ÄúMish Tran‚Äô, these not wordsh of a frien‚Äô,‚Äù and he wagged his head mournfully. ‚ÄúNo, no, no. Who gorrem goin‚Äô? Didden I? Four time roun‚Äô the worl‚Äô‚ÅÝ‚Äîfour times, mindjew‚ÅÝ‚ÄîFour‚ÅÝ‚Äîan‚Äô still gerring ‚Äôem goin‚Äô‚ÅÝ‚ÄîMorton Mitcham.‚Äù
She turned away in disgust and looked appealingly at Joe, who had not returned to the stage. “Come on, ol’ man,” said Joe. “Just you get yourself going.”
Mr.¬ÝMitcham seemed to regard this as a brilliant though bitter repartee. ‚ÄúClever, clever,‚Äù he said, shaking his head, ‚Äúbur nor wordsh of a frien‚Äô. Bur if I‚Äôm nor wanned, I‚Äôll‚ÅÝ‚Äîgo.‚Äù And he suddenly went reeling away. Joe took charge of him, telling Miss Trant that he would be back at the theatre before the second half of the show began. For a moment now, Miss Trant felt inclined to go too, to turn her back on the wretched theatre and let herself cool down in her room at the hotel. She made up her mind that Mitcham should leave the troupe as soon as possible. She was still furious. To behave like that, just when things were so bad for her, was downright disloyalty, and the thought of it angered and then saddened her.
This was not the worst the evening had to offer, however, for in the middle of the second half of the show, Jimmy Nunn suddenly collapsed. He had sung one of his two songs‚ÅÝ‚Äîor at least had struggled through it somehow‚ÅÝ‚Äîand had made his first bow and then retired to the wings to make some slight change in his costume: Inigo was already playing the opening bars of the second song; when Jimmy, instead of changing, stared vacantly for a minute, gave a curious little moan, and would have fallen full length if Mr.¬ÝOakroyd, who was standing by, had not caught him in time. Under his comic makeup (as a postman) his face was deathly pale; his lips were blue; and there were horrible little convulsive movements in all his limbs. Mr.¬ÝOakroyd knew that poor Jimmy always carried a small flask of brandy about with him, and this was discovered in the dressing-room. Miss Trant, trembling, managed to force some of the brandy between the blue lips, while Mr.¬ÝOakroyd supported the head and shoulders. There was some confusion on the stage, but all the time Inigo was still playing the same idiotic pom-pom-poppa-pom, pom-pom poppa-pom for that second song which now might never be sung again. The audience was growing restive; there was some stamping of feet at the back.
Jimmy stirred; some colour returned to his cheeks; and he opened his eyes. He was able to sip a little more brandy.
“We must get a doctor,” said Miss Trant.
Jimmy shook his head. “No. No doctor,” he muttered. “All right in a minute. Carry on show.”
It was Mr.¬ÝJerry Jerningham, of all people, who took command of the situation now. He darted into the wings, exchanged a word with Miss Trant, then, pale but fairly composed, returned to the stage, stopped Inigo, and said: ‚ÄúLadies and gentlemen, Ai regret to announce thet Mr.¬ÝJaymy Nen will nat‚ÅÝ‚Äîare‚ÅÝ‚Äîbe able to continue his pawt of the‚ÅÝ‚Äîer programme‚ÅÝ‚Äîawing to ar‚ÅÝ‚Äîsudden indisposition.‚Äù Here he stopped for a moment, and there was a noise somewhere in the auditorium. It seemed as if somebody was trying to get out in a hurry. ‚ÄúThe next item‚ÅÝ‚Äîar‚ÅÝ‚Äîwill be a bahlad by Miss Stella Cavendish.‚Äù At which the audience clapped, as audiences always do; Mrs.¬ÝJoe walked over to the piano, looking very dignified but in such a flutter that she spilled half her music; Mr.¬ÝJerningham, that intrepid exquisite, gravely took a seat; and the performance continued.
They got Jimmy to his dressing-room and he was still muttering that he did not want to see a doctor when there came the sound of voices from the corridor outside. ‚ÄúWell, I don‚Äôt knaw, Missis,‚Äù Miss Trant heard Mr.¬ÝOakroyd saying. The next moment a thin middle-aged woman in black had stalked into the dressing-room and, ignoring Miss Trant and Joe, was bending over Jimmy, who was staring at her with his mouth wide open.
“And how are you now, James?” she said, still examining him closely.
Recovering now from his first shock of surprise, he gave the ghost of a grin. ‚ÄúNot so bad, Carrie. What‚ÅÝ‚Äîyou doing here?‚Äù
“You look badly, James. I thought you did earlier on. It won’t do, James. You’re a sick man. You’re not fit to be sitting here, with that silly paint on your face. You want looking after.”
Miss Trant, who had been too astonished to speak at first and then had not known what to say, now made a slight movement.
‚ÄúI dare say you‚Äôre wondering what I‚Äôm doing here,‚Äù said the determined woman, looking at Miss Trant with an unfriendly eye. ‚ÄúWell, I‚Äôm Mrs.¬ÝNunn. And as soon as they gave out he wasn‚Äôt well, I came round to see him. And it‚Äôs lucky I happened to be here. I knew you were coming here because two of your troupe I saw the other Sunday at Hicklefield Station told me you were coming. You saw me out of the window that day, James,‚Äù she added grimly.
“Yes, I did,” said Jimmy, and left it at that.
‚ÄúYes, yes, of course, I see,‚Äù said Miss Trant hastily. She felt very embarrassed. ‚ÄúWe‚Äôve been trying to persuade Mr.¬ÝNunn to see a doctor. I know he hasn‚Äôt been well all the week.‚Äù
‚ÄúAnd never likely to be,‚Äù cried Mrs.¬ÝNunn scornfully. ‚ÄúNothing proper to eat, wet clothes, and dirty lodgings, I know! He ought to be in bed now. Tewborough Theatre Royal! Well, he‚Äôs going to hear what I‚Äôve got to say now. He‚Äôs heard it before but this time perhaps he‚Äôll believe me.‚Äù
This left Miss Trant no alternative but to go and leave this strangely united pair alone. Joe had already stolen out, so now Miss Trant followed his example. About a quarter of an hour later, in the wings, she found herself confronted by Mrs.¬ÝNunn again, and it was quite obvious that that determined woman had decided what was to be done. The very look of her reminded Miss Trant of a coiled steel spring.
‚ÄúJames Nunn is coming with me,‚Äù she announced at once. ‚ÄúHe‚Äôs in a poor way and I‚Äôm going to look after him. You must manage as best you can without him‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù
‚ÄúWell, but naturally, I don‚Äôt want him to go on playing here when he‚Äôs so ill,‚Äù Miss Trant protested. This extraordinary woman seemed to imagine they were ready to drag poor Jimmy on to the stage if necessary. ‚ÄúBut where‚ÅÝ‚ÄîI‚Äôm sorry, but I don‚Äôt quite understand‚ÅÝ‚Äîwhere is he going?‚Äù
‚ÄúWith me,‚Äù replied Mrs.¬ÝNunn promptly and firmly. ‚ÄúI live about twelve miles away, between here and Hicklefield. I‚Äôve got a shop. That‚Äôs why I came today, half-day closing. James Nunn‚Äôs gone his way and I‚Äôve gone mine, but we‚Äôre husband and wife, nothing alters that, and I‚Äôm not going to stand by and do nothing when he‚Äôs in such a state. I told him where it would land him before he‚Äôd done but he wouldn‚Äôt have it. Now he‚Äôs beginning to learn.‚Äù She looked as if she were about to turn away, but brought out another remark as if it were a postscript. ‚ÄúYour troupe‚Äôs not got enough go in it, not half enough go; you want to keep them up to the mark better, Miss.‚Äù And with that she stalked away.
Miss Trant, gasping a little, stared after her, and wondered what she ought to do. Finally, she stayed where she was for another ten minutes or so, then went down to Jimmy’s dressing-room again. Jimmy would want to see her before he went, and after all she had a right to know what was going to happen to him. But the dressing-room was empty. It was incredible that they could have gone like that, without another word, but there it was; they could not be found. Jimmy’s astonishing wife had spirited him away, just as if she were a witch. “I shall believe in a minute she was a witch,” she told herself miserably, as she drifted back down the dingy smelly corridor. Her head ached and she felt ready to cry at any moment. Oh, this wretched, wretched Tewborough! She stayed to see the end of the performance, which had dwindled into a mere dismal sketch of their usual show, and to tell the others what had happened. Too tired and dispirited to join in their wild surmising and speculating, she crawled to her hotel, lay awake and listened to the black rain still falling on Tewborough, and felt alone in an ugly and incomprehensible world.
The next morning, as she sat scribbling letters over the coffee-room fire, a visitor was announced. It was Mr.¬ÝMorton Mitcham. He looked ancient and bilious; longer than ever but more ruinous; and he seemed to come creaking into the room, an unmelodious jangle of bones. He came forward, one hand clutching his sad sombrero and the other nervously fingering the immense buttons of his overcoat, the Silver King. Miss Trant remembered this name for his overcoat‚ÅÝ‚Äîshe had forgotten all about it, and it returned unbidden‚ÅÝ‚Äîand then she told herself that she could not possibly send him away. And in any case, with Jimmy absent, it would not be wise, she reflected.
‚ÄúMiss Trant,‚Äù Mr.¬ÝMitcham began very solemnly, in his deep harsh drawl, ‚ÄúI am here to make what apology I can‚ÅÝ‚Äîfor last night. I understand that I nearly let down the show‚ÅÝ‚Äîat a difficult time, too‚ÅÝ‚Äîand I believe I also offended you personally.‚Äù His eyes stared hollowly at her above his sunken and yellow cheeks. ‚ÄúI‚Äôm sorry. I‚Äôm very sorry indeed. I throw myself upon your mercy, believe me.‚Äù
‚ÄúAll right, Mr.¬ÝMitcham,‚Äù she said hastily. ‚ÄúI‚Äôm sure it won‚Äôt happen again‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù
“It will not happen again.”
