II
She spent Tuesday night at Market Harborough. The next morning, she ran through Leicester, or rather lost herself in what seemed a nightmare of traffic and unlabelled streets and then miraculously found her way out of it, pushed on through Derby, and by lunchtime was out in the rising open country beyond. She came to a village clustered about an important junction of roads, and saw at the corner a pleasant little hotel that promised lunch. There were two cars already drawn up before the front door, but she was able to slip in between them. It was then she noticed that the car in front seemed exactly like her own, the same kind of two-seater and painted an identical light blue. She entered the hotel wondering idly what sort of people owned this twin car.
There were only two persons having lunch. Miss Trant was given a small table in the opposite corner, but as the dining-room was quite narrow she was not far away from her fellow-lunchers. They were a curious pair. The woman was about her own age, a large square blonde with a wandering nose and a mouth that was so big, so loose, and so vividly and inhumanly carmined, that it seemed to have no connection with the rest of the face, to be a dreadful afterthought. She was cheaply but showily dressed, a jangling sort of woman, and she talked very quickly and loudly and was evidently in nervous high spirits. Her companion was nervous but not in high spirits. He was a neat compressed little man, with dark hair parted in the middle, pince-nez about a button of a nose, and tiny moustache. He looked vaguely uneasy. Miss Trant told herself that he reminded her of a rabbit.
Before Miss Trant had finished her soup, there were sounds of other arrivals outside, and in a few minutes four men, three stout and one thin, clomped in and seated themselves at the other end of the room.
The large blonde woman, who was halfway through her lunch, had been fussing some time with a heavy coat. Now she stood up, took it off, and exclaimed, in a curious mincing accent apparently assumed for everybody’s benefit: “This cowt’s an orful nuisance. I’ll have it pet in the caw.” She looked about for the waitress, but the waitress was ostentatiously busying herself with the men’s table, so she walked out with the coat herself, obviously enjoying the little fuss she was making, and returned in a moment.
“All ri’?” inquired her companion, in a weak high voice that was exactly what you expected from him.
“I told the man to pet it in the caw, deear,” replied the woman, reseating herself and attacking the boiled mutton with an indescribable air of luxurious pleasure.
Miss Trant had just decided that she had watched and wondered at this odd pair long enough, when the telephone bell rang. The telephone was in the dining-room, and the waitress answered it. Everybody else looked at her and listened intently, finding it impossible, as usual, to be indifferent to a telephone. ‚ÄúYes, it is,‚Äù cried the waitress through the mouthpiece. ‚ÄúThat‚Äôs right.‚Äù Then she listened. ‚ÄúHow should I know?‚Äù She listened again. ‚ÄúLike what?‚Äù she asked, frowning. ‚ÄúOh, I see.‚Äù And then her glance went travelling round the room and finally rested on the odd pair. It was very exciting as nobody even pretended to eat. ‚ÄúWell, I don‚Äôt know,‚Äù said the waitress dubiously, still looking the same way. Miss Trant shot a glance there too, and noticed that the little man seemed very restive. ‚ÄúI dare say it might be,‚Äù the waitress continued, ‚Äúbut why don‚Äôt you give the name. I‚Äôll ask if you give me the name. All right. Hold on a minute.‚Äù She put down the receiver and called out to the little man: ‚ÄúBeg your pardon, but are you Mr.¬ÝTipstead? Mr.¬ÝEric Tipstead?‚Äù
Miss Trant saw him start up involuntarily, saw the woman give him a sharp warning glance, lay a hand on his arm, and give a lightning shake of her head. “No, no,” the woman cried hastily, too hastily.
“It isn’t, eh?” the waitress called out.
‚ÄúNo‚ÅÝ‚Äîer‚ÅÝ‚Äîcertainly not,‚Äù the man quavered in anything but a tone of certainty. He seemed desirous of appearing as if he were not really very sure just then what his name might be.
The woman, however, had no such subtle reservations in her manner. ‚ÄúJohnson‚Äôs the name, Miss‚ÅÝ‚ÄîJohnson,‚Äù she cried. She evidently shared with the waitress a conviction that it was more polite to talk about ‚Äúthe name‚Äù than to say ‚Äúyour name‚Äù or ‚Äúour name.‚Äù
“Perhaps she had worked in an hotel,” Miss Trant told herself. She had missed nothing of this.
