Chapter XI: Part 11

“Dad can’t talk,” cried Edna, looking across at him triumphantly, “’cos he wanted me to be a teacher and if I’d started to be a teacher, I’d have been going to college now, and then he’d have had to be paying for me, never mind me not earning anything.”

“Yes, but you didn’t want to be a teacher, did you?” said Mrs. Smeeth, as if that somehow settled the matter.

“Besides, my girl,” Mr. Smeeth began, rather pompously.

“Take your tea, Dad.” It was a curious thing, but whenever Mr. Smeeth had some really dignified statement to make, Mrs. Smeeth invariably broke in to hand him a cup or a plate or to ask him to put some coal on the fire or to see if there was somebody at the front door.

“Go on, Dad, what were you saying?” said Mrs. Smeeth, observing that he was frowning a little at his cup.

“I was going to say that teaching’s one thing and millinery’s another thing. If you’d have decided to be a teacher, Edna, I was ready to make a sacrifice to see that you became one. Teaching’s a profession. Safe, too. Once you become a teacher, you’re safe for the rest of your life----”

“Awful old maids they look too, some of the old ones. Lord help us, what a life!” Mrs. Smeeth shuddered, shook her head, then smiled at her husband, encouraging him to continue with his little speech.

“But this millinery business is quite a different thing. There may be money in it and there may not--I don’t know. What I do know is, it’s in a different class altogether, not the same standing at all. I’d do for one what I wouldn’t do for the other. So don’t throw that teaching affair in my face because it’s outside the argument altogether.”

“Oh, all right.” Edna wriggled her shoulders. “Don’t go on and on about it. If I can’t go, I suppose I can’t, that’s all.” She pushed her cup away and rose from the table. Then she stopped and looked at them, and Mr. Smeeth saw, to his dismay, that her eyes were filling with tears. Like that, she looked hardly a day older than she had done when he still played childish games with her. “But I did want to go. It’s the only thing I’ve really wanted to do since I left school. And if I went, I might be earning quite a lot in a year or two and some day I might be able to have a shop of my own. If George had wanted to do something like this, you wouldn’t have said no to him--oh----”

She was making for the door, but her father’s shout stopped her.

“Here, wait a minute,” he called out. Then, when she halted, he threw a quick glance at her streaming little face, looked across at her mother and then down at the table-cloth, and said: “Well, I suppose you’d better have a try at it then, Edna.”

“Oo, can I?” She was all delighted eagerness now, and darted across to him. “I can, can’t I?”

Awkward, a trifle shamefaced, Mr. Smeeth made a movement as if to put his arm round her, but apparently thought better of it and merely patted her nearest shoulder-blade. “That’s all right,” he muttered. “That’s all right.”

“Can I go round and see her now?” said Edna, her eyes shining and her feet dancing with impatience. Then she flew out of the room.

“Well, Dad,” said Mrs. Smeeth. “I won’t say I’m sorry you’ve decided that way, because I’m not. I believe it’s what she’s wanted some time. She doesn’t know whether she’s on her head or her heels now. Ah!--” and she gave a tremendous sigh--“I like to see them happy. After all, we’ve only got to live once----”

“How do you know?” demanded her husband.

“Well, I don’t know, if it comes to that, Mister Clever,” she retorted good-humouredly. “All the same, I’ve a very good idea. But what I wanted to say is this, Dad. I wasn’t going to give her permission to start this business. And don’t say I persuaded you, because I didn’t. You did it yourself. You know what it means. She’ll be earning next to nothing for a year or two, and though she’ll have to pull herself in a bit now she’s not earning anything, she can’t be kept on nothing. So don’t you turn round on me and tell me I don’t know that twelve pennies make a shilling or something of that sort. It’s your own doing, this time. I made up my mind I wouldn’t say a word. And if you think you can do it all right, well and good; I’m glad.”

“Of course I can do it,” he told her, rather indignantly. Then out it came. “Matter of fact, I’ve got that rise.”

“You’ve not?”

“Yes, I have.”

“How much?”

“I’ve been put up to three seventy-five, that’s more than a pound a week more than I’ve been getting.” And as he said it, Mr. Smeeth asked himself if he wasn’t behaving like a complete fool.

Mrs. Smeeth descended on him impetuously and gave him a resounding kiss. “I knew there was something coming,” she cried jubilantly. “I told you about Mrs. Dalby’s sister, didn’t I? She told me again that money and good luck were coming through a stranger, a middling-coloured man in a strange bed. And that was this Mr. Golspie of yours, I’ll bet. Nearly four hundred a year, isn’t it, now? That’s something like. My cousin, Fred Mitty, was boasting the other night about what he could make sometimes, and now this will be something to tell him to-morrow night. And fancy you just sitting there as if nothing had happened and never saying a word! I never knew anybody so close, you old oyster you! But that shows what they think of you, doesn’t it? And you always worrying about your job and talking as if you were going to be out in the street next minute!” She ran on and on, happy and excited, while he filled his pipe and tried to appear very cool and collected. Actually he was being pulled two ways. One half of him was gratified, no, more than gratified, delighted by her pleasure and her pride in him, and the other half was dubious and demanded to know if he realised what he had done.

“Now look here, Dad,” said Mrs. Smeeth, “we must celebrate the great occasion somehow to-night. It’s no good luck coming to the house if we’re not going to take any notice of it. Let’s go out somewhere. Let’s enjoy ourselves.”