‚ÄúVery well, then‚Äù‚ÅÝ‚Äîand she felt like this gigantic creature‚Äôs schoolmistress; it was absurd‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äúwe won‚Äôt say anything more about it.‚Äù
‚ÄúMiss Trant, this is generous of you. It‚Äôs‚ÅÝ‚Äîit‚Äôs wonderful.‚Äù Then, rather surprisingly, he stopped, lowered his massive, eyebrows, and looked at her with something like disapproval. ‚ÄúBut it won‚Äôt do,‚Äù he went on, with an air of mournful reproach. ‚ÄúSomething must be said about it. I ought to be ashamed of myself and I am ashamed of myself; but I doubt if I‚Äôm sufficiently ashamed of myself. Tell me here and now, Miss Trant, how disappointed and disgusted you are. For me, Morton Mitcham, the oldest and most experienced member of the party, the man who ought to see you through, the one trouper you ought to be able to depend on‚ÅÝ‚Äîto behave like that! Gah!‚ÅÝ‚Äîit makes me sick to think of it. And Jimmy ill too! The show right up against it! And what am I doing? Rub it in, Miss Trant, rub it in. Ask me how I‚Äôd like you to tell people that Morton Mitcham let you down. You can‚Äôt say too much or put it too strong,‚Äù he went on, just as if she really had said all these things. ‚ÄúI deserve it, every word of it.‚Äù
She could not help smiling. ‚ÄúIf you insist, of course, I will say that I think you behaved very badly‚ÅÝ‚Äîor at least very stupidly, and that I was really angry about it last night. In fact, I had made up my mind‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù
He held up a hand. ‚ÄúPardon me for interrupting,‚Äù he said earnestly, ‚Äúbut there‚Äôs just one thing I‚Äôve got to tell you. It couldn‚Äôt have happened anywhere but in this place. Tewborough, Miss Trant, has been my what‚Äôs-its-name‚ÅÝ‚Äîmy Waterloo. Yes, it‚Äôs downed me. I don‚Äôt know whether I‚Äôm getting too old for the road or what‚ÅÝ‚Äîbut here, in Tewborough this week, I‚Äôve touched rock bottom.‚Äù
“So have I,” said Miss Trant, not without bitterness.
‚ÄúI‚Äôm an old traveller, a bit of a vagabond, if you like,‚Äù he went on, with a certain mournful gusto, ‚Äúbut I‚Äôm an artist too. The temperament‚Äôs there, all the time, a lion waiting to pounce. I must have something‚ÅÝ‚Äîa bit of adventure, a bit of good cheer, a hand from the audience, a new show going well, anything will do, I don‚Äôt ask for a lot. But in Tewborough‚ÅÝ‚Äîso far as I‚Äôm concerned‚ÅÝ‚Äîthere‚Äôs been nothing. The place, the people, the rooms, the theatre, the show frozen out every night‚ÅÝ‚Äîbelieve me, Miss Trant, I‚Äôm an old trouper, four times round the world, but I‚Äôve nerves and all this has just got on ‚Äôem. I‚Äôll put it to you frankly‚ÅÝ‚ÄîI‚Äôd just got to light the place up somehow, and yesterday I overdid the illuminations. And that‚Äôs how it is.‚Äù
‚ÄúI understand,‚Äù she assured him. And she did. She could almost find it in her heart to envy him his toping. ‚ÄúIt‚Äôs all been a mistake, I know,‚Äù she said wearily, ‚Äúand I think we‚Äôre all having a bad time and suffering from nerves. It‚Äôs not like the same concert party. But you must help me out now, especially since poor Jimmy‚Äôs been rushed off somewhere‚ÅÝ‚ÄîI don‚Äôt know where‚ÅÝ‚Äîby his wife. We‚Äôre in an awful muddle now.‚Äù
“Miss Trant,” he said very impressively, “you have here a man who’s going to see you through, whatever happens. Whatever you’re doing, making up a new programme, anything, you can count on Morton Mitcham. I’ll give half a show, if you like; it won’t be the first time I’ve done it. Only say the word, whatever it is, and I’m there.”
“Thank you,” she cried, still amused but also rather touched.
“Thank you.” And then he added gravely: “I should like to shake hands on that, Miss Trant, if you don’t mind.”
So they shook hands, and then Mr.¬ÝMitcham immediately became his cheerful and reminiscent self again and insisted upon telling her all about various places he had visited that were not unlike Tewborough, though it was hard for anybody but Mr.¬ÝMitcham to see any resemblance. Then he departed, after assuring her again that she had in him, Morton Mitcham, the man who would see her through, the man who was prepared, if necessary, to keep the show going by himself.
And that very night he was compelled to keep his promise in part, for a dreadful thing happened. Jimmy was absent; but then they had expected that. But Jerry Jerningham was missing too. At first they imagined he was merely late, and after waiting a few minutes they began without him, a sadly depleted troupe playing to a sadly depleted audience. No message had been received from him at the theatre, and finally Miss Trant sent Mr.¬ÝOakroyd round to his rooms to see what had happened. Meanwhile, the others carried on as best they could. The absence of both Jimmy and Jerningham made a terrible hole in the programme. Susie and Mr.¬ÝMitcham, however, contrived to fill up and supply some comic relief, gagging desperately. When Mr.¬ÝOakroyd returned, he had a story to tell that only heightened the mystery. ‚ÄúWoman at his lodgings doesn‚Äôt knaw where he is,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝOakroyd. ‚ÄúHe said nowt to her. But a car come this morning, she says, and he went off in it. He didn‚Äôt tak‚Äô onny luggage‚ÅÝ‚Äîshe took notice o‚Äô that, you can bet yer‚Äô life, ‚Äôcos she‚Äôd want paying afore she‚Äôd let him tak‚Äô owt away‚ÅÝ‚Äîand he didn‚Äôt let on where he was off to or say owt at all to her. But it wouldn‚Äôt cap me,‚Äù he concluded, ‚Äúif he hadn‚Äôt ta‚Äôen his hook bart luggage, just gi‚Äôn us the go-by.‚Äù
“I don’t know what that means,” said Miss Trant rather peevishly, “so I can’t say whether I agree with you or not.”
Mr.¬ÝOakroyd shot a curious glance at her. This was not like Miss Trant. ‚ÄúI mean,‚Äù he said shortly, ‚Äúhe‚Äôs gone off, luggage or no luggage. I can‚Äôt say it plainer ner that.‚Äù It must be confessed that all their tempers were a trifle frayed by this time.
Miss Trant walked away without another word. It did not matter where Jerningham had gone, the fact remained that he was not where he ought to have been, that he had let them down. She was hurt, angry. When the interval came, she found that Elsie and Susie were no longer on speaking terms and that Mrs.¬ÝJoe had a complaint to make about the conduct of Mr.¬ÝMorton Mitcham, who seemed to imagine, Mrs.¬ÝJoe observed, that the programme belonged to him. Miss Trant refused to listen to any of them. ‚ÄúDon‚Äôt be babyish,‚Äù she snapped, to their astonishment, and turned her back on them. She had had as much as she could possibly stand, she told herself; the whole week a grim fiasco, money thrown away; Jimmy ill, missing; Jerningham missing; the rest of them getting drunk or wrangling, not making the slightest attempt to help her out; no loyalty, no comradeship; the whole thing in ruins. She felt she was sick of it all. Here she was, stuck in this awful place, trudging through black streets, her time spent in either a dingy hotel or a dirty broken-down theatre, and this misery was costing her more than the most expensive holiday she could devise for herself. She could not hang about and watch the performance trailing to an end; she wanted to go to bed, to read something distant, gay, and adventurous, to forget Tewborough and its horrible Theatre Royal and the Good Companions‚ÅÝ‚Äîthe very name made her wince; but first, there was something to be done.
That was why, when the show was over, Mr.¬ÝOakroyd said to them all: ‚ÄúMiss Trant‚Äôs gone home, but you‚Äôve to look at notice-board by t‚Äôdoor.‚Äù On the notice-board was a sheet of paper that summoned them all, in the name of E. Trant, to attend a meeting on the stage the following day, Saturday, at noon: Urgent.
IV
At noon on Saturday they were all there, not excluding Mr.¬ÝOakoyd, whose pipe was still in his mouth but quite cold and empty and whose little cap was as far back on his head as it could possibly go, two facts that proved beyond doubt that he was uneasy in his mind. They were all uneasy, subdued; and when they spoke their voices were quieter than usual. It was a morning as cold and grey as slate. Every few seconds one of them either coughed or yawned, and they all looked tired. Inigo, glancing every now and then at Susie, wondered if she too was ill, or all her sparkle was gone and she was pale and heavy-eyed. Nothing had been heard of either Jimmy or Jerry Jerningham, and they all had the air of being survivors after a shipwreck.
‚ÄúI think you‚Äôll agree,‚Äù Miss Trant began, with a curious return to her earlier half-nervous, half-detached manner and clipped speech, ‚Äúthat we‚Äôve got to decide what‚Äôs to be done. To begin with‚ÅÝ‚Äîabout tonight. Is it worth while giving a performance at all?‚Äù
“No, it isn’t,” said Elsie. “Last night was ghastly. They’ll be throwing things tonight.”
‚ÄúPreposterous!‚Äù This was from Mr.¬ÝMorton Mitcham, who drew himself up to his full height and menaced Elsie with his eyebrows. ‚ÄúWhy shouldn‚Äôt we give a show? There are six of us, aren‚Äôt there? I call it turning good money away not to give a show. Why, one of us‚ÅÝ‚Äîjust one of us‚ÅÝ‚Äîis too good for Tewborough, let alone six of us. I‚Äôve known the time when a whole drama and vaudeville show thrown in were done with less than six. I myself‚ÅÝ‚Äîallow me to say‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù
“Oh yes, we know!” Elsie put in rudely. “Out there in Timbuktu, way back in Eighty-three, you worked miracles. We know all about that.”