“Not the name,” the waitress informed the telephone. Then after a pause: “Well, I can’t help that, can I?” The tone in which she said this suggested that it was no business of hers if her patrons chose to tell lies, though she had her own private opinion of them. Then she replaced the receiver and hurried out with her tray.
Miss Trant was now positive that the little man, the very uneasy little man, was Mr.¬ÝEric Tipstead. To begin with, he looked exactly like a Mr.¬ÝEric Tipstead. Then she was certain she had heard the woman addressing him as ‚ÄúEric deear.‚Äù And why should he have started up when he heard the name, why should the woman have restrained him? Johnson too! Nothing could be less convincing. Johnson was mere impudence.
She kept her eye on them. They were now eating away for dear life, wanting to get away as soon as they could but equally determined to have their three shillings‚Äô worth each if it choked them. In another five minutes they were hurrying out, and Miss Trant heard a car give a familiar gasp or two, then a rattle, then a roar immediately afterwards. Never had a car sounded so guilty; there was nervous apprehension in every diminishing hoot. Miss Trant was left to ponder the mystery of Mr.¬ÝEric Tipstead and his partner, without whom the dining-room was very commonplace, just so much boiled mutton and treacle pudding, so many fat men and whisky advertisements. She was aching to ask the waitress what had been said to her on the telephone, but even in her new character of independent woman, who dashed from Ely to Liverpool and stalked in and out of hotels, she could not do it. The waitress herself trotted about, looking as if she could tell a tale if she wanted to, and she had dropped some remark that had made the four men roar with laughter. It was most irritating. Miss Trant did not bolt her lunch Tipstead fashion, but on the other hand she did not linger over it as long as she might have done. And she gave the waitress only fourpence, instead of sixpence.
There were at least half a dozen cars and vans standing outside the front of the hotel now, but she was astonished to find that her own car was not there at all. She stood on the threshold, staring in bewilderment. Then she walked round the assembled cars. It was not there.
“I’m looking for my car,” she explained to a man who was hanging about the door. “I left it here.”
“Ar,” said the man, looking wise. “Blue two-seater was it?”
She replied, eagerly, that it was.
“Ar. It’s round the corner ’ere. ’Ad to shift one of ’em about ’alf an hour ago.” And he led the way round the corner.
There it was, much to her relief. She climbed in, and was about to start the engine when she noticed there was something strange about the dashboard, something strange indeed about the whole interior.
“All right, miss?” the man asked.
“All wrong. This isn’t my car.” She got out and looked at it.
“Then whose car is it?” the man, anxious to be helpful, walked round the car after her.
“I don’t know whose car it is, I only know it isn’t mine. It’s like it but it isn’t it. I’m afraid that sounds ridiculous. Well, I suppose my car must be about somewhere.”
The man began to stare at her and as he stared his mouth slowly opened.
“I remember now,” she went on, not bothering about him, for he seemed very stupid. “This car was in front of mine when I went in to lunch. I noticed that it seemed extraordinarily like mine. Yes, this is the one.” She broke off; it was impossible to talk to that fish-like stare. “What’s the matter?”
“They took it,” the man said slowly.
‚ÄúWho took what? Do you mean my car? Did someone mistake it for this? I know. Was it‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù she hesitated.
“About ’alf an hour ago,” the man put in. “Just after I’d ’ad to move this. A couple comes dashing out, gets in, goes off without a word. Smallish feller with eyeglasses, it was. His wife picks up a big coat that’s lying over the side, puts it on, and then they’re off without a word.”
“The Tipsteads!” cried Miss Trant.
“I beg yer pardon, Miss.”
“That’s the name of the people who took it, or at least I think it is. Tipstead.”
“If ’e was that by name, ’e wasn’t that by nature,” the man observed rather bitterly. “As I say, ’e gives me nothing for my trouble but goes off without a word. And then ’e goes and takes the wrong car, seemingly. Now if ’e’d only said something. They were trying it on, if you ask me. I says to myself at the time, I says ‘You’re in a bit of a ’urry, aren’t you.’ Going off like that without a word! I might ’ave known!”