“I thought we were going to do that to-morrow,” he told her drily, “when Fred Mitty and company arrive.”

“But that’s different. I mean, just ourselves, just you and me. Let’s go and see a good picture or down to the second house at Finsbury Park or something like that, and sit in the best seats, and you buy yourself a cigar and buy me some chocolates for once, and let’s do it properly. Come on, boy. What do you say?”

The Saving Man and the Small Investor in Mr. Smeeth went down before the affectionate husband and the proud male. When she looked at him like that, it would be a sin and a shame to refuse her. “All right, Edie. You decide where you want to go, and we’ll go.”

“I’ll just put George’s dinner out and put the dirty things under the tap,” she announced breathlessly, flushed and bright-eyed, a girl again, “and while I’m doing that, you look at the paper and see where you’d like to go. Give me those two cups. No, I can manage. You just sit there and have a quiet smoke.”

He could hear her singing, in her own cheerful vague fashion, above the faint clatter of crockery in the kitchen, while he had his quiet smoke. He did not look at the paper to see where he would like to go. She could decide that, and she would soon enough when she had washed up. For a week or two, she would be feeling rich and would be bringing out all sorts of plans. If by the end of this night she had not thought of twenty different ways of getting rid of a good deal more than an extra pound or so a week, he would be surprised. She had a weakness for hire purchase schemes, to begin with, and he detested them, both as a man of business and a careful householder. Well, after the first excitement had gone he would have to put his foot down; no more of these fairy tale views of life; somebody had to do the thinking. Now his thoughts took on a sombre colouring. He had never envied the rich their luxurious pleasures; he was a simple chap, and their way of life seemed to him ridiculous; he did not want a great deal for himself; but what he did want--and for this he was prepared to envy anybody--was security, to know that decency and self-respect were his to the end of his days. To be safe in his job while he was fit for it, and after that to have a little place of his own, with a garden (he had never done any real gardening, but he always found it easy to imagine himself doing it very well and enjoying it) and a bit of music whenever he wanted it--that was not asking much, and yet, for all the firm’s increased turnover and its rises, he could not help thinking it was really like asking for the moon.

“’Lo, Dad,” cried George, entering briskly. “How’s things?”

“Pretty good, boy. How’s the car trade?”

“Not so dusty. You don’t know anybody who’d like to lend me sixty quid, do you, Dad?”

“I don’t,” replied Mr. Smeeth very decidedly.

“Pity,” said George, who showed no signs of disappointment. “If I could put my hand on sixty quid this minute, I could make money. A cert. Sounds like horse racing, doesn’t it, but it isn’t----”

“And I should hope not,” said his father, looking at him severely.

“Second-hand car deal. Money for nothing. Ah, well--you wait a bit.”

“Well, you be careful, with your money for nothing.”

“Leave it to me, Dad,” said George coolly.

Mr. Smeeth looked wonderingly at him. It seemed only yesterday when he was filling his stocking and putting the Meccano set by the boy’s bedside. And now--leave it to him, sixty quid, a cert! Mr. Smeeth took his pipe out, stared at it, and then whistled softly.

V

“Come along, Dad,” cried Mrs. Smeeth, pouring out the Rich Ruby Port for the ladies. “Buck up. Join in the fun.” She had herself a rich ruby look, for what with eating and drinking and shouting and laughing and singing, her face was crimson and almost steaming.

Unfortunately, Mr. Mitty overheard her. “That’s right,” he roared, drowning every other voice in the room. “Come on, Pa. Take your turn. No shirking. Take your turn, Pa. Show us a conjuring trick.”

“Oh, shut up, Fred,” Mrs. Mitty screamed, pretending to chide him, as usual, and really drawing attention to his astonishing drollery. “You’ve gone far enough.”

Mr. Smeeth could not do any conjuring, but if he had been given unlimited powers, he knew one trick he would have liked to perform that instant, a trick that involved the immediate disappearance of Mr. Fred Mitty. It was Saturday night, the little party was in full swing, and they were all in the front room, all, that is except the Mitty girl and Edna, who had gone out together for an hour or so, probably round to the pictures. In addition to the Mitty pair, there were Dalby and Mrs. Dalby (whose sister told fortunes with cards). Mr. Smeeth had seen the room when it had had more people in it, but he had never known it when it had seemed so full. He had always thought of Dalby, who lived at 11, Chaucer Road, was a bandy-legged insurance agent, and fancied himself as a wag and a great hand at parties, as a noisy chap, but compared with Fred Mitty he was quiet and decent and merely another Smeeth. It had not taken Mr. Smeeth ten minutes to discover that he disliked Mitty intensely, and every thing that Mitty had done and said since (and for the last hour or so he had insisted on calling Mr. Smeeth “Pa”) had only increased that dislike, which did not stop short at Fred, but extended to Mrs. Mitty and the girl, Dot. He had never known three people he had disliked more.