‚ÄúYou know nothing,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝMitcham with great scorn. ‚ÄúYou haven‚Äôt had a chance to learn. You‚Äôve been nowhere. You‚Äôve seen nothing. Ignorance, that‚Äôs your trouble, young lady, sheer ignorance.‚Äù
‚ÄúOh, you go and‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù Elsie exploded.
‚ÄúNow that won‚Äôt do, my dear,‚Äù Mrs.¬ÝJoe cried hastily. ‚ÄúDo not let us forget ourselves, please. We‚Äôre having our Trials and Troubles I know‚ÅÝ‚Äîor if I don‚Äôt, then who does, my word! But don‚Äôt let‚Äôs descend to Name-calling and‚ÅÝ‚Äîand‚ÅÝ‚ÄîBaydinarge and Rudenesses.‚Äù And Mrs.¬ÝJoe sat up erect, looked very dignified indeed for about two seconds, but then unfortunately was compelled to sneeze.
‚ÄúWell, I say‚ÅÝ‚Äîgive tonight a miss,‚Äù said Elsie sullenly.
‚ÄúAnd I say you‚Äôre rotten mean,‚Äù Susie blazed out, ‚Äúto think of it. Here‚Äôs Miss Trant dropped an awful lot on the week and you don‚Äôt even want to give a chance to get something back. After all, it‚Äôs Saturday and there‚Äôs sure to be some sort of a house tonight. What‚Äôs the sense of turning the money away, as Mr.¬ÝMitcham says. We can give them a jolly sight better show even now than they can appreciate, if I know Tewborough.‚Äù
“Half a minute, though, Susie,” said Joe in his slow honest fashion. “It’s Miss Trant who’s asking us if it’s worth it, so I don’t see you can fairly blame Elsie for saying it isn’t. It seems to me it’s for Miss Trant herself to decide. I’m sure we’ll all do our best, but if she thinks this is going to give us a bad name, and it might, then she’d better call it off.”
“What do you think?” asked Miss Trant, turning to Inigo, to whom she felt closer, in this present mood, than she did to any of the others, for, like her, he was a newcomer to this world.
Inigo shrugged his shoulders. “It’s all the same to me. If it was a matter of leaving this graveyard of a town, I’d say, let’s go at once, for I believe it’s simply this place that’s done us in, absolutely. But if we’ve got to stay here, we might as well give the show tonight. It’s practice for us; it might brighten somebody’s evening here; and though I’ll bet all the money we take tonight won’t go very far, it’ll help you, Miss Trant, to bring down the loss a bit. On the other hand, if you say, Let’s pack up and go, on to the next place, over the hills and far away, I’m your man, absolutely.”
There was a murmur of assent, but Miss Trant sprang to her feet, walked a yard or two, then faced them all. “But now I come to the next thing,” she cried. “Are we going to other places? Is it worth while going on at all? That’s what I’m asking myself.”
She stopped and there was a little chorus of exclamations, through which the voice of Mrs.¬ÝJoe could be heard repeating, in tragic tones: ‚ÄúI knew it. I knew it.‚Äù
‚ÄúPlease don‚Äôt misunderstand me,‚Äù Miss Trant went on. ‚ÄúIt‚Äôs not money I‚Äôm thinking about, though I‚Äôve lost a good deal, as you must realize, especially this week. And you mustn‚Äôt imagine for a moment I‚Äôm rich, because I‚Äôm not. It was only because some money came unexpectedly that I was able to do this at all. But it isn‚Äôt that, though naturally it‚Äôs rather dreadful continually losing money. It‚Äôs something else‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù She hesitated.
“May I say something, Miss Trant?” said Elsie, rather sulkily. “If it’s this week that’s bowled you over, I hope you’ll remember you brought us here, that it was your idea taking this stinking brute of a theatre.”
“You are the limit,” cried Susie, looking as if she was ready to silence her forever. “Won’t you be quiet!”
“Why should I be?” demanded Elsie.
“Grrr!” There was exasperation, indignation, disgust, and we know not what beside in this fierce noise that Susie made.
But now she turned to Miss Trant: “You’re not really going to chuck it, are you, Miss Trant? I know we’ve done badly so far, but really we haven’t had a chance yet.”
“Not a dog’s,” said Joe gloomily.
‚ÄúI realize that just as well as you do,‚Äù Miss Trant told them. ‚ÄúIt‚Äôs not that at all. It‚Äôs‚ÅÝ‚Äîit‚Äôs‚ÅÝ‚Äîwhat has happened this week that makes me feel I‚Äôve had enough of it. Oh, I know this place has been awful and I brought you here. I never ought to have rented this dreadful, abominable theatre‚ÅÝ‚ÄîI know that‚ÅÝ‚ÄîI made a mistake, and I‚Äôm paying dearly for it. But you might have stood by me‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù
‚ÄúStood by you, Miss Trant!‚Äù cried Mrs.¬ÝJoe, throwing up her hands and glancing round with a look of deep despair. ‚ÄúNever was any manager of mine so stood by as you‚Äôve been by me this week. If it had been Drury Lane I couldn‚Äôt have done more, and wouldn‚Äôt have done so much. Night after night, I‚Äôve come here rising from a Sickbed. ‚ÄòNo,‚Äô I said to Joe, when he begged me to stay in and look after myself, ‚Äòmy Duty‚Äôs there. If it was anybody but Miss Trant, I wouldn‚Äôt do it,‚Äô I told him. Weren‚Äôt those my very words, Joe?‚Äù
“That’s right,” said Joe, staring very hard at nothing in particular.
‚ÄúI‚Äôve no doubt whatever you did your best, Mrs.¬ÝBrundit,‚Äù Miss Trant went on, a trifle wearily. ‚ÄúBut I can‚Äôt get away from the feeling that the party as a whole has let me down this week. This was my special venture‚ÅÝ‚ÄîI admit it‚Äôs turned out to be a very silly one‚ÅÝ‚Äîand you ought to have backed me up. Instead of that, the party has gone to pieces‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù
‚ÄúYou can‚Äôt blame us because Jimmy had a heart attack or whatever it was,‚Äù Elsie interrupted. ‚ÄúAnd as for some people‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù She stopped and looked significantly at Mr.¬ÝMitcham, who for his part tried not very successfully to pretend she wasn‚Äôt there.
‚ÄúYes, yes, that was our bad luck,‚Äù cried Miss Trant impatiently. ‚ÄúThat couldn‚Äôt be helped, but other things could‚ÅÝ‚Äîquarrelling, not bothering about the show, not trying to make the best of it, leaving the rest of us in the lurch‚ÅÝ‚Äîoh, you must know what I mean! If you don‚Äôt, it doesn‚Äôt matter; I‚Äôm only trying to explain myself. I feel the whole thing‚Äôs gone to pieces.‚Äù
“I’ll never, never forgive Jerry Jerningham as long as I live for going off like that,” Susie exclaimed.
‚ÄúThat boy‚Äôs yellow,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝMitcham, and he said it in such a way as to hint that he had known this all along and was rather surprised that the others had not noticed it too.
“I suppose he has gone,” Susie said doubtfully.
‚ÄúYes, he must have gone,‚Äù Miss Trant replied, with a kind of weary contempt in her voice. ‚ÄúHe‚Äôs left his things behind, but probably he preferred to go without them rather than stay here. You called again this morning, didn‚Äôt you?‚Äù she asked Mr.¬ÝOakroyd, who was dismally sucking his empty pipe in the background.
“Ay, I went and left t’message to say we was having a bit of a meeting here, if he came back. T’landlady said she’d heard nowt, and I fancy by t’look on her she’d just been takking stock o’ his booits and shirts and collars to see how much they’d fetch in case she heard no more on him.”
“We’ve seen the last of that bright boy,” said Elsie. “He’d a lot to say about Mildenhall, when he went and did the dirty on us, but he’s no better himself, as he’ll hear from me if ever I set eyes on him again.”
‚ÄúWell there you are,‚Äù Miss Trant told them. ‚ÄúThe first real test‚ÅÝ‚Äîand‚ÅÝ‚Äîlook what‚Äôs happened. Can you blame me if I feel we can‚Äôt go on? It‚Äôs not been easy for me to do what I have done‚ÅÝ‚ÄîI don‚Äôt mean about money, but simply that I knew nothing about the Stage and didn‚Äôt understand this life‚ÅÝ‚ÄîI had to take what seemed to me an awful sort of plunge. And what attracted me, I think, more than anything at first was the way you were all so loyal and kept so cheerful and friendly under the most horrible conditions. And now‚ÅÝ‚Äîwell‚ÅÝ‚ÄîI‚Äôm afraid I don‚Äôt see it like that any more.‚Äù
After her voice had trailed away into silence, nobody spoke, nobody stirred, for what seemed quite a long time. It was so quiet that they could hear, coming from the forgotten world into that strange shrouded place, the sound of the factory buzzers in the town.
Then Susie stood up. ‚ÄúNo, I suppose I can‚Äôt blame you, Miss Trant,‚Äù she said tonelessly. ‚ÄúBut‚ÅÝ‚Äîoh, I‚Äôm sorry. You don‚Äôt know how sorry I am.‚Äù There were tears in her voice now, and she swung round and walked to the side of the stage, where Mr.¬ÝOakroyd was standing.
‚ÄúNay, lass,‚Äù he said, ‚Äútak‚Äô it easy, tak‚Äô it easy.‚Äù Then he rubbed his chin hard, tried to push his cap further back still, finally pushed it off his head altogether, picked it up and jammed it on again, then stepped forward and manfully spoke up. ‚ÄúNar then,‚Äù he began, ‚ÄúI don‚Äôt suppose onny on yer want to hear what I‚Äôve got to say, but as nobody seems to be saying owt just nar, happen you‚Äôll listen a minute. And I say, Stick it. Don‚Äôt give up, Miss Trant. Have another do at it. Nar don‚Äôt get into your head I‚Äôm saying this ‚Äôcos I don‚Äôt want to lose mi‚Äô job‚ÅÝ‚ÄîI don‚Äôt want to lose it, I‚Äôll tell you straight, specially nar as I knaw t‚Äôropes‚ÅÝ‚Äîbut it isn‚Äôt that. I fair hate thought o‚Äô a thing coming to nowt afore it‚Äôs got started. Nivver let it be said that this here Tewborough took all t‚Äôheart out on us. Tewborough be damned, I say. We can show it.‚Äù
“That’s the stuff, Master Oakroyd,” cried Inigo enthusiastically. “I’m with you there, absolutely.”