“But this is absurd!” cried Miss Trant. “They’ve taken my car and now they’re miles away. What on earth am I to do?”
“I should take theirs if I was you,” said the man with an air of deep cunning.
“But I don’t want theirs. They’ve got all my things. Which way did they go?”
“Took the north road.” And the man pointed.
“I wonder if I could overtake them,” she mused. “I suppose I could drive this one. But how do I know this is theirs? It might belong to somebody else.”
“That’s theirs all right,” he replied. “I saw ’em come up in it. It’s the spit image o’ yours, too.”
She got into the car again, started it up, and ran it backwards and forwards once or twice. It was as easy to handle as her own, and was indeed a twin Mercia. Finally she reversed it round to the front of the hotel, with the vague idea of consulting the landlord. At that moment a motorcycle came tearing up to the hotel. It stopped just as she stopped.
‚ÄúWhere is he, where is he?‚Äù cried a very angry feminine voice. ‚ÄúWhere is he?‚ÅÝ‚Äîyou‚ÅÝ‚Äîyou‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù here it choked a little‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äúyou big vamp, you!‚Äù
Miss Trant looked round and was astonished to find that the furious little woman who had just jumped out of the sidecar was screaming at her. “What on earth are you talking about?” she cried.
The woman was even more astonished. As she stared, her face fell. “Oo, I’m sorry.” She was now joined by the young man who had dismounted from the motorcycle. “This isn’t her, Willy,” she wailed. Then she looked at the car, and her eyes grew round and her mouth opened. “This is our car, isn’t it, Willy? I’m sure it is.”
Willy, a very stolid young man, looked it over carefully and announced that it was certainly their car.
“I know what he’s done,” she wailed again. “You needn’t tell me. He’s gone and sold it. Three hours away and the first thing he does is to sell the car. She’s made him sell it.”
“We’ll see about that,” said Willy, unmoved. “We can ask, can’t we?” And he looked at Miss Trant.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Miss Trant, looking from one to the other, “but I can assure you this car doesn’t belong to me.”
“Then what are you doing in it?” Willy broke in, rudely.
Miss Trant, who was annoyed, gave him a sharp glance. “Please be quiet a moment,” she commanded. “Otherwise I can’t explain. This car belongs to some people who have just gone off in my car.”
‚ÄúThat‚Äôs right.‚Äù This was from the first man, who felt it was time he took charge of the situation. ‚ÄúYou see, a party comes out, gets in this lady‚Äôs car, goes off without a word‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù
“What sort of party?” asked Willy.
‚ÄúA little-ish feller with eyeglasses‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù
“Eric!” cried the woman. “I knew it, I knew it. What did I tell you, Willy?”
“Sounds like him all right,” Willy agreed.
“A biggish woman, fair-’aired, ’is wife was,” the man continued.
‚ÄúHis wife!‚Äù The way in which the agitated little woman let loose these two syllables confirmed Miss Trant. This was Mrs.¬ÝEric Tipstead. She was small and dark, like her husband, but looked altogether more energetic and purposeful. She was one of those little stringy women who never seem to tire.
“They left the hotel in rather a hurry,” Miss Trant began.
‚ÄúYes, I‚Äôll bet they did,‚Äù said Mrs.¬ÝTipstead grimly, folding up her mouth.
“And they ran off in my car. That was about half an hour ago.”
‚ÄúYou hear that, Willy?‚Äù cried Mrs.¬ÝTipstead. ‚ÄúIn for a penny, in for a pound. Taking cars now! She goes and makes him take this lady‚Äôs car right under her nose.‚Äù
“Hold on, Sis, hold on,” Willy put in. “He didn’t mean to take it, you bet. Did he?” And he appealed to Miss Trant and the other man.
“No, of course he didn’t,” said Miss Trant.
“It’s as easy to explain as anything you could wish for, considering, that is, it’s a bit of a mix-up,” said the man. And he began an immense narrative of what would obviously have developed into an enormous narrative if Miss Trant had not cut it short by giving a brief account of the affair as she saw it.
“There’s no doubt this is his car, then?” asked Miss Trant at the end of her story.