Mrs. Smeeth’s cousin was a fellow in his early forties who had probably not been bad-looking once in a cheap flashy style. He had curly fair hair, very small, light-coloured greedy eyes, a broken nose, and a large loose mouth that went all out to one side when he talked. He reminded Mr. Smeeth at once of those cheap auctioneer chaps who take an empty shop for a week or two and pretend they are giving everything away. Mr. Mitty’s complexion seemed to be permanently rich and ruby, and it had evidently cost somebody a good deal in its time, though--as Mr. Smeeth assured himself, vindictively--not necessarily Mr. Mitty himself, who clearly brought out visiting with him a colossal thirst and appetite. He was a funny man, a determined wag, and the noisiest Mr. Smeeth had ever known. He shouted all the time, just like one of those cheap auctioneers. His jokes gave you a pain in the stomach and his voice a headache. Moreover, he seemed to Mr. Smeeth quite obviously a silly boaster, a liar, and a man not to be trusted a yard. Such men frequently ally themselves to quiet little women, but Fred Mitty--fortunately for some quiet little woman--had found a female of his own kind. Mrs. Mitty, who had a long blue nose and hair that was bright auburn at the ends and grey-brown near the roots, was as brassy as her husband. Her scream accompanied his roar. If she said anything playful to you, she hit your nearest rib with her bony elbow; and if you said anything playful to her, she slapped you on the arm. Here she differed from Fred, who banged you on the back and poked you in the ribs, unless you were a woman and not too old, and then he hugged you or invited you to sit on his knee. Dot, the solitary offspring of this brassy pair, was about Edna’s age and was all legs and golden curls and a hard blue stare. She talked of becoming a film actress. Mr. Smeeth, who did not know much about Hollywood, but nevertheless had a horror of the place, told her quite sincerely that he hoped she would get there, and added, with perfect truth, that she reminded him of those Broadway girls on the pictures. Edna of course--the silly child--had been fascinated at once by Dot; and as for Mrs. Smeeth, who really had no more sense about people at times than a baby, she seemed to be infatuated with all three of them.

“Will you have a little port wine, Mrs. Dalby?” said Mr. Smeeth, who felt that he must do something.

“Just the tiniest, weeniest sip, Mr. Smeeth,” she replied. And when he had brought her the Rich Ruby she continued, “Lively to-night, aren’t we?”

“Very,” he told her.

She gave him a quick look. “Well, it’s nice to see people enjoying themselves. But you look a bit tired to-night, Mr. Smeeth.”

“Oh, I don’t know. Do I? Feel all right, y’know, Mrs. Dalby.” Did he feel all right? What about that little tick-tick of pain somewhere inside him? “I’ve been working hard just lately. We’ve been busy, for once.”

“You’re inside all the time, aren’t you?” said Mrs. Dalby seriously and sympathetically. “And that’s what tells on you. Tom works very hard--though you wouldn’t think so, to hear him talk--but he’s out most of the time, on his round, you know, and so it’s not so bad for him, unless we get a spell of nasty damp weather and then he begins to feel it in the chest. He’s had chest trouble before.”

“Has he really?” said Mr. Smeeth. This was not a very cheerful conversation, but nevertheless it pleased him. Mrs. Dalby was a nice, quiet, ladylike sort of woman, and talking to her in this company was like having a few words with a sane person in a madhouse.

“That’s right, Fred,” Mrs. Smeeth shouted. “Do help yourself.”

“Trust me!” roared Fred, who was pouring himself out some whisky. Yes, there was a bottle of whisky, as well as some beer and the Rich Ruby. So far as Mr. Smeeth could see, half the week’s housekeeping money must have been spent on this racket.

“Yes, trust _’im_,” screamed Mrs. Fred, putting down her empty glass. “If you don’t take that bottle away from him, he’ll have it all before you know where you are.”

“Ah like ma droap o’ Scoatch, d’ye ken,” Fred bellowed in a very hoarse voice and in what he imagined to be a Scots accent. “Wha’ day ye say, Meesees Macphairson? Hoch aye!”

“Oh, stop it, Fred,” cried his wife.

“Good as a turn, you are, Fred,” said Mrs. Smeeth admiringly.

“Reminds me of the chap from Aberdeen,” Dalby began. But it was no use. It was not his evening.

“There was a Scottie I knew in Brum,” Fred shouted.

Mrs. Fred let out a piercing shriek. “Oh, yes, tell ’em about him.”

Fred did, but Mr. Smeeth, by a tremendous effort, contrived not to listen, although Fred’s voice more than filled the room. Indeed, there was so much of it that it was possible not to take it in properly. Mr. Smeeth thought about other things, and paid no attention until he suddenly discovered that he was being addressed.

“Yes, do let’s have that,” cried Mrs. Smeeth, her face very red and her eyes moist with laughter. “Y’know, that one you did the other night for me--that man in Birmingham. Laugh! I thought I’d have died. Dad, you remember me telling you? Do listen to this.”

“That’s right, Pa,” roared Fred, with mock severity. “A little of your attention, please, while I endeavour to give you a slight impersonation of--Mis-ter Snook-um of Brum.”

“That wasn’t his real name, you know,” Mrs. Fred screamed, turning on Mr. Smeeth so that he got the full force of it. “That was the name these chaps gave him. Do it properly, Fred, this time. Dress up for it.”

“Shall I? What about it?”

“Yes, go on, do. Like you did that time at Mr. Slingsby’s. I’ll tell you all about that night in a minute,” Mrs. Fred added, with the air of one about to confer a great favour. “That _was_ a night. But go on, Fred.”

“All right,” replied Fred, noisily finishing his whisky. “I will--by special request.”

“Looks as though we’re going to have a performance,” said Dalby, not very pleasantly. There had been rather too much of Fred for his taste.

“That’s right,” Fred shouted at him, not too pleasantly either. “Any objections?”

“Hurry up, Fred,” cried Mrs. Smeeth beaming at him. “We’re all waiting.”