‚ÄúIt‚Äôs nobbut a matter o‚Äô turning a corner,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝOakroyd earnestly addressing himself to Miss Trant. ‚ÄúIt‚Äôs allus same wi‚Äô iverything. Stick it, get round t‚Äôcorner, and you‚Äôre there. Gi‚Äô this up nar and it‚Äôs all flummoxed, might as well nivver ha‚Äô started. Nobbut go on a bit, and you nivver knaw, happen in a fort-nit or fower week you‚Äôre coining brass and they can‚Äôt mak‚Äô enough on you. Nay,‚Äù he cried reproachfully, ‚Äúwe‚Äôre on t‚Äôroad, aren‚Äôt we? There‚Äôs down‚Äôs as well as ups. This here‚Äôs down all right. What of it? We‚Äôll get on t‚Äôroad agen, chance it, and‚ÅÝ‚Äîmark my words‚ÅÝ‚Äîif we‚Äôre not up, right at top o‚Äôt‚Äôtree, a‚Äômost afore you can say Jack Robi‚Äôson, nay, I‚Äôll eat this cap.‚Äù And Mr.¬ÝOakroyd, carried away by his own eloquence, plucked off his cap, held it out, jammed it on his head once more, and turned away.
“Darling!” cried Susie tearfully as he passed her.
He replied by giving her a wink, not a jolly impudent wink but a stammering embarrassed wink, which announced that he knew quite well that he had been making a fool of himself. It would take a man years to live down such an emotional outburst in Bruddersford.
There was hardly time for the others to say anything before the voice of Mr.¬ÝOakroyd, this time raised in expostulation, was heard again, coming from that part of the theatre to which he had retired. Everybody looked up and waited expectantly. Something was about to happen, their attitudes said, and they were glad of it.
A large, glittering, jangling woman charged into the centre of the group on the stage, and looked about her wildly.
“Lady Partlit!” cried Susie and Inigo together, at once recognizing their acquaintance of the hotel outside Hicklefield.
‚ÄúYes, yes. How d‚Äôyou do? Of course!‚Äù Lady Partlit babbled, trying to see everyone at once, so that she seemed to be spinning like a top. ‚ÄúI‚Äôm sorry to come like this. Must be intruding. But they told me‚ÅÝ‚Äîhere. Is he here? Oh, where is he?‚Äù And she beat her little fat hands together.
Miss Trant was staring, amazed. ‚ÄúI don‚Äôt understand,‚Äù she began blankly. ‚ÄúWho‚ÅÝ‚Äîwhat‚ÅÝ‚Äîis it‚ÅÝ‚Äî?‚Äù
Susie darted forward. “Is it,” she gasped, “Jerry Jerningham?”
Lady Partlit was at once so excited, anxious, confused, that she looked exactly like an agitated parrot. ‚ÄúYes, of course, Mr.¬ÝJerningham. It‚Äôs been all all a mistake, I assure you, and of course I can explain everything to him when I see him. Are you sure, are you really sure, he‚Äôs not here? Because,‚Äù she concluded wildly, ‚Äúhe‚Äôs gone.‚Äù
They assured her that Mr.¬ÝJerningham was not there, and would have asked her all manner of questions‚ÅÝ‚Äîfor they were all bursting with curiosity‚ÅÝ‚Äîbut she did not give them time. ‚ÄúMiss Trant, are you?‚Äù she went on, rushing across to jangle in front of that astonished woman. ‚ÄúSo disturbing for you, of course, and so nice of you not to mind about my coming like this.‚Äù Then she rushed back to Susie, whom she apparently regarded as the one member of the party likely to be sympathetic. ‚ÄúA complete misunderstanding from beginning to end, I do assure you, Miss Bean, Miss Dean, and all meant in the friendliest way. But he simply went off, went off without a single word, and I was sure I should find him here. And of course you‚Äôre all thinking it‚Äôs so strange of me, coming and behaving like this, intruding too, but I had to come if there was any chance at all of explaining to him, you see. And of course it‚Äôs worse than ever, with no one here knowing anything about him.‚Äù
“He’s been missing for two days,” said Susie.
“Yes, I know that. That I can explain,” Lady Partlit began, when a sound made her look across and she gave a little scream. “There you are,” she gasped.
And there Mr.¬ÝJerningham was, looking anything but his usual exquisite self. He jumped and turned crimson at the sight of Lady Partlit, who now hurried across the stage towards him.
“Go away,” he screamed, backing a step or two.
‚ÄúBut it‚Äôs all been a mistake‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù
“Ai don’t waarnt to hear anything,” he shrieked. Then, with mounting fury, he added: “Thet man took away mai trousers. He deliberately took them away. You told him to.”
“Only to brush them,” Lady Partlit wailed.
‚ÄúNat to brush at all,‚Äù Mr.¬ÝJerningham cried, wagging a finger at her. ‚ÄúHe just took them away. Then he laughed at me. Look, look, what Ai had to put on.‚Äù And everybody looked at once and discovered with joy that Mr.¬ÝJerningham was wearing a pair of very dirty khaki trousers of a kind that might possibly be used by an under-gardener faced with a morning‚Äôs rough work. When Mr.¬ÝJerningham saw all their eyes fixed upon his awful trousers, he was angrier than ever with poor Lady Partlit, and told her to go away at once and that he never wanted to set eyes on her again. Distressed and still babbling, she was led away by Susie, who accompanied her to the stage door.
‚ÄúVery sweet of you, my dear, I‚Äôm sure,‚Äù said Lady Partlit, brokenly, tearfully. ‚ÄúI felt so unhappy about it, and you will say as little as you can, won‚Äôt you? I‚Äôve an old friend lives near here, not twenty miles away, and I came specially to see‚ÅÝ‚Äîto see you all. That was on Thursday, and then I sent a note, just a friendly note, to Mr.¬ÝJerningham, and sent the car round for him, to bring him out. I thought‚ÅÝ‚Äîhe‚Äôs so clever, isn‚Äôt he?‚ÅÝ‚Äîand I thought I might be able to help him, though I didn‚Äôt tell him that, my dear, didn‚Äôt tell him how I might be able to‚ÅÝ‚Äîyou know‚ÅÝ‚Äîassist him in his career, because I thought‚ÅÝ‚Äîwell, we ought to be friendly first, because you can help a friend, can‚Äôt you? And then of course I never knew my friend would be called away like that, and never dreamt for a moment there would be that difficulty with the car on Friday afternoon, and I do assure you, my dear, that it was all a mistake and a misunderstanding about the‚ÅÝ‚Äîthe trousers. He‚Äôs so bitter about them, isn‚Äôt he? I‚Äôm sure he‚Äôll never forgive me, but perhaps some time soon, you‚Äôll perhaps just‚ÅÝ‚Äîer‚ÅÝ‚Äîsay something to him, will you? But of course don‚Äôt talk about it, will you? I know I can rely on you not to do that. And if there‚Äôs anything, anything, I can do for you, at any time, my dear‚ÅÝ‚Äîyou‚Äôre so clever too, aren‚Äôt you? And it‚Äôs been so nice of me‚ÅÝ‚ÄîI mean, of you‚ÅÝ‚Äîthat is, so nice seeing you again, hasn‚Äôt it? Do I‚ÅÝ‚ÄîOh, here‚ÅÝ‚Äîyes, of course. Dear, dear, I must stop one minute before I go out‚ÅÝ‚Äîso upsetting rushing in like this, and then‚ÅÝ‚Äîeverything such a mistake‚ÅÝ‚Äîhasn‚Äôt it? Goodbye.‚Äù
Susie stood looking after her a moment, drew a deep breath, then returned to the stage, humming a little tune that seemed to amuse her. Mr.¬ÝJerningham was still apologizing and protesting to a bewildered Miss Trant, but he gave no sign of being willing to gratify everybody‚Äôs curiosity. Susie took him aside as soon as she could. ‚ÄúDo you know who that was?‚Äù she inquired, not without malice.
“Mai dear Susie,” he protested, “down’t talk about that harrible woman. She’s a fet middle-aged vemp, thet’s what she is.”
“You know she’s Lady Partlit and very rich, don’t you?” Susie went on.
“As a metter of feet, Ai do,” he replied loftily, “and Ai don’t care.”
“But what you don’t know, my dear Jerry,” she continued softly, “is that she practically controls two West End theatres, mostly running musical comedies and revues.”
‚ÄúMai God!‚Äù Mr.¬ÝJerningham turned pale and looked at her with horror. ‚ÄúAnd to think‚ÅÝ‚Äî!‚Äù The thought was too much for him, but as he looked away it chanced that he caught sight of the trousers he was wearing. ‚ÄúAi don‚Äôt care,‚Äù he said stoutly, ‚Äúshe shouldn‚Äôt have told the man to take mai trousers.‚Äù Nevertheless, he was thoughtful for some time, and it was many weeks before he completely lost a certain brooding air.
“Of course, this does make some difference,” Miss Trant was saying, when they returned to her side. She let the others chatter a little while she considered their position. She did not understand yet exactly what had happened to Jerningham, but it was quite clear that he had not deliberately absented himself. He had vehemently insisted on the fact that it was no fault of his he had missed last night’s show, and was genuinely indignant at the suggestion that he had failed them.
‚ÄúNar then,‚Äù cried the voice of Mr.¬ÝOakroyd triumphantly, ‚Äúwhat about this?‚Äù Somebody was with him.