‚ÄúNot a bit. Look, there‚Äôs his bag.‚Äù She pointed to the luggage in the dicky seat. ‚ÄúAnd‚ÅÝ‚Äîand‚ÅÝ‚Äîlook there, Willy‚ÅÝ‚Äîthat‚Äôs hers.‚Äù She plucked out the suitcase and flung it down on the road. ‚ÄúThe impudence of it, with a bag and all!‚Äù And then, quite suddenly, surprisingly, she burst into tears and had to lean against her brother, who did not support her very tenderly or even adequately. Miss Trant, who was still sitting in the car, looked on and felt very foolish.
“What are you going to do then, Sis?” asked Willy, a practical man clearly at a disadvantage.
Some choking sounds from Mrs.¬ÝTipstead might have been interpreted to mean that she intended to follow her erring husband.
Miss Trant came to the conclusion it was time she intervened. The relations between Mr.¬Ýand Mrs.¬ÝTipstead and the large blonde were no business of hers, and the thought of being in any way entangled in their affairs made her shudder; but the fact remained that her car and most of her best clothes were being rushed into the North somewhere by Mr.¬ÝTipstead at that very moment. She was confident that, whatever he did, he would not return to the hotel with the car. He must have known that it was his wife who rang up when they were having lunch.
‚ÄúThe point is,‚Äù she said clearly and calmly, ‚Äúdo you happen to know where these‚ÅÝ‚Äîwhere Mr.¬ÝTipstead is going? The very moment you came I was just setting out to try and overtake them. The man showed me which road they took. And we‚Äôre only wasting time, you know.‚Äù
‚ÄúYes, I do know,‚Äù replied Mrs.¬ÝTipstead, calmer now. ‚ÄúAt least I‚Äôve a good idea. If I hadn‚Äôt, I couldn‚Äôt have come so far. I got her address and they‚Äôre going there. I found a letter she‚Äôd sent him, found it this very morning. I‚Äôll bet he doesn‚Äôt even know he‚Äôs lost it yet, but he‚Äôs going to know very soon, mark my words. She‚Äôs got a house at Sheffield, and they‚Äôre going there.‚Äù
“Can you drive this car?”
“No, I can’t, and that’s another thing. Never would let me touch it, artful monkey! Said I might hurt myself! A lot he cared!”
“Then you must come with me,” said Miss Trant. “That’s the only thing to do. If you really think they’ve gone to this address you have, we must go there, too. I don’t want this car of yours and I certainly do want my own and all my things that are in it.”
“That’s so,” said Willy, obviously much relieved. “I’ll have to get back anyhow, Sis. You’ll get to Sheffield easy before dark, and this lady’ll look after you.”
‚ÄúOh, I can look after myself all right,‚Äù exclaimed Mrs.¬ÝTipstead. ‚ÄúAnd it does seem best, doesn‚Äôt it, Willy?‚Äù Then she turned to Miss Trant and suddenly became very stiff and genteel. ‚ÄúI‚Äôm sure it‚Äôs very kind of you, Miss‚ÅÝ‚Äîer. I‚Äôm Mrs.¬ÝTipstead.‚Äù
“My name is Trant.”
It seemed as if ‚ÄúVery pleased to meet you‚Äù was only prevented at the last moment from popping out. Perhaps the absurdity of it in that situation dawned on Mrs.¬ÝTipstead just in time. All she said, after some hesitation, was: ‚ÄúVery‚ÅÝ‚Äîkind indeed, of you, Miss Trant.‚Äù Then she turned aside with her brother.
Miss Trant hunted for a map in the car but could not find one. There was one hanging in the hall of the hotel, however, and she traced the route to Sheffield on it with her finger. When she returned to the car, she found Mrs.¬ÝTipstead sitting in it and staring straight ahead, down the road to the North, like a small damp fury.