“Allow me one minute in which to change my costume,” Fred replied, “and I will oblige.” And out he went, and the others were moved about to allow a clear space near the door, and Mrs. Dalby and Mrs. Mitty were pressed to take a little more of the Rich Ruby or to have a sandwich or a piece of cake, and Mrs. Dalby had a sandwich and Mrs. Mitty, whose long nose was a much deeper shade of blue than it had originally been, accepted another glass of the Rich Ruby.

“I ought to tell you that this chap he’s going to take off,” Mrs. Fred explained to them, “was a chap Fred had some business dealings with in Birmingham. He owned one of the picture theatres there. He wasn’t a bad sort of chap really, but he was an absolute comic--didn’t mean to be, y’know, didn’t know he was funny--but he _was_, and Fred and the other fellows used to make game of him. To start with, he always talked, you see, with his mouth on one side----”

“Well, so does Fred,” said Mr. Smeeth, bluntly and boldly.

“Now, Dad,” cried Mrs. Smeeth, “how can you say that!”

“That’s right, Mrs. Smeeth,” said Dalby. “He does talk with his mouth on one side. I noticed it myself. Just a habit, you know. Easy to get into. Probably you never notice it now,” he remarked considerately to Mrs. Fred. “You’ve got used to it.”

“Oh, that’s quite different,” she said stiffly. But she did not continue with her explanation. “Wait till he comes in. You’ll see what I mean.”

What Mr. Smeeth did see when Fred came in was that Fred was wearing his best overcoat and hat. He must have chosen these things because they were obviously too small for him and so added to the comic effect. The coat was strained across his shoulders, and the hat, a good grey soft felt, which Mr. Smeeth only wore at the week-end and for special occasions, had been jammed on his head and punched in at the top in a horrible manner. Mr. Smeeth was so annoyed he could hardly sit still.

“Good evening, you people,” said Fred, speaking in a queer voice and throwing his mouth round to the other side. “I’m Mister Snookums of Brum, and I’d loike you to understand that I’m the propreeotor of the Luxydrome Peecture Palaice, situated in one of our main thoroughfares of the city and built ree-gardless of expense. Hem!” Here Fred coughed in a silly way, with a quick movement of one hand to his mouth, a movement that nearly split the seams of the overcoat. His wife and Mrs. Smeeth shrieked with laughter; Dalby and his wife smiled; and Mr. Smeeth merely looked glum. This went on for several minutes, at the end of which, Fred, in a frantic attempt to capture the whole audience, was shouting at the top of his voice, nearly bursting the overcoat, and punching the hat out of any recognisable shape. At last, Mr. Smeeth could stand it no longer.

“Just a minute,” he said, advancing upon Fred. “I’m sorry to interrupt, if you’ve not finished. But, y’know, that’s my hat, my _best_ hat--when you’ve done with it.” And he held out his hand for it.

“All right, old sport,” said Fred, giving it to him and resuming his normal appearance. “No damage done. And ber-lieve me, people,” he added, mopping his brow, “that’s nearly like work. Yes, I think I will, Cousin Edie.” And he made for the whisky.

Edna and Dot returned now from the pictures. It was Dot’s turn to entertain the company. “Oo, I say,” she cried, like a suddenly galvanised doll, “oo, I say, you oughter see Ducie Dellwood in this picture we’ve just seen. A college girl, what they call over there a co-ed.”

“I thought she was sorful,” said Edna. “Didn’t you, Dot?”

“I didn’t like her much. This was her. Watch me, everybody. Just watch me a minute. This was her.” And Dot, after screaming everybody into attention, began jazzing about and rolling her eyes and flinging herself into a chair and then jumping out of it again. “That song’s in this picture, mother,” she gasped. “You know--what is it?--_It’s Necking or Nothing Now_--and Ducie Dellwood sings it--like this.” She stood facing them with her legs apart and knees bent, crooked her elbows, spread out her fingers, then swayed as she sang, or tried to sing in a little nasal voice, what she remembered of the song. Mr. Smeeth, after noticing that Edna was regarding this performance with open admiration, told himself that in spite of the fact that he was a quiet and good-tempered man, he would dearly like to get up and give this Dot girl a good box on the ears and then pack her off to bed.

“Well, I really think we’d better be getting along now,” said Mrs. Dalby.

“Yes, time to be off,” said her husband.

“No, don’t go yet, Mrs. Dalby,” cried Mrs. Smeeth.

“The night is yet young,” roared Fred. “I thought you London people kept it up till all hours. Why, up in Brum, when a few of us got together, some of the bo-hoys and some of the ger-hirls, we used to be settling down to it now, I give you my word.”

“And how much longer does he think he’s going to stay here?” Mr. Smeeth asked himself bitterly, as the irrepressible Fred went roaring on. Mrs. Dalby was firm about going and edged towards the door, smiling at her hostess; Dalby followed her and when they did finally go, Mr. Smeeth, glad to escape even for a minute or two, saw them to the door. The night was beautifully dark and quiet, delighted in its entire lack of Mitties.

“Lively card, all right,” said Dalby, as they halted a moment.

“A bit too lively for me,” said Mr. Smeeth in a low, confidential tone. “A little of him goes a long way, it seems to me. Mrs. Smeeth’s cousin, y’know,” he added, disclaiming all responsibility.

“Well, to be quite truthful, Mr. Smeeth,” Mrs. Dalby declared, “I must say I thought the way they allowed that girl to carry on was ridiculous. My words, if she’d been a girl of mine----!”