“Well, boys and girls!”
“Jimmy!” cried Susie, rushing at him. The next moment they were all round him, nearly shaking his hand off.
‚ÄúThere‚Äôs a doctor in Mirley‚ÅÝ‚Äîthat‚Äôs where I‚Äôve been‚ÅÝ‚Äîwho‚Äôs a marvel, a wonder, a miracle,‚Äù Jimmy announced solemnly. He still looked rather pale and shaky, but he was obviously much better. ‚ÄúHe‚Äôs only young and he‚Äôs got a bit of a squint and his teeth stick out‚ÅÝ‚Äîbut, let me tell you, he could raise the dead, that chap. I went to see him, and he talked and tapped, and tapped and talked, until I got fed up. ‚ÄòAll right, doc,‚Äô I says, ‚Äòdon‚Äôt mind me. Give me six months and get ready to sign in the space provided for that purpose on the form.‚Äô He laughed. ‚ÄòNonsense,‚Äô he says, ‚ÄòI can make a new man of you. When did you see a doctor last?‚Äô So I told him. Four years ago. ‚ÄòThought so,‚Äô he says. ‚ÄòAnd what have you been doing to yourself since?‚Äô So I told him. Trying this and that. ‚ÄòThought so,‚Äô he says again. ‚ÄòNow you listen to me.‚Äô And he gives me some medicine to take and tells me what to do with myself. Then it was my turn, and by this time the wife wasn‚Äôt in the room. ‚ÄòHave I to stop here and do no work?‚Äô I asked him. ‚ÄòBecause if so, I shall be dead anyhow. If you tell me right out,‚Äô I told him, ‚Äòto get back to the boards, where I belong, you‚Äôll complete the cure. And don‚Äôt just tell me,‚Äô I says, ‚Äòbut tell my wife as well.‚Äô So he told me to see him again and then he‚Äôd let me know. I tipped him the wink all right. He knew what was what. ‚ÄòDo him no harm to get back to work,‚Äô he said this morning. ‚ÄòMay do him good.‚Äô Collapse of the opposition! So here I am, Miss Trant, boys and girls, and so long as I take one dose before meals and one after, I‚Äôm fit and ready to crack the old wheezes.‚Äù
“We were only talking just now, Jimmy,” said Joe, “about whether we could give a show at all tonight.”
‚ÄúGive a show tonight!‚Äù cried Jimmy. ‚ÄúI should think we do give a show tonight, if I‚Äôve to give it all by myself. Tonight, one hundred and twenty-five members of the Mirley and District Cooperative Society‚ÅÝ‚Äîprevented, owing to un‚Äëfore‚Äëseen cir‚Äëcum‚Äëstances, from having their monthly whist-drive and dance are coming to Tewborough, and for what?‚ÅÝ‚Äîto see the Good Companions at the Theatre Royal, where they will occupy the dress circle on special terms given ‚Äôem by Mr.¬ÝNunn. Now let‚Äôs get busy and see if we can‚Äôt pack the house.‚Äù
“Let joy and what’s-its-name be unconfined,” roared Inigo, doing a little step-dance. “Now what do you say, Miss Trant?” he asked, lowering his voice. “Do the Good Companions go on?”
“They do,” she replied, smiling and flushing a little.
‚ÄúWe‚Äôll learn ‚Äôem yet,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝOakroyd, perspiring with enthusiasm. ‚ÄúWe will an‚Äô all. Tewborough ‚Äôull noan do us down. Tewborough‚Äôs nowt. It‚Äôs getten a right slap in the eye this morning.‚Äù
They played well that night, and a circle packed with members of the Mirley and District Cooperative Society was not slow to appreciate their efforts. (Even the Treasurer, a deacon at the Baptist Chapel who had misgivings about any form of entertainment that ventured further than a cantata, was heard to laugh several times.) “I don’t say it’s been a riot,” Susie observed, when the show was over, “but I’ll swear it’s the nearest Tewborough’s got to a riot since the Number Two Touring Company of A Royal Divorce first came here in the year Dot. And we pulled together, didn’t we, children?”
The children admitted that they had and returned to their various lodgings, which were all either so dismal or sinister that already a place had been found for them in the archives, with the cue‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚ÄúMy dear, did you ever play a hole called Tewborough?‚Äù well content, happy in the knowledge that the party was itself again and that tomorrow it would seek fresh streets and lodgings new. Thus ended the Black Week.
VII
All Stolen from the Mail Bag
I
I got the things alright and ought to have written before this but we did some Three Nights and you know what it is don‚Äôt you, all packing and etc. Now we are here for what you can call a run!‚ÅÝ‚Äîtill into the New Year at a sort of concert hall and picture place combined, not so big but comfy and clean, good stage and lighting etc.‚ÅÝ‚Äîall marvellous compared with what we have been playing lately I can tell you! Comfy rooms here too and on my own at last, Thank goodness, I got sick to death of having Susie Dean poking about all the time, not that we are not friends we are but you know what it is, my dear! Show looks like going well here, Good old Yorks. I say, if you can get them going up here they will stick to you alright every time. I had one encore last night and could have had another but of course I was told programme would not stand it. Too much Susie Dean and J. Jerningham in the programme if you ask me these days, what with the piano player writing songs for them as well and all that! His name is Inigo Jollifant says its real too!‚ÅÝ‚Äîand he is quite a nice boy but the way he goes mooning round S. Dean and the way she keeps him dangling would make you sick if it didn‚Äôt make you laugh. Kids game, I call it, but then thats all they are!
Well we look like having a nice Xmas for once. Playing Xmas Eve and then just one show on Boxing Day. Can you get off to come up, I don‚Äôt suppose you can, and I am wondering if I could manage it just for Xmas Day as it‚Äôs not so far. Are you still at the George or have you gone to the Vic as you said you might, and does Charlie come in and Jimmy and that tall fellow with the specs and all that lot, if they do just give them my love and tell them to be good boys till I come back! And guess who I saw here the very second day. I went into Leeds in the morning looking round shops‚ÅÝ‚ÄîI nearly bought a new coat in a little shop just off Briggate that was having a sale, large wrap in front and straight inlets carried down back and collar and cuffs and flounces lovely fur, just like real, and only ¬£4 19 6 reduced from seven gns, but I couldn‚Äôt run to it though if I wear my old black much longer they will be throwing things at me in the street. Well I got in the train to come back in the afternoon and guess who got into the very same carriage, you should have seen him jump, that boy we met at Scarborough year before last when I was with The Bluebells, you remember! It was the taller one with the light moustache who acted he was tight that time, Sunday night at the Crown, and he told me he would come to Luddenstall whenever I liked and gave me his office address and tel. no. so I shan‚Äôt exactly be lonely. He asked to be remembered to you and I had to tell you that his friend was married now. I am sorry for his wife, what do you say, my dear!
I am getting you some hankies, will let you have them tomorrow or day after. If you have not got anything for me yet make it a pair of silk stockings bit darker than usual shade I like to go with my red, if it will run to it. Give Uncle Arthur my love and tell him I am getting him a pipe once again, and let me know soon as you can if you can come but if you can, no bringing Ethel Golliver this time, you know what it was last time she came along! I like a bit of fun, my dear, but Ethel would get me run out of this show and out of the town as well! Is it true she is living with‚ÅÝ‚Äîyou know, the fellow we used to call Pink Percy‚ÅÝ‚Äîdoesn‚Äôt surprise me! Chin-chin, Effie, my dear and all the best for Xmas!
II
You will be glad to hear the Luck is in for once‚ÅÝ‚Äîwe are here right over the Holidays and the rooms are very nice, the landlady most obliging person‚ÅÝ‚Äîso that there will be no difficulty about George coming‚ÅÝ‚Äîisn‚Äôt that splendid! If Jim can see him on the train at King‚Äôs Cross or get someone to see him in, someone dependable of course, then either Jim or who ever it is seek out a carriage for Leeds with some nice person who is coming to Leeds‚ÅÝ‚Äîand ask them if they would mind keeping an eye on George on the way‚ÅÝ‚Äîspecially not letting him go into the corridor by himself or play with the window. Perhaps if you could spare the time, my dear, it would be best‚ÅÝ‚Äîand any nice person would be glad of the company of such a bright boy as George, don‚Äôt you think? Of course this is further on than Leeds but then we can meet the train there and that means no changing for him, and Joe has found out the exact train, which is 8:45 in the morning from King‚Äôs Cross, please don‚Äôt forget‚ÅÝ‚Äî8:45 in the morning, and the day after tomorrow, that is the 23rd. You could send us a wire saying he is safely off. Here is the P.O. for the fare, half of course. And I know you will see he has his proper things with him and is well wrapped up for the journey‚ÅÝ‚Äîit is much colder here of course than it is with you‚ÅÝ‚Äîand has a bun or two and perhaps a bit of chocolate and some of those comic picture papers to look at. You can imagine, my dear, what a relief it is to have someone like you that a Mother can trust!
So this is going to be a proper Christmas for us for once and I am sure I don‚Äôt know which is the most excited about it, Joe or me, for we have been buying toys and things for George‚Äôs stocking‚ÅÝ‚Äînot that he believes in S. Claus still of course, I know that, but surely he will like to hang his stocking up‚ÅÝ‚Äîand we have made arrangements for a real Christmas Dinner‚ÅÝ‚Äîand Miss Trant has got George an invitation to a big Children‚Äôs Party there is to be in the town on Boxing Day afternoon. Now that money is coming in regularly again, not missing a week here and a week there, with rooms and meals to pay for all the time, it makes such a difference, gives you Confidence again‚ÅÝ‚Äîso that‚ÅÝ‚Äîtouch wood‚ÅÝ‚Äîthings look altogether brighter and when we have our own dear child with us and have a happy Christmas altogether, I shall be a new woman! Would you believe it‚ÅÝ‚Äîa month ago I was in the Depths of Despair‚ÅÝ‚Äîwe were all in them, even Joe, who may have his faults but hardly ever gives up hoping and taking a cheerful View, as you know‚ÅÝ‚Äîand then everything suddenly turned round. The Show is going magnificently‚ÅÝ‚Äîgood houses every night and you could not want a better audience, a real taste for Good music into the bargain. I have been asked to give two items at a Sacred Concert here, in connection with the. Wesleyans or Congregationals, I forget which‚ÅÝ‚Äîand Joe has been offered 15/- for two items any Sunday evening at the Labour Club here, Mrs.¬ÝAndrews‚Äô husband being a member and though a little rough and ready perhaps a gentleman at heart. So we have Everything to be thankful for as things have turned out.