It was a fantastic journey. The road crossed the valleys of the Dove and the Derwent and wound about the lower spurs of the Peak. They ran along green troughs powdered with dust; they sailed up towards great castles of vapour, rosy Himalayas of cloud; they sank through hollows of blue air cupped round with grass; and all the hills, the dales and dingles, the farmhouses came curving to meet them, steadily shone or gloomed for a moment, then slipped noiselessly away like places in a dream. So it seemed to one part of Miss Trant, which saw nothing, knew nothing, but this pageantry which went, mazed with wonder, flashing a wing, through the golden afternoon. But she was triune; and the other two of her were very differently occupied. One was busy with the mechanism of the car, and a little dubious of the matter of gears. The other‚ÅÝ‚Äîit was a fair division‚ÅÝ‚Äîhad to attend to fellow humanity which was present in the form of Mrs.¬ÝTipstead. At first, Mrs.¬ÝTipstead was very stiff, very quiet. Miss Trant did not know what to do with her. It is not easy to make conversation with a strange woman, a woman, moreover, with a social background very different from your own, when you are helping her to overtake a runaway husband. It is all the more difficult when two-thirds of you are busy elsewhere, up on the hill, down among the gears. Miss Trant did what she could, however, and very soon Mrs.¬ÝTipstead, who was not equal to the task of keeping up her stiff genteel manner, began pouring out her confidences.
Miss Trant had murmured something about tea.
‚ÄúI reely couldn‚Äôt, you know, Miss Trant,‚Äù Mrs.¬ÝTipstead cried into her ear. ‚ÄúI believe a mouthful would choke me. You don‚Äôt know how I feel, I‚Äôm that worked up.‚Äù There was genuine distress in her tones, but there was also a certain melodramatic gusto. Obviously she rather liked the thought of being choked by a mouthful.
Miss Trant said nothing because there did not seem to be anything suitable to say. One of those vague little sympathetic noises would have done, but you cannot make them in a car, at least you cannot possibly make them loud enough to be heard. It is not easy, she reflected, saying anything to someone who confessed to being “worked up.” You really ought to shout back: “I hope you’ll soon be worked down.”
‚ÄúIt‚Äôs pretty country, isn‚Äôt it?‚Äù Mrs.¬ÝTipstead remarked quite unexpectedly. ‚ÄúI‚Äôve always been fond of this part. I like a bit of nice scenery, don‚Äôt you? Eric now‚ÅÝ‚Äîmy husband‚ÅÝ‚Äînever cared for it much. There, I‚Äôm beginning again. I won‚Äôt say another word.‚Äù And she threw herself back against the seat.
“Do go on, unless you really don’t want to,” said Miss Trant. She wanted to add to this, to say something tactful, sympathetic, but discovered she could not frame a sentence that would suggest the right attitude, something between brutal indifference and equally brutal curiosity.
The other was silent for a minute or two, but her thoughts demanded relief. ‚ÄúI shouldn‚Äôt have minded half so much,‚Äù she declared suddenly, ‚Äúif he‚Äôd been honest with me, if he‚Äôd had it out with me. But to go sneaking off like that! Just leaving a bit of a note! I shouldn‚Äôt have known anything if it hadn‚Äôt been for that letter she sent him I found this morning, the one with her address on, this address we‚Äôre going to in Sheffield. Not that I didn‚Äôt know something was going on. I knew that all right. There‚Äôs no smoke without fire, is there? When me lord‚Äôs out night after night, I knew there was something on. ‚ÄòBusiness,‚Äô he says, leaving me to look after the shop. You see, we‚Äôve got a shop‚ÅÝ‚Äînice little business‚ÅÝ‚Äîsweets and tobacco and newspapers and fancies‚ÅÝ‚Äîand he does a bit in the insurance line, too, and of course that does take him out at night. But it never took him out as much as all that. Besides, I could tell the diff‚Äôrence‚ÅÝ‚Äîyou always can, can‚Äôt you?‚ÅÝ‚Äîbecause he‚Äôd try to sneak out and then if I faced him with it, he‚Äôd go off in a minute, fairly screaming at me, telling me I didn‚Äôt understand what business was. You always know, don‚Äôt you, when they get angry like that about nothing, they‚Äôre hiding something. It‚Äôs their consciences, if you ask me. They know they‚Äôre doing wrong, silly babies. Well, I pretended not to see. You can‚Äôt do anything else, can you?‚Äù
There was a large car coming towards them, travelling at a great speed almost in the middle of the road, and Miss Trant had to attend to this car. When they had passed it, she found it quite impossible to settle any problem in conjugal tactics. “I don’t know,” she replied.