“Or mine,” said Mr. Smeeth grimly.

“Still, we’ve had a very enjoyable evening, haven’t we, Tom?” said Mrs. Dalby, who had plainly had nothing of the kind but was a polite woman.

After they had said good night, Mr. Smeeth remained at the door for a few minutes, enjoying the quiet and the cool fresh air. When he returned to the others he made straight for the fire and raked it together with the poker, but did not put any more coal on it. Then he yawned once or twice, and did not try very hard to pretend he was not yawning. Ten minutes later, he told Edna to get upstairs to bed, pointing out very firmly that on any other night she would have been there some time. There were signs then, after Edna had reluctantly and with much wriggling of shoulders taken her departure, that the Mitty family was about to go, but unfortunately George made his appearance and that kept them another half-hour, towards the end of which Mr. Smeeth merely stared at them in despair. When they did go Mrs. Smeeth and George saw them to the door, and Mr. Smeeth stayed where he was.

Somehow the room looked as if fifty people had been eating and drinking and smoking in it for days. There were two sandwiches and a flattened cigarette end on the carpet; somebody had spilled some port on the little table; there was the glass that Fred had broken; there were the forlorn bottles, the dirty glasses, the remnants of food, the cigarette ash, the smoke rapidly going stale: the whole room, the pride of the house and as nice a parlour as you would find in the length of Chaucer Road, looked tipsy, bedraggled, and forlorn, and as its disgusted owner wearily moved about, throwing bits of stuff into the fire and straightening things, he felt as if the Mitty crew had left their sign and mark on it for ever. He threw open the windows and was just in time to hear from outside the last good nights.

His wife came in. “George has gone to bed,” she announced. “I was telling him he seemed quite struck with young Dot.”

Mr. Smeeth grunted.

She followed her usual practice on these occasions, sitting down by the fire with a last sandwich, prepared for a cosy little gossip about the evening. “I’m not going to touch a thing to-night. It’ll have to wait until the morning. Well, well, I must say I’ve enjoyed myself to-night; whether other people have or not.” For a moment her face was alight with reminiscent mirth, that pleasant afterglow of jolly evenings, but it died out as she looked at her husband. “But I must say, too, Dad, I never saw you in such a mood. I expect you thought I wasn’t noticing you, but I was. Couldn’t help it. Quite grumpy you were, half the time, and downright rude, if you ask me, once or twice. Fred’s wife noticed it, too.”

Mr. Smeeth mumbled something to the effect that he did not much care what Fred’s wife noticed.

“Perhaps you’re tired. Are you, boy?” she said, her manner changing. “I thought once or twice you looked tired, and Mrs. Dalby told me _she_ thought you were looking a bit tired to-night.”

“I expect I am,” said Mr. Smeeth.

“Ah, well, that’s different, isn’t it, when you’re tired and you don’t feel in the humour for it? Never mind; next time I expect you’ll be ready to join in the fun. They’ve asked us all down for one night next week--they’ll let us know which night--to meet some people they know who used to be in Birmingham, too.”

“Well, I hope you told them I wasn’t going.”

“Of course I didn’t, Dad. The very idea!”

“Well, I’m not going.”

“Why, what for?”

“Because I’m _not_. If you want to know,” Mr. Smeeth added, his voice trembling, “I’ve had quite enough of ’em here to-night, without going to look for some more.”

His wife looked at him indignantly and sat up straight. “That’s a nice way to talk, isn’t it? What harm have they done you? It’s not Fred’s fault--or his wife’s fault--if you didn’t enjoy yourself to-night.”

“It is. If it’s not their fault, whose fault is it?” Mr. Smeeth retorted. “I can’t stand him--and I can’t stand his wife--and I can’t stand that jazzing girl of theirs either. And the less Edna, or George, for that matter, sees of that little----”

“Now just you be careful what you’re saying,” cried Mrs. Smeeth. “You’ll be saying something in a minute you’ll be sorry for afterwards. Now, Dad, you’re tired to-night, and I expect they were a bit too noisy for you. Fred does get noisy when he gets going, I’ll admit. But you’ll feel different about it in the morning. Let’s go to bed.”

“All right. I’m ready. But understand this, Edie. I’m not going down to Fred Mitty’s this next week or any other week. If you want to go, I can’t stop you, and if you want to ask them here again, I suppose I can’t stop you--though if he starts coming here regularly, drinking the amount of whisky he drank to-night, I’m going to have something to say. But he doesn’t see _me_ again for a long time, I can tell you that.”

“The way you talk!” said Mrs. Smeeth on her way to the door. “But I’m not going to argue with you to-night. I’m tired myself and I’m sure you’re so tired you don’t know what you _are_ saying. I’ll leave you to lock up, Dad.”

No doubt he _was_ tired. He was still trembling a little as he went round, turning off the lights and seeing that both outside doors were locked and bolted; but his mind was made up on the Mitty question. There is a certain pleasure in making up your mind, putting your foot down, taking a firm stand, especially if, like Mr. Smeeth, you do it very rarely, not being a wilful or autocratic man; and as he walked along the dark little hall and climbed the stairs, Mr. Smeeth experienced that pleasure, and the hand that he placed on the banisters was that of a strong determined man, the natural head of a house. Yet even before he had reached the bedroom door there was mixed with that pleasure, absorbing it gradually, an uneasiness, a faint foreboding, a sense of worse things to come.