It seems to be the same with everybody here‚ÅÝ‚Äîthough Goodness knows it can‚Äôt last. Jimmy Nunn, our com., says he is better than he has been for the last two years and looks it‚ÅÝ‚Äîand our pianist keeps up well and is as I said he was from the first as nice a young fellow as you could wish to find‚ÅÝ‚Äîand Miss Trant is a perfect lady to us all, does everything she can for us‚ÅÝ‚Äîand everybody is not only on speaking terms, and you know how rare that is, but is really friendly and nice‚ÅÝ‚Äîso that we might almost be a Happy Family. I am sure I have never wanted George to know anything about the Stage or to see me at work, and I have told you so many a time‚ÅÝ‚Äîhaven‚Äôt I‚ÅÝ‚Äîbut I am sure if there ever was a Time or Place where it was right for him to do so, this is it!
The enclosed bag is offered with love, Clara, and gratitude for what you have done for George‚ÅÝ‚Äîand best wishes for a Happy Christmas, though it may not seem as if I meant it when I am taking George away from you just at this festive season, but you can imagine what it means to a Mother! As soon as I saw it in the shop I said to Joe‚ÅÝ‚ÄîThat will just do for Clara, she‚Äôll love it. And he said, No she won‚Äôt, what put that idea into your head. And we argued about it quite a time before I found he was looking at the wrong thing and thought I was pointing to a fretwork outfit‚ÅÝ‚Äîjust like a Man! He sends his love and best wishes to you and Jim and says if you can put it into George‚Äôs head that he wants a clockwork train and a signal box etc.‚ÅÝ‚Äîso much the better.
III
Just a line to let you know where I am and to say I am feeling better than I have done for the last year or two, and to wish you the Compliments of the Season. And I mean it too‚ÅÝ‚Äîa Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year‚ÅÝ‚Äîso don‚Äôt you go sniffing about it. We can be friends in our own way even if we can‚Äôt settle down together any more. I think kindly of you, Carrie, honestly I do, and I wish you to do the same for me. I know you don‚Äôt want to come round the country with me and don‚Äôt want to have anything to do with the Boards any more, and you know very well I can‚Äôt spend the rest of my life sitting in the back of that shop of yours, doing up a parcel now and again. If we are both happy in our own way there‚Äôs nothing to grumble at, I say. If Alice had lived, it might have been different. Never you mind what people say‚ÅÝ‚Äîtell them to mind their own business. Or say it‚Äôs by doctor‚Äôs orders I am still on the move.
I am glad to say you‚Äôre wrong about this Show. Seeing it that night at Tewborough, when everybody and everything was all of a doodah, gave you a wrong idea of it, I can tell you. It‚Äôs got going properly now and they are eating it here, and before long we shall be making money out of it and good money too. And what you say about the boss, Miss Trant, is all wrong too. She‚Äôs one of the very best. And who do you think I ran into the other day in Leeds‚ÅÝ‚Äîold Tuppy Tanner‚ÅÝ‚Äîhe‚Äôs opening at the Royal panto there tomorrow as Baron Hard-up. Just the same only fatter than ever‚ÅÝ‚Äîand he was telling me his daughter Mona is playing principal girl at Birmingham this year‚ÅÝ‚Äîmakes you think a bit, doesn‚Äôt it‚ÅÝ‚Äîtime flies. It doesn‚Äôt seem more than a year or two since we all had that season together in Douglas‚ÅÝ‚Äîdo you remember‚ÅÝ‚Äîwhen Tuppy fell into the sea and you nursed his little girl through the measles or something‚ÅÝ‚Äîand now she‚Äôs getting her twenty a week at Birmingham and engaged to be married, Tupp tells me. Wasn‚Äôt that the time poor Jack Dean kept getting so tight and got into trouble with that little Italian woman who was at the Palace and we had to keep hiding him? Little Susie here is always asking me about him‚ÅÝ‚Äîand, my word, I could tell her some tales if I wanted to‚ÅÝ‚Äîmake her hair curl even though she has knocked about a bit herself‚ÅÝ‚Äîbut of course I draw it mild. I don‚Äôt suppose you want to know about her because you never liked poor Jack and he never liked you, but Susie is coming on fast and the first time a big man who knows a winner when he sees one happens to look at her act‚ÅÝ‚Äîit‚Äôs goodbye to the Concert Party for little Susie. And I shan‚Äôt try to stop her‚ÅÝ‚Äîlet her have a chance, I say. I wouldn‚Äôt know what to do with it, if I had a big chance now‚ÅÝ‚ÄîI‚Äôm getting on and lazy‚ÅÝ‚Äîand the old round is good enough for me. If you ever wanted to see my name up in electric lights, you shouldn‚Äôt have kept me back that time when old Wurlstein came round at Glasgow with the contract in his pocket. You didn‚Äôt want to risk it but I did‚ÅÝ‚Äîbut there‚ÅÝ‚Äîthat‚Äôs all done with‚ÅÝ‚ÄîI‚Äôm up here and you‚Äôre there with your shop, and we‚Äôre both comfortable.
What about this for a letter! I’ll be writing the Story of My Life next, after this. Now Carrie, no harm done between you and me, what do you say, and all the best for the New Year. If you see that young doctor, tell him I’m still taking that stuff and he’s a marvel.
IV
Thank you very much for the cig. case which arrived at The Ionic yesterday. How did you know we were playing here‚ÅÝ‚Äîdid you see it in The Stage‚ÅÝ‚Äîit was a bit risky sending such a lovely case like that. Yes I was very surprised to get it and hear from you after what went on between us at Tewborough that week, but I must say I have been thinking some time I was too hasty and that after all it was not your fault so I will say now I am sorry‚ÅÝ‚Äîand not just because you have given me such a beautiful present and said such nice things in yr letter about my work. I am also sorry you are going out of England for a month or two because I should like you to see the Show again now it is going better and I have more chance, having got four new nos.‚ÅÝ‚Äîthree of them written by our pianist who I must say is clever and a coming man in the song-world if only he takes his work seriously like I do. I must say the Show is going better than ever I thought it would now‚ÅÝ‚Äîthough as you know it has got at least four dud people in it, and you are right when you say that I am wasted in this C.P. work, though I cannot grumble about the way my act is going here‚ÅÝ‚Äîtwo or three encores every night, and more wanted. But you have guessed right when you say it does not satisfy me and I am working hard all the time at new steps etc. so that when my chance does come the people who give it me will not regret it.
No I do not spend my time walking out pretty Yorkshire girls as you suggest‚ÅÝ‚Äîthough if I wanted to I have no doubt I could do so alright‚ÅÝ‚Äîbut even if they were a lot prettier than they are I should not let them take up my time just now. And if I was rude I am very sorry and thank you once again for the lovely present. I have just had a new photo taken and thought you might like a signed copy.
V
Re. your article ‚ÄúTouring Out East‚Äù in last week‚Äôs Stage, you say your Co. was the first to play Penang, but I was there with the old Prince of Pimlico Co. a good three years befor that, running down from Singapore. Refer ‚ÄúThirty Years in the Straits Settlements‚Äù by J. G. Thompson Esq.¬Ýfor account of Show and a photo of party, self inclined. And I‚Äôm still going strong‚ÅÝ‚Äînow playing at Ionic here, successful winter season with well-known Good Companions Co. (E. Trant¬Ý& J. Nunn). Forgive correction and accept good wishes of another old pro who has done his share of Touring Out East‚ÅÝ‚Äîthose were great days.
VI
Your letter only arrived this morning‚ÅÝ‚Äîafter wandering round all over the place‚ÅÝ‚Äîbut I see you are in Cardiff so this will get you at once. It was sweet of you to think of me like that‚ÅÝ‚ÄîI shan‚Äôt forget, my dear!‚ÅÝ‚Äîand three months ago I would have jumped at it, jumped at anything nearly‚ÅÝ‚Äîto say nothing of South Africa! I‚Äôve always longed to travel‚ÅÝ‚Äîto go everywhere‚ÅÝ‚Äîwearing white and helmets and anything‚ÅÝ‚Äîand some day I will‚ÅÝ‚Äîwith a private carriage or whatever it is the stars do have. But now I have just got to turn it down‚ÅÝ‚Äîdon‚Äôt ask me for exact reasons, my dear, you know how one feels about a thing!‚ÅÝ‚Äîit isn‚Äôt the money‚ÅÝ‚Äîthere‚Äôs absolutely nothing wrong with your man‚Äôs offer, I assure you, and I know I am lucky to get it‚ÅÝ‚Äîand here it is only Five a week, though marvellously regular, I can tell you, like clockwork‚ÅÝ‚Äîwhich of course makes a difference. But I have simply got to go on with this Good Companions show just now‚ÅÝ‚Äîit‚Äôs been made out of the ruins of Mildenhall‚Äôs rotten old Dinky Doos‚ÅÝ‚Äîan angel of a woman, very erect, y‚Äôknow, and tweedy, and straight out of the Old Moated Grange from Little Widdleton-on-the-Wortleberry yes, the real thing‚ÅÝ‚Äîpopped up from nowhere in a car‚ÅÝ‚Äîblushed a bit and looked very brave‚ÅÝ‚Äîpaid everything and started us off again, all on her own, not knowing the first thing about it! If you could only see her‚ÅÝ‚Äîyou would see at once it was the maddest and loveliest thing that ever happened, her doing this. And she lost money hand-over-fist for weeks and weeks‚ÅÝ‚Äîand not a murmur‚ÅÝ‚Äîand now she is beginning to get a little back again‚ÅÝ‚Äîand before she makes some. I don‚Äôt stir an inch from this show‚ÅÝ‚Äînot if they offer me Daly‚Äôs though I must say they haven‚Äôt given any signs of doing so yet.