“No, of course you don’t. I was quite forgetting. Well, I’ve always said you’ve got to have it out right at the first, as soon as you notice anything, or you’ve got to leave it alone, keep your dignity, you see. And I left it alone, soft thing that I was. And this is what’s happened. Catch me doing it again! But I thought I knew him all right.” She thought about this for a moment, then went on: “And so I do. It’s her I don’t know. But I’ve heard a few things about her, and if I didn’t know what I do know, you wouldn’t see me here now. If she’d been a bit different, he could have had her and welcome. I’ve got my pride. But if you ask me, he’s just been dragged into this, couldn’t help himself. She’s said ‘Come’ and he’s gone. I know him.”
She said no more but stared fiercely ahead, down the road that led to Sheffield, where her Eric was waiting to be rescued.
Remembering that odd pair in the dining-room, Miss Trant concluded that this view of the situation was probably the right one. She had now to transform those vague figures of fun into the real people of Mrs.¬ÝTipstead‚Äôs vehement declarations. It was strange; it was rather frightening. For the moment she was repelled by the thought of this sheer thrust of life beneath these grotesque surfaces. It would not do. She told herself she ought not to feel like that. It was mean, cowardly, snobbish perhaps; it was‚ÅÝ‚Äîhorrible thought‚ÅÝ‚Äîwhat people call old-maidish. She had not the slightest desire to be married, and especially at this moment, but she shuddered at the idea of being old-maidish. She must not mind being jostled by things, by people, by life; she must be ready to take hold herself.
“Only eight miles to Sheffield now,” she announced.
‚ÄúDo you know, Miss Trant‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù Mrs.¬ÝTipstead hesitated. ‚ÄúIt wouldn‚Äôt make any difference, would it?‚ÅÝ‚ÄîI mean to getting there in time. But I‚Äôm beginning to feel I‚Äôd like a cup of tea, if we could find a nice place. I haven‚Äôt had anything since breakfast, and I‚Äôm beginning to feel a bit faint, and I think just a little something would do me good. What do you think?‚Äù
“I’m sure it would,” replied Miss Trant heartily. “We’ll stop at the next decent place.”
They pulled up at a little tearoom and had the place to themselves. Tea meant confidences to Mrs.¬ÝTipstead, and as soon as she had poured the first two cups she began the story of her dreadful morning, the discovery of the letter, the summoning of her brother Willy, who knew the road and so had suggested telephoning to one or two hotels where the runaways might have halted for lunch. ‚ÄúWe didn‚Äôt do that till we‚Äôd started off ourselves, you know,‚Äù she explained. ‚ÄúFrom Lichfield, you know. That‚Äôs were we live.‚Äù
‚ÄúLichfield! Then that‚Äôs why she said Johnson.‚Äù Miss Trant felt like Sherlock Holmes, an old favourite of hers. And she had spent hours and hours‚ÅÝ‚Äîit seemed like years‚ÅÝ‚Äîreading Boswell‚Äôs Life of Johnson to the Colonel, whose robust passion for Boswell and Gibbon had now closed the eighteenth century to his daughter forever.
‚ÄúWho said Johnson?‚Äù Mrs.¬ÝTipstead stared over the piece of buttered teacake she held.
“Why, that woman, when the waitress asked if they were called Tipstead.” And she told the story of the telephone call.
‚ÄúIt just shows you, doesn‚Äôt it?‚Äù Mrs.¬ÝTipstead was bitterly triumphant. ‚ÄúHe‚Äôd have never had enough off to do that. But trust her! This isn‚Äôt the first time, if you ask me. I‚Äôve heard about her. What‚Äôs she like?‚Äù
Miss Trant gave a brief and unflattering description.
‚ÄúI thought so. I‚Äôve never set eyes on her, that‚Äôs the funny thing. As far as I can make out, she‚Äôs only been in the place about three or four months, came as a barmaid. She‚Äôd been on the stage a bit before that, Willy says. You know the sort. But then I don‚Äôt suppose you do, Miss Trant, a lady like you. I don‚Äôt know much about that sort myself, I‚Äôm sure, never being one for theatres and going to hotels and all that. That‚Äôs Eric‚Äôs style, though, always was. He always thought he could have done well on the stage, and I dare say he would‚ÅÝ‚Äîcomic, you know, when he gets going, good as a pantomime. I‚Äôve laughed sometimes till I‚Äôve had to tell him to stop. That‚Äôs what attracted her, I‚Äôll be bound, that and his looks. Going there night after night, putting it on a bit and playing the comic, you know, that‚Äôs what did it. And me waiting on in the shop, night after night!‚Äù She halted between anger and tears. ‚ÄúAren‚Äôt you ready for another cup, Miss Trant? I‚Äôm sure you are.‚Äù
Miss Trant was not quite ready. She was indeed rather busy trying to reconcile this Mr.¬ÝTipstead, so dashing, so droll, so fascinating to the other sex, with the little rabbit of a man she remembered at the hotel.