_Chapter Seven_: ARABIAN NIGHTS FOR TURGIS

I

“Yersh,” said Mr. Pelumpton, staring at Turgis and pulling hard at his little pipe, which replied with a sickening gurgle--“yersh, that’sh what you want, boy, shome short of ’obby, to parsh the time--shee?”

“That’s right,” cried little Mrs. Pelumpton, sitting down but only on the edge of the chair to show that this was a mere breathing-space in the long battle with beds and stairs and dirty plates and potatoes and legs of mutton. “You oughter get out of yourself more, Mr. Turgis--if you catch my meaning. That’s what you’re telling him, isn’t it?”

“Yersh,” said Mr. Pelumpton, who was busy now poking at his pipe with a very large hairpin.

“Oh--I dunno,” said Turgis, vaguely and mournfully.

“Look at Edgar,” Mrs. Pelumpton continued. “What with ’arriering--y’know, a lot of ’em all running together, miles and miles, and not as much on as you might go in the water with if you was at the seaside--though he ’asn’t done much of that lately----”

“Don’t blame him,” Turgis muttered, shuddering. The last thing on earth he wanted was to be a harrier, who not only ran and ran until he nearly dropped but also contrived to look silly. Ugh!

“What with that and now these racing dog dirt tracks----”

“Hear that,” Mr. Pelumpton broke in, pointing a derisive pipe-stem, “d’hear that, Mishter Turgish? Dog dirt tracksh! That’sh a good one. You’ve got it wrong, Mother. Nobody’d pay to shee a dog dirt tracksh; you can shee them any time, outshide in the shtreet. Plenty of ’em round ’er. That makesh me laugh, that doesh.” And to show that it did, he cackled a little.

“It wouldn’t take much to make you laugh. But you know what I mean?” and she turned to Turgis.

“Greyhound racing.”

“That’s right,” cried Mrs. Pelumpton triumphantly. “He goes to see ’em once or twice a week--never misses--and though it costs money----”

“Yersh,” said Mr. Pelumpton. “Think it doesh. It’sh a betting bishnish--shame ash ’orsh racing, a betting bishnish.”

“Oh, is it?” Mrs. Pelumpton was thoughtful. “Well, that’s not as good as it might be, is it? I don’t want Edgar starting with them betting tricks--two to one each way and all that. Never any good came of _that_, in _my_ opinion.”

“A mug’s game,” said Turgis, with the air of a rather gloomy man of the world.

“I thought they just went to see the dogs run about, just a bit of fun,” Mrs. Pelumpton continued, dubiously. Then she brightened. “But I can trust Edgar to behave and not do anything silly.”

“Yersh, yersh. Matter of a bob or two, that’sh all. The boy’sh all right. Mindjew, for _my_ part, I never cared for thish betting game, neither ’orshesh or anything elsh. Wouldn’t touch it. Fellersh ’ave shaid to me, ‘You put all you’ve got on sho-an’-sho--it’sh a shert,’--but I’ve told ’em, ‘No.’ Matter of prinshiple, shee? I don’t want the bookiesh’ money and they’re not going to ’ave my money. What I’ve made,” Mr. Pelumpton added, apparently under the impression that he had made whole fortunes in his time, “I’ve honeshtly earned. There’sh quite enough gambling in the dealing bishnish for me, quite enough.”

“Well, I’d rather see Edgar going up there, even if it means he’s putting his shillings on now and then,” said Mrs. Pelumpton, getting up, “than see him going round the pubs. That’s an expensive ’obby, if you like. And you can’t say you’ve never had a try at that, Dad. If you ever had any principles against the publicans ’aving your money, all I can say is they never took you very far. What you’ve honestly earned you’ve mostly honestly spent, too.” And Mrs. Pelumpton waddled into the kitchen.

“Yersh,” said Mr. Pelumpton, completely ignoring his wife’s speech and now fixing Turgis with his watery stare, “quite enough gambling in the dealing bishnish for me. Now here’sh an inshtansh.”

“Oh, blow you and your instances!” Turgis cried to himself.

“Chesht o’ drawersh going up in Holloway and I’m requeshted to ’ave a look at it. Very pretty piesh, very pretty piesh. Worth money, that piesh. I’m tellin’ you now what I thought, at the time. I went back and shaw Mishter Peek an’ tellsh him that piesh’sh worth a ten pound note if it’sh worth a penny. ‘Go back,’ he shaysh, ‘and go right up to sheven if nesheshary.’ I go back and thish piesh’sh gone. Old Craggy up the road there had bought it--’ad to pay sheven too--an’ I could have kicked myshelf. Well, that’sh what?--oh, eight munsh, ten munsh, a year ago. All right. I’m looking round in old Craggy’sh the other day and what do I shee--the very shame piesh. I shaysh to ’im ‘I know that piesh’ and I told him ’ow and why I did know it. Then I shaysh to him, ‘What you wanting now for that piesh?’ An’ what do you think he shaid?”

“Fifty pounds,” said Turgis promptly. He had heard this type of story many, many times from Mr. Pelumpton.

“Now that’sh jusht where you’re wrong, boy,” cried Mr. Pelumpton, delighted. “Jusht where you’re wrong. Not fifty poundsh but _five_ poundsh, two lesh than he’d given for it. Couldn’t get rid of it--shee?--and had pulled it down and down--and I give you my word, I believe I could have ’ad that piesh from him for _four_--he was sho shick of sheeing it about the shop. And I’d have bought it for sheven, sho would Mishter Peek, sho would you, sho would anybody. It jusht showsh you. The dealing bishnish ish a gamble.”