Has ta ivver played Luddenstall, lass?‚ÅÝ‚Äîits nobbut a little pla‚Äëa‚Äëace i‚Äô Yorkshire‚ÅÝ‚Äîand as usual looks like a Gas Works all spread out‚ÅÝ‚Äîbut I will say this, they know a good show when they see it here‚ÅÝ‚Äîpacked house every night, really, and giving the little girl a hand every night‚ÅÝ‚Äîyou should just hear them! And they ask us to parties‚ÅÝ‚ÄîI was the regular Belle of the Ball at a dance here on Boxing Night after the show‚ÅÝ‚Äîpresented the prizes and was given a box of chocolates as big as a suitcase‚ÅÝ‚Äînay, lass, shut oop! Really though, as far as Luddenstall and district is concerned, we have the Leeds pantos knocked flat. And I have a feeling the luck‚Äôs going on‚ÅÝ‚Äîand that sooner or later Something will happen. So no S. Africa just now, you see.
The two Brundits are still with us‚ÅÝ‚Äîand I‚Äôm glad, though they‚Äôre not exactly Covent Garden, are they?‚ÅÝ‚Äîbut darlings all the same. Good old Jimmy is still here‚ÅÝ‚Äîbetter too‚ÅÝ‚Äîand though I know all his jokes off by heart, about as well as he does‚ÅÝ‚Äîhe seems to be as good a little comedian as there is in C.P. work‚ÅÝ‚Äîand better than some up aloft among the electric lights. Jerry Jerningham‚Äôs here too‚ÅÝ‚Äîand going strong, I must say, and better to work with than he used to be‚ÅÝ‚Äîand the girls here follow him round with their tongues hanging out, as usual‚ÅÝ‚Äîbut always from the tabs he‚Äôs the same as ever, 1 gent‚Äôs outfit, 1 dose of brilliantine, 5 cigarettes, 1 good opinion of himself, 3 bleats‚ÅÝ‚Äîand then nothing‚ÅÝ‚Äîthat‚Äôs our little friend Jerry. Then there‚Äôs our new pianist, who let himself be called Inigo Jollifant‚ÅÝ‚Äîhe‚Äôs an amateur really, was a schoolmaster, Cambridge Varsity and baggy flannel trousers and the same weird tie every day and ‚ÄúGive me my pipe‚Äù and all that, wants to write books and is very Lofty and Highbrow when he remembers to be‚ÅÝ‚Äîbut quite clean and really very very clever and he‚Äôs writing the most marvellous numbers for me, miles and miles beyond anything that comes from Shaftesbury Avenue these days. One of these nights, somebody from the West End or thereabouts will hear these numbers and then, my dear, I assure you his fortune is made‚ÅÝ‚Äîabsolutely, as he always says. He is really rather sweet and we have lots of fun together‚ÅÝ‚ÄîNo, my dear, I‚Äôm not, quite decidedly not‚ÅÝ‚Äîwe are just good friends, that‚Äôs all, at least on my side. You don‚Äôt say a word about Eric‚ÅÝ‚ÄîI do hope it‚Äôs all right.
If it was Canada instead of South Africa, there‚Äôs a little man here who would be just dying to come with you. He is our property man and stage carpenter‚ÅÝ‚Äîa little Yorkshireman, not little really but you think of him being little because he is such a darling‚ÅÝ‚Äîand he too popped up from nowhere and is now one of the family‚ÅÝ‚Äîyou should have seen him and heard him this Christmas here, telling all these other Yorkshire people where he had been and what he had seen‚ÅÝ‚Äîeh, it wor right champion, lass! He wants to go to Canada because he has a daughter there‚ÅÝ‚Äîahr Lily he calls her‚ÅÝ‚Äîand because I‚Äôm supposed to be like her (Lord help me!), he simply adores me. Oh, I forgot there‚Äôs also an old boy called Morton Mitcham, banjoist and conjurer, we picked up on the road‚ÅÝ‚Äîvery weird, Laddie, very weird‚ÅÝ‚Äînot a bad turn, but easily the champion liar of the Profession! He certainly has knocked about in his time, but if he was a hundred and fifty years old and had never stopped touring, he would still be lying, the yarns he spins!
Yes, I know it all sounds very queer‚ÅÝ‚Äîand I‚Äôll bet we are easily the oddest C.P. on the road‚ÅÝ‚Äîbut honestly we‚Äôre the nicest too, and I only wish you were nearer and could come and have a look at us. Well, that‚Äôs all, my dear‚ÅÝ‚Äîbut don‚Äôt forget I really am most affectionately grateful for the offer, and you do understand, don‚Äôt you, why I can‚Äôt accept. But don‚Äôt go and imagine I‚Äôm glued to the piffling C.P. business! Not a bit of it! Very shortly, you‚Äôll see, I shall be Blossoming Out‚ÅÝ‚Äîand then I shall expect a cable from S. Africa when the news gets through. Best of luck to you all, Kitty darling.
VII
Many thanks for sending on those odds and ends so promptly. I ought to have written before, I know. Now I have to send this to the school and risk its being forwarded on to you. If the envelope looks messy at the back, you will know that Ma Tarvin has steamed it open‚ÅÝ‚Äîusing a hot prune for the purpose: and if you don‚Äôt get it at all, you know she has destroyed your letter‚ÅÝ‚Äîha ha! Your Washbury news was welcome but all very strange‚ÅÝ‚Äîlike a message from Mars. Glad I am that the fair Daisy has departed‚ÅÝ‚Äîmay she marry the outpost-of-Empire lad in the Sudan and may he be bronzed and lean and carry her photograph, in a silver frame, with him into Wildest Africa. The new man‚ÅÝ‚Äîvice Jollifant‚ÅÝ‚Äîcertainly sounds a shrimp‚ÅÝ‚Äîa lesser Felton‚ÅÝ‚Äîand who would have thought that possible? I sent Ma Tarvin a Christmas Card!! It was the sweetest I could find, with little birdies in the snow and it said:
A heartfelt wish through rain or shine
In memory dear of Auld Lang Syne
or something like that. (Ask her about Christmas Cards when you get back.) Then, passing a dirty little shop here the other day, a most highly coloured and vulgar postcard caught my eye‚ÅÝ‚Äîthe caption was ‚ÄúYou can see a lot at Blackpool‚Äù and you can imagine the picture above‚ÅÝ‚Äîand this I dispatched, naked and outrageous, to friend Felton in his beautiful refined home at Clifton. Felton is the only human being who still collects picture postcards‚ÅÝ‚Äîthe British Museum and South Kensington kind, of course‚ÅÝ‚Äîbut I have the feeling that mine has not been added to the collection. Dear, dear!
Can you imagine being a Pierrot in Luddenstall, Yorks! Can you imagine Luddenstall! It is a smallish town, black as your best hat, and it is joined on to other and bigger towns, equally black, by tram lines. I never saw so many trams. They turn them into mountain railways here; you see them going up vertically. All the streets here are at an angle of at least 45 degrees, everything built of stone, and they run down from a bleak hillside that is really the end of a huge dark moor. Last Sunday, I walked miles and miles on this moor‚ÅÝ‚Äîit has black stone walls like snakes twisting across it‚ÅÝ‚Äîuntil at last it began to frighten me. It‚Äôs ridiculous to say this place is in England‚ÅÝ‚Äîquite another country really. Both Miss Trant (she runs this troupe‚ÅÝ‚ÄîGod knows why!‚ÅÝ‚Äîand comes from the Cotswolds) and I, after much discussion, have agreed upon that. The people here work‚ÅÝ‚Äîthe women never stop‚ÅÝ‚Äîand go to football matches, drink old beer (very good stuff), listen to Handel‚Äôs Messiah about twice a week, and make you eat cheese with cake.
I am, as you see, chez Jugg. It‚Äôs a capital name for the gentleman because nearly every time I see him he has a jug in his hand, being among the most stalwart devotees of the aforesaid old beer, which has to be ‚Äúfetched i‚Äô jug.‚Äù He can give old Omar himself points in not believing in anything, for he has cut out the book of verse, most of the loaf, and the Houri stuff, and just sticks to the jug, though he has added a clay pipe and is one up on Omar there. He is very dry and cynical. Mrs.¬ÝJugg reminds me vaguely of Henry the Eighth (she must be roughly the same shape, I think); she works harder than anybody I have ever heard of; and always looks so terribly exasperated that you would think her cooking would be atrocious, because everything she does is slammed in at the last minute, but it all turns out to be beautiful in the end‚ÅÝ‚Äîit‚Äôs like a conjuring trick. The only amusement she has is going ‚Äúto t‚Äô chapel o‚Äô Sunday neet,‚Äù but after a lot of argument I persuaded her to accept a ticket to our show the other night. What was the result? ‚ÄúEh!‚Äù she said. But it‚Äôs a long sound she makes, rather like a sheep. ‚ÄúEh!‚Äù she said, ‚Äúit wer right good but I missed most on it because I fell asleep. Seat were so comfortable and I wer so tired.‚Äù Which seemed to me rather pathetic. I‚Äôve been a fortnight here now and so am very pally with both Juggs. They are the best people I‚Äôve lodged with so far, and this is our best town, in spite of its being so queer. We‚Äôve had some horrors, I assure you. You don‚Äôt know what Merrie England is like until you tour it with a pierrot troupe.