Mrs.¬ÝTipstead poured out another cup for herself, and having tasted it, plunged into further confidences. ‚ÄúI‚Äôll tell you what it was that turned him. I thought it was the best bit of luck we‚Äôd ever had when it happened, but you can never tell how things‚Äôll turn out, can you? This last March he won a first prize in a competition‚ÅÝ‚Äîfive hundred pounds.‚Äù
‚ÄúFive hundred pounds!‚Äù Miss Trant was genuinely astonished. She could not imagine Mr.¬ÝTipstead winning a prize of any kind, let alone one of five hundred pounds.
‚ÄúFive hundred pounds,‚Äù said the wife, with mournful pride. ‚ÄúSparklets they were‚ÅÝ‚Äîfunny little bits of sayings, you know. He‚Äôd been trying and trying and better trying at it for months, filling in coupons and sending ‚Äôem up with a sixpenny postal order every time, till I said ‚ÄòOh, for goodness‚Äô sake, Eric,‚Äô I said, ‚Äòyou might think we‚Äôre made of postal orders. You‚Äôve wasted enough time and money on them things if you ask me,‚Äô I told him. I knew he was clever at them, but it seemed to me they only took the first they came to and gave ‚Äôem prizes and his were never at the top of the bag. Well, not two weeks after‚ÅÝ‚Äîit was a Tuesday afternoon‚ÅÝ‚Äîtwo young fellows came, one with a camera, and told us he‚Äôd got the first prize. They took our photographs‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚ÄòMr.¬Ýand Mrs.¬ÝTipstead receiving the cheque from our representative‚Äô they called it‚ÅÝ‚Äîand they put in a long piece about how pleased we were and what we were going to do with the money and all sorts. I wanted him to buy a bigger insurance book with it or move into a bigger shop, but no‚ÅÝ‚Äîhe wouldn‚Äôt have that, and of course I couldn‚Äôt say anything. He‚Äôd won it, not me. So he must cut a dash with it, buys that car outside there, some new suits of clothes and one thing and another. And what with getting all this money and having his photograph in the paper and what he said and having a car, it just turned his head. ‚ÄòLord Tipstead‚Äô they began calling him down in the town, Willy told me; taking him off, you see‚ÅÝ‚Äîthough there was a lot of jealousy in it, if you ask me. And of course all these silly girls began making a fuss of him‚ÅÝ‚Äîthey‚Äôve nothing better to do now, girls haven‚Äôt. Then this one comes along‚ÅÝ‚Äîregular home-wrecker, she is, from what I can see, the sort you‚Äôd think you‚Äôd never come across off the pictures. Don‚Äôt you think this butter tastes funny, Miss Trant?‚Äù
“It’s margarine. I can’t eat it.”
“I don’t blame you. You ought to have another of these cakes. What was I saying? Oh, I’d finished, hadn’t I. You really must excuse me, Miss Trant, it’s so strange meeting you like this and I’m that bewildered today I hardly know what I’m saying. If you met me ordinary times, you wouldn’t know me.”
There was no reply to this, so Miss Trant put a question instead. “Have you any children?”
“I haven’t. Not that we haven’t wanted them, me especially, and it’s been a great trouble to us. Perhaps it’s as well as things are turning out, though you wouldn’t be so lonely, would you?” She choked a little, coughed into her handkerchief, drank some tea, and looked tearful.
“Won’t you have another cake?” This was very inadequate, but it was the best Miss Trant could do at the moment.
“Well, do you think we might halve one between us, I really couldn’t eat a whole one. No? Well, I won’t bother. I’ll finish this and then we’ll go. Yes, when you’re treated like this, you don’t know whether to feel glad or sorry you haven’t any children, you really don’t. And when I think what I’ve done for that man! There’s nothing I haven’t done for him. I’ve given him my whole life.”