“If you ask me,” said Turgis, all gloomy and profound, “it’s all a gamble.”

“Well, don’t loosh ’eart, boy, don’t loosh ’eart. Take a ninterest in thingsh like I do. Shtart a nobby----”

“What’s your hobby?” asked Turgis, not too graciously. And he immediately gave himself the answer silently, “Finding free beer, you old soak, that’s your hobby.”

“My work ish my ’obby now,” replied Mr. Pelumpton very solemnly. “In my time I’ve ’ad all manner of ’obbiesh, from pigeonsh to joining the volunteersh, but now my work ish my ’obby. It’sh not only my work but my play, ash you might shay. And if you’re going to make anything at all out of dealing, if you’re going to be a _real_ dealer, that’sh the only way to do it--make it a full time job, wherever you are, be on the look-out, keep your eyesh open, your earsh open, turn thingsh over in your mind. If you’d a bit more money, d’you know what I’d shay to you?”

Turgis could think of several things that Mr. Pelumpton would say to him, the very minute he had some more money, but he was certain that not one of them was in Mr. Pelumpton’s thoughts at the moment. So he merely shook his head.

“What I’d shay to you ish--shtart collecting. In a shmall way, y’know, to begin with. Doeshn’t matter what you collect. And I’d put you on to thingsh. That’sh where you’d be lucky ’cosh you’d ’ave the benefit of my experiensh and knowledge of the trade.”

Turgis did not think he would care very much for collecting, and Mrs. Pelumpton, returning at that moment, wiping her hands on an apron, said that she didn’t think of collecting either. “Just wasting your money and littering the place up, that would be,” she added. “So don’t you go and put ideas into his head, Dad. I’d sooner see you taking an interest in these politics, same as Mr. Park.”

“You know what he ish, Mishter Park?” said her husband. “He’sh a Bolshie, that’sh what he ish.”

“Well, it keeps him quiet enough,” Mrs. Pelumpton retorted. “And sober, too. Never makes any noise or trouble. Nobody will make me believe he’s a real Bolshie, a nice quiet young chap like that. And he’s never been to Russia, never once set eyes on it. He told me so himself.”

“That doeshn’t matter,” said Mr. Pelumpton.

“What does matter then?” asked Mrs. Pelumpton triumphantly.

No doubt her husband could have told her, but he did not choose to; he merely made a contemptuous noise, and then took up the evening paper. Turgis decided to go to bed. It was not late, but there was nothing to do. He was tired of talking to the Pelumptons, though he felt vaguely grateful to them, or at least to Mrs. Pelumpton, for taking an interest in him. What they actually said did not mean much to him--for he did not want any of their silly hobbies and had not the slightest desire to be like either Edgar or Park--but it was pleasant to feel that somebody was interested in him. His father took no interest in him, hadn’t done for years, and he had no other near relations. They didn’t care much about him at the office. Even Poppy-with-the-fringe had kept away from him lately, and the others simply took him for granted. He had no friends. He was just a chap in the crowd. Nearly all his time away from the office was spent in a crowd somewhere, getting back to his lodgings in the packed Tube, returning to the thronged streets afterwards, perhaps eating in some crowded place, then waiting in a queue to get in a picture theatre, making one of a huge audience, wandering along the lamp-lit pavements, and he was for ever surrounded by strange, indifferent or hostile faces, looking into millions of eyes that never lit up with any gleam of recognition, and spending hour after hour in the very thick of packed humanity without exchanging a single word with anybody. His existence was noticed only when he bought something, when he turned himself into a customer.

And yet, of course, this was not entirely true. There were innumerable people in London who were not only ready to make the acquaintance of Turgis, but were actually longing for him. There were Park’s comrades, the communists, who would be only too glad to obtain another recruit; possibly the Socialists; and certainly the Anti-Socialists, who would have been delighted to show him how to mount a soap-box. There were clergymen of all denominations and sects on the prowl for him, willing to lead him in prayer, to instruct him in the Scriptures, to teach him anthems, to show him lantern slides of the Norfolk Broads, to smoke a manly pipe at him, to play a game of chess, draughts, dominoes, bagatelle, or billiards with him, to give him a right hook and then a straight left with the gloves on, according to their varied tastes and dispositions. There were men who were not clergymen, but had the habits and outlook of clergymen, leaders of ethical societies and the like, who would be pleased to talk to him about their own particular universes, lend him a few books, and welcome him twice a week at their philosophical-literary-musical services. No doubt there were criminals who could have made good use of a youth with such a guileless air. There were thousands of other young men in lodgings and offices, young men who were not very clever or strong or handsome or brave or artful, young men who were for ever packing themselves into tubes and buses, eating hastily in corners of crowded teashops, and then using the music-halls, picture theatres, saloon bars, and lighted streets as their drawing-rooms, studies, and clubs, who would soon have been overjoyed, once the mumbling preliminaries were passed, to spend their evenings with Turgis.