Do you remember telling me I ought to do something with those little tunes I used to improvise? Well, I am making them into songs now‚ÅÝ‚Äîand everybody seems to like them‚ÅÝ‚Äîand the people in the show, especially the chief girl here (her name is Susie Dean and besides being a most delightful girl, she really is a genius‚ÅÝ‚Äîyou wait!), seem to think I ought to make some money out of them. I think I shall try soon. I‚Äôve written two essays‚ÅÝ‚Äîquite good too‚ÅÝ‚Äîand sent them to several papers, but they‚Äôve come back‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚ÄúEditor regrets,‚Äù etc.‚ÅÝ‚Äîevery time. It staggers me when I consider the bosh they do print, but I suppose it‚Äôs difficult for an outsider‚ÅÝ‚Äîa pierrot at that!‚ÅÝ‚Äîto get in; and I feel like trying to make as much money as I can out of this silly song-writing stunt and then write at leisure. Meanwhile I pound the keys every night and take it easy during the day. We‚Äôre an amusing crowd‚ÅÝ‚Äîwe had a really jolly Christmas, best I ever had, I think‚ÅÝ‚Äîand though I don‚Äôt see myself going on with this forever, so far it‚Äôs more fun than ramming French and History into the offspring of our Empire builders and then trying to eat the Tarvin rissoles and stewed prunes. Luddenstall is as ugly as an old road engine, but it has one advantage over Washbury Manor, my dear Fauntley‚ÅÝ‚Äîit‚Äôs alive! And so am I‚ÅÝ‚Äînever more so. And I hope you are too, and will have a good New Year.
VIII
Your last letter only arrived here two days ago. I am so glad you are finding things so much better and that Gerald has got the extra land he wanted. You sound so happy. Isn‚Äôt it fantastic‚ÅÝ‚Äîyou out there, and me here? No, I have not been back to Hitherton at all. If we had been nearer these holidays I should have gone, just to see your dear father and mother, the Purtons, and everybody, but it could not be done‚ÅÝ‚Äîso I sent letters and little presents instead. It‚Äôs been the most absurd Christmas I ever had‚ÅÝ‚Äîhere in this dark and bleak little Yorkshire manufacturing town, where everybody talks like our delicious little Yorkshire property man, Oakroyd, whom I described to you before. Of course everybody seems dreadfully rude at first. You go into a shop and they say: ‚ÄúWell, what do you want, young woman?‚Äù‚ÅÝ‚Äîthough the ‚Äúyoung‚Äù is rather comforting. But I am used to it now, and really nobody could have been kinder and nicer than these people and we were lucky‚ÅÝ‚Äîfor once!‚ÅÝ‚Äîcoming here during the holidays because they are Christmassy sort of people. As you insist on having what you call ‚Äútheatrical intelligence,‚Äù I may say that I am actually at last making a Profit!‚ÅÝ‚Äîthat is, on each week, though of course I have not yet made up what I have lost so far. But it‚Äôs so exciting to have really crowded and enthusiastic audiences, enjoying everything, and it‚Äôs made the most wonderful difference to the members of the party, who are working splendidly now.
It‚Äôs ridiculous, of course, but I am becoming the complete theatrical manager. The other day I actually had an offer for the whole troupe‚ÅÝ‚Äîand refused it! After the show one night last week, a card was handed in with a request for an interview, and in came a large fat shabby man, rather beery and pimply but very amiable (too amiable!), and he was Mr.¬ÝErnie Codd, from Leeds. He insisted on shaking my hand and breathing on me for about five minutes, and in a very wheezy voice kept saying ‚ÄúPretty little show! Taking little show! Congrats on the show, Miss Bant! I‚Äôm Ernie Codd! They all know Ernie! Now listen here, just listen!‚Äù When at last I succeeded in getting back my hand and assuring him I was listening, he said something about having the scenery and props and script of a revue (I think it‚Äôs name was ‚ÄúAnd You‚Äôre Another!‚Äù‚ÅÝ‚ÄîI know he said it was ‚Äúa Winner and a sure-fire Screamer!‚Äù) and one of the neatest little troupes of dancing girls I had ever set eyes on outside the West End radius, and he would take over my Good Companions, lock, stock, and barrel at Fifty Per, or sign them on separately with myself, Miss Bant, as assistant manager on a profit-sharing basis. I am trying, my dear, to give you an impression of the way he rattled all this off, with any amount of gesticulation and heavy breathing. It took me twenty minutes‚ÅÝ‚Äîand even then I had to bring in Mr.¬ÝNunn‚ÅÝ‚Äîto make him believe that I had no intention of accepting his offer. I never saw a man so surprised‚ÅÝ‚Äîor at least appear to be so surprised‚ÅÝ‚Äîas he was when he finally understood that we did not want to be taken over by Mr.¬ÝCodd and his friends. I was very amused (and would have been more amused if Mr.¬ÝCodd had been rather cleaner and not so much given to shaking hands) but I was also rather thrilled. Mr.¬ÝNunn, who knows all about these things and is my chief adviser, was delighted, and said that though he would not trust Ernie Codd as far as he could see him, the offer was a feather in our caps. It must all sound very silly to you, miles and miles away, but you must allow me my little triumphs. Things really are looking up.
Some local Commercial Travellers‚Äô Association gave a children‚Äôs party here the other afternoon and somehow the secretary got hold of my name and insisted on Susie‚ÅÝ‚Äîthe very charming and clever girl I told you about‚ÅÝ‚Äîand I giving the prizes. We loved it. And talking of children, I must tell you about Mr.¬Ýand Mrs.¬ÝJoe Brundit, my baritone and soprano. I hope you remember my description of them because the story rather hangs on that. But, as I told you before, they have a little boy called George, whom they both worship. He lives with an aunt at Denmark Hill, but they were able to have him with them this Christmas here. For days they thought and talked about nothing else. Every penny they had went on toys for his stocking and for treats for him. When the time came, they were nearly delirious with excitement. I remember hoping then that he was a nice little boy who would appreciate what they were doing for him. And of course‚ÅÝ‚Äîthat sounds pessimistic, but you know how wretchedly things so often turn out‚ÅÝ‚Äîhe wasn‚Äôt a nice little boy, but a horrid sulky stupid little wretch. He didn‚Äôt like any of the toys they gave him, and told them so very plainly. He didn‚Äôt like Luddenstall, and kept saying he wanted to go back to Denmark Hill. He broke some things at their lodgings and was very rude to the landlady, who promptly slapped him (a thing I have been tempted to do myself), with the result that Mrs.¬ÝJoe quarrelled with her at once and finally had to find new lodgings for them all. They brought him to the theatre and he was such a nuisance that everybody said he must not be allowed to come again. He went to the children‚Äôs party, got into mischief at once, then was sulky and cross, and ended by being sick. Never was there such a disastrous visit! And all the time the poor things have been pretending they were not disappointed or anything, until we did not know whether to laugh or cry. On the whole, I felt more like weeping. Poor simple Joe!‚ÅÝ‚Äîand poor simple Mrs.¬ÝJoe!‚ÅÝ‚Äîshe is tremendously dignified and superior, as I told you, but really, if anything, she‚Äôs the simpler of the two. They have decided now that George isn‚Äôt strong‚ÅÝ‚Äîput it all down to ill health‚ÅÝ‚Äîthough the little wretch is really as strong as an ox and only wants a good slapping from time to time to keep him in order. My dear, if you are going to be so absurd, I shall begin to wish I had never told you about that episode‚ÅÝ‚Äîfor that‚Äôs all it was. Of course I haven‚Äôt seen ‚ÄúDr.¬ÝHugh McFarlane on my travels.‚Äù Why should I have? I don‚Äôt even know if he lives in this country, though I must confess I feel confident he does live somewhere, still exists. I don‚Äôt suppose he would even recognize me now. Yes, I know ‚Äúthere is such a thing as a Medical Register,‚Äù as you put it‚ÅÝ‚ÄîI‚Äôm sure you‚Äôre becoming quite Colonial and brusque these days‚ÅÝ‚Äîbut I have never had a peep at it, no, not the tiniest peep. If you could see me these days, you would understand why I am not worrying about any episode from ancient history. In less than a week, we move on again. Did I tell you I had made Hilda cooperate with me?‚ÅÝ‚Äîshe helped me with some dresses for a sort of mid-Victorian song-scena we are giving now‚ÅÝ‚Äîand one that I planned myself!
For the last few days, the hilltops to the West have been white, and I had a glimpse the other morning of the moors there, all silent and almost covered with snow, quite lonely and terrifying, and now it is beginning to snow properly down here and all the black roofs and hard lines are disappearing so that even Luddenstall looks rather like a place in an old fairytale! And very soon the bells will ring in the New Year. I hope it will be a happy one for you, my dear. I’m sure it will, though. And somehow I like the sound of it too. Love to you both.
IX
And as the snow drifted high on the moorland above and came whirling down in soft flakes to the valley below, until at last every roof in Luddenstall was thick and whitened and all the streets were touched with Northern magic; as they raised their glasses and joined hands and sang in chorus, the bells that seemed as old and mysterious as the flying and feathered night itself rang out the Old, rang in the New‚ÅÝ‚Äîthe last letter of all was being carried through in a black and dripping railway cutting in the hills, to be slung with a thousand others on board a liner that would soon go hooting through the dark to Canada:
My dear Daughter,
I am writing these lines to say I am still in the pink and hoping you are the same. We are now in Good Old Yorks, and so had a good and merry Xmas. I had my Xmas dinner with landlady and Family and had goose and pudding and etc. I wish you had been there Lily, to keep your old Father company. I went on tram to Bruddersford and called at 51. Your Mother was looking poorly but when I asked her said she was alright and as she was a bit short with me could get nothing out of her. Albert is still there but did not see him and was glad not to but I saw our Leonard who is doing well. Your Mother told me you had not written to her only to me so I think Lily you had better write to her as well sometime for she is your Mother when all is said and done and as I say is looking poorly. The Good Comps. are going well here and will do so, if I know anything, at other places on the road. Wishing you and Jack a Happy New Year and all the best. Keep on writing to me at 51 and they will send on. And keep your heart up Lily we will have a good laugh the two of us yet together. With love and kisses,