These phrases came out too glibly, they were not from the heart, but from the newspapers and the penny novelettes. If Miss Trant had liked the little woman less, she would have let them pass, but now she felt she couldn‚Äôt. ‚ÄúYou know, I‚Äôm awfully sorry, Mrs.¬ÝTipstead, and I‚Äôd like to help if I can. And you mustn‚Äôt think I‚Äôm unsympathetic if I say that I never understand what that phrase means‚ÅÝ‚Äîabout giving your whole life, you know.‚Äù
“If you’d been a wife, Miss Trant, you’d know soon enough.”
“Well, I haven’t, of course. I’ve only been a daughter. But do you mean that all the time you’ve been married you’ve been sacrificing yourself, never enjoying the life you had together or anything?”
‚ÄúI‚Äôve enjoyed nearly every bit of it,‚Äù cried Mrs.¬ÝTipstead warmly. ‚ÄúI know Eric‚Äôs had his faults‚ÅÝ‚Äîa bit extravagant and silly‚ÅÝ‚Äîthoughtless, you know‚ÅÝ‚Äîbut you couldn‚Äôt want a better husband. I won‚Äôt say we‚Äôve always had the best of luck‚ÅÝ‚Äîwe haven‚Äôt‚ÅÝ‚Äîbut we‚Äôve enjoyed ourselves, I can tell you.‚Äù
“You wouldn’t have preferred being single, then?”
‚ÄúSingle! Me!‚Äù she cried in horror. ‚ÄúLiving by myself, nobody to look after, nobody coming in and out, no bits of jokes and bits of comfort! I may have had a lot to do for him, but I‚Äôve never begrudged it, never, except just lately perhaps, brushing his coats and ironing his trousers so that he could go out and meet that‚ÅÝ‚Äîthat‚ÅÝ‚Äîfat painted barmaid. You needn‚Äôt ask me that, Miss Trant.‚Äù
“Then you really haven’t given your life, you know. You’ve been living it just as you wanted to live it all the time. I mean, I don’t see what more you could have done with it. You don’t mind my saying this, do you?”
Mrs.¬ÝTipstead shook her head, then was silent for a minute or two, struggling through into honesty. When at last she spoke, her voice sounded different; it was quieter, more sure of itself. ‚ÄúIt‚Äôs a funny business, isn‚Äôt it? I‚Äôve thought a bit about it lately. And I see what you mean. If you do give a lot, it‚Äôs only because you want to. But it‚Äôs terrible when it‚Äôs all thrown back in your face. You must wonder why I‚Äôm running after him like this. Of course I‚Äôm still fond of him‚ÅÝ‚Äîbut I‚Äôve got my pride the same as anybody else, and perhaps a bit more than most. But I know Eric, and I‚Äôve nearly had trouble with him before. He‚Äôs weak, Eric is, for all he‚Äôs so clever and all that, and this woman‚Äôs simply got hold of him and made him do what she wanted. He never wanted another wife, not he. He only wanted somebody to show off in front of, somebody who didn‚Äôt know him like I did; he never wanted to be landed into this; and I‚Äôm sure he‚Äôs miserable even now and he‚Äôll be worse tomorrow. If he can tell me to my face, he doesn‚Äôt want to come back, that‚Äôll be different; I‚Äôll go away and never say another word. But he won‚Äôt, you‚Äôll see.‚Äù
“I’m sure you’re right,” said Miss Trant, remembering the uneasy little figure in the hotel.
‚ÄúA wife knows, Miss Trant,‚Äù Mrs.¬ÝTipstead observed earnestly. Then she looked up and, with a startling change of tone, cried: ‚ÄúWell, Miss, I hope you‚Äôre not going to charge us for butter when we‚Äôve had nothing but margarine.‚Äù And after wrangling with the waitress, she then proceeded to wrangle with Miss Trant, who wanted to pay the bill herself. Mrs.¬ÝTipstead did not want to pay it, she wanted to divide it scrupulously into two, and she had her way.
A few miles brought them to pleasant hilly suburbs and very soon they were threading their way towards the vast haze that was Sheffield.