But then he did not really want any of these people, did not want company for company’s sake. What he really wanted was Love, Romance, a Wonderful Girl of His Own. And these had lately all been assuming the same shape in his mind, that of Miss Lena Golspie. He had never spoken to her, had never seen her except once, at a distance, since that day she appeared at the office, but he had thought a great deal about her. To say that he had fallen in love with her at sight would be to exaggerate. If an attractive girl--and she need not have been anything like so pretty as Miss Golspie--had turned up and had been kind to him, no doubt he would soon have forgotten all about Lena. But no such girl turned up; indeed no girl of any kind appeared. If Lena Golspie was not the prettiest girl he had ever seen (and he could not remember a prettier, not even if he included the beautiful shadow people, Lulu Castellar and the other film stars), she was certainly the prettiest girl he had ever spoken to, and the fact that she had actually made her appearance at the office door in Angel Pavement somehow brought her definitely into his own world. That she was not really a creature of that world only made her more fascinating, mysterious, romantic, like the beautiful heroine of a love story of the films. She was a lovely bird of passage. He imagined her against a background of strange places and fantastic luxuries. It was as if Lulu Castellar had stepped out of the screen, taken on colour and solid shape, and had actually spoken to him, smiled at him. And yet, there it was, her father worked in the very same business, in the very same office, with him. No wonder he could not get the girl out of his head, which for a long time now had been haunted by a vague but infinitely desirable feminine shape. It was vague no longer; it had definite form and features; it had a name.

It had also an address, and Turgis, his wits suddenly sharpened, had contrived to learn it at the office. The Golspies lived at 4a, Carrington Villas, Maida Vale, W. 9. He had seen the very house, or rather the upper half of the house, in which they lived. He had, in fact, seen it several times, and had actually been watching when lights were being turned on and off there. Before this, Maida Vale had been for him a mere name, but now he was rapidly becoming familiar with the district, and it had for him a most curious fascination. He had never really decided what he would do if he was lucky enough to run into Miss Golspie. She had been friendly that day she came to the office, though condescending to him, of course, as she had every right to do; but on the strength of that, he did not see how he could very well stop her, perhaps in one of the darkest parts of Carrington Villas, and say: “Do you remember me. I’m Turgis and I’m the clerk at Twigg and Dersingham’s. And how are you, Miss Golspie?” And if he wasn’t to do that, what was he to do? He did not know, and so left it to the inspiration of the moment. That moment never arrived. He was not very surprised or disappointed. He went across to Maida Vale several nights, not so much because he felt he had a good chance of meeting her there or even of seeing her, but because on these particular evenings every other part of London seemed terribly dreary, and Maida Vale drew him across these desolated spaces like a magnet. He only went when it was fine, and then he took a turn or two up and down Carrington Villas, sometimes stopping near the house to see if anything was happening there (it was a detached house with two pillars before the door and three steps leading up to it, and there was a broken statue in the dingy bit of garden in front), perhaps walked along the street at the top a little way, towards the main road, then did the same at the bottom, had a last saunter along Carrington Villas, perhaps ended up with a glass of bitter at the high-class little pub just round the corner at the top, and went home. The first few evenings he had spent like that he had enjoyed; there was to him something enchantingly mysterious and romantic in the winter-evening gloom of this Maida Vale; as he moved about the quiet streets, a shadow among shadows, he became aware of an intense secret inner life of his own; but the pleasure rapidly decreased. Too often the upper half of the house was all dark, and then of course the whole neighbourhood lost its charm, which was transferred to some other, unknown, part of the city, where she was spending the evening. Probably in the West End, that brilliant jungle, where you might meet anybody, the last person in the world you expected to meet, and where you might miss for ever the one person you wanted to meet. It was in the West End he caught sight of her. He had been to a picture theatre and it was late, and he saw her with her father and another man. Mr. Golspie was shouting for a taxi, and in another moment he had got one and they were gone. But he saw her distinctly, and it was strange seeing her, for though he had thought so much about her, she had almost stopped being real.

He was beginning to mope now, for he was tired of going over to Maida Vale, and yet could not settle down to spend his evenings in the old way, and that was why the Pelumptons, seeing him hanging about and looking vaguely miserable, had begun to give him advice about hobbies. They did not understand, he told himself gloomily, that he wasn’t simply another Edgar or Park. But he admitted once again that it was decent of them to take an interest in him, even if they missed the great fact about him--namely, that he was entirely different from Edgar or Park or anybody else they knew. The innermost self of Turgis was always being surprised and hurt by the general ignorance of this simple fact. Having reached his little room, he now did what he had done many hundreds of times before: he examined his face carefully in the tiny cracked mirror to see if there were any signs of this difference written there; and once again he came to the conclusion that there were, only you had to look closely and sympathetically at him, not just give a hard stare and then march off, to notice them.

For once, the little gas-fire did not explode when the match came near and then wheezily complain. It gave only a soft pop and then merely murmured. Its master knew that that meant that the meter demanded another shilling, and as he had not got a shilling and was too lazy to return to the back room for possible change, he let it murmur and sink, until its flames were like tiny blue flowers. Then he did something he had not done hundreds of times before. He began brushing his clothes. Mr. Smeeth had already noticed, as we saw, that Turgis had smartened himself up. We are now behind the scenes of this smartening. It had occurred to Turgis that his next meeting with Lena Golspie, if there ever was one, might easily take place in the office, like the first meeting, and then he realised at once that he would have to take some trouble with his appearance during the day. He went to the length of spending one-and-three-pence on a clothes brush of his own. A day or two later, he went to the further length of buying a few collars, very smart soft collars with long points on them, and was quite surprised at the difference they made. Then he had taken to folding his trousers and putting them under the mattress, and had even taken his better pair downstairs once and ironed them. Now, after brushing the coat and waistcoat and doing a little scratching here and there with his penknife, he took these trousers from under the mattress and thoroughly examined them.