More Deadly Than The Male (8 page)

Brant shifted restlessly. "I don't know if all that's so important," he said.

"But it is," George returned. "You try it and see. Robinson worked out all the angles, and they're worth studying. Now, if the old man is at home, your question, 'I suppose Mr Jones isn't in?' gets the answer, 'Oh yes, he is', and as like as not she starts yelling for him. When he turns up, you'll find he'll lean against the doorpost, blocking your entrance and ask what you want. You mustn't tell him until you're inside the house."

Brant had a far-away look in his eyes. He Seemed hardly aware of George's droning voice at his elbow.

'I've come to talk to you about Johnny's education.' That usually gets you in," George went on. "If he still won't ask you in, you put it to him straight. 'I wonder if I might come in? I can't very well talk to you on the doorstep.' "

"You've certainly got it wrapped up haven't you?" Brant said. "Well, let's see it work. Come on, I'm sick of this pub."

George consulted his packet of names and addresses. "All right," he said. "Let's try Mr Thomas. He's got two kids: Tommy and Jean. It's important to know the children's names. The old man thinks you're a school inspector if you mention the kids by name, and you're inside before he finds out you're not."

They walked along the wide arterial road, housed on either side by box-like Council dwellings. They were an odd-looking couple, and the women standing in the doorways, the men in their gardens and the children playing in the road, stared curiously at them.

"Here we are," George said, uneasy under the battery of inquisitive eyes. He paused outside a drab little house, pushed open the wooden gate, and together they walked up the path.

George rapped on the door. There was a rush of feet and the door jerked open. Two small children, a boy and a girl, stared up at them with intent, wondering eyes.

"Is your father in?" George asked, smiling down at them. They did not move nor speak, but continued to gape at them.

Brant said, "Get someone, can't you? Don't stand there gaping at me." His voice snapped viciously, and the two children immediately turned and ran hack down the passage.

"Ma . . . Ma . . . there're two men . . ."

George and Brant exchanged glances.

A middle-aged, slatternly-looking woman came down the passage, drying her pink, soap-softened hands on a dimly towel.

" 'Oo is it?" she asked, eyeing them suspiciously.

"I suppose Mr Thomas isn't in?" George asked, raising his hat and edging slowly away from the door.

" 'E's in the garden." She raised her voice and shouted "Bert . . .'ere . . .come 'ere . . ."

"That's all right," George said hastily. "We'll go round", and before the woman could protest, he left her and walked round to the hack garden.

Mr Thomas was resting after a bout of digging. He stood in the middle of a patch of newly turned ground, his cap at the back of his head, the spade thrust into the soil and the glow of sweat and health on his large, simple face.

He blinked when he saw George and Brant, and paused as he was about to light his pipe, uncertain, uneasy.

"Good evening, Mr Thomas," George said, approaching with a cheerful smile and a wave of his hand. "Getting ready for planting, eh? That soil looks good. By Jove! I envy you this garden."

" 'Evening," Mr Thomas grunted, and took off his cap to scratch his head.

"I wonder if you can spare us a moment?" George went on. "We've come to have a little chat about Jean and Tommy I hear they're doing very well at school." 

Mr Thomas brightened; embarrassed suspicion left his face. "From the school, are yer?" he said. He looked round the small garden a little helplessly, and then, raising his voice, he bawled, "'Ere, Emmie! Come 'ere, can't yer?"

Mrs Thomas and the two children joined them.

"These two gents are from the school," Mr Thomas said, wiping his hands on the seat of his trousers. He glared at the children. "Wot 'ave you two bin up to?"

"Oh, it's nothing like that," George put in hastily as the two children looked sheepish. "Your kiddies are a credit to you both. They're doing so well at school I thought you might consider helping them to do even better."

Mr Thomas looked blankly at his wife. "I dunno about that . . ." he began, and, getting no support from his wife, he lapsed into silence.

"Perhaps we could go inside for a moment?" George asked, moving towards the house. "I won't keep you long, but it's easier to talk inside than in the garden, isn't it?"

Rather reluctantly, Mr Thomas led the way into the squalid little house. They all crowded into the small front parlour. Mr Thomas dusted two chairs with his cap and pushed them forward, warned his children that if they didn't sit quiet he'd knock their blocks off, and sat down himself. Mrs Thomas stood by the window.

George glanced round the room and cleared his throat. He was not nervous. He knew what he was going to do, he had an interested audience, and the result of what he had to say was his bread and butter. More important still, he wished to impress Brant with his salesmanship. 

"Before I come to the point," he began, taking up his position behind the chair and grasping the back of it firmly in both hands, "let me put to you both a very important question. You will both agree with me that education today is the most vital factor in the life of any child?"

Mr Thomas and his wife emphatically agreed that this was so, and Mr Thomas began a rambling account of the lack of education in his time.

George hurriedly interrupted. "Fortunately, Mr Thomas, times have changed. Now, education is so important you can't leave all the work to the school teachers. Many a time your kiddies have asked you questions which you're unable to answer. There're thousands of such questions, and they are very difficult to answer. I've had a lot to do with children, and I know how worrying it is not to be able to satisfy their craving for knowledge."

"That's right," Mr Thomas returned, nodding his head. "Fair terrors these imps are. Always asking questions . . ."

"And what questions!" George went on, beaming at the children. "I don't have to remind you of all the conundrums, do I? You know only too well. All the same, these questions should be answered."

Mr Thomas nodded again. He had no idea what all this was about, but he felt that George did appreciate their difficulties and was trying to be helpful.

"Very well, then," George said, getting into his stride. "Children are thirsting for knowledge. Teachers haven't the time to explain everything children want to know. Parents haven't the knowledge. So what happens?" He leaned forward, suddenly looking stern. "Your children, Mr Thomas, are being mentally starved. Make no mistake about that! You would be ashamed to starve their bodies. Yet you are openly starving their minds. Knowledge is to the mind what food is to the body." 

Mr Thomas began to have doubts about George's good intentions. He scratched his head and glanced at his wife for support.

George paused until there was a long, awkward silence, and then he flashed on his old heartiness again. "Now, don't let that disturb you," he went on, beaming round on them. "I'm here to put all that right. I have a wonderful work that'll be the silent teacher in your home."

From his hidden poacher's pocket, he produced the specimen of the Ch
ild's Self-Educator
.

"Let me show you."

He laid the book on the table. Mr and Mrs Thomas and the two children crowded round him. He began to turn the pages slowly, making a comment for every page.

"Look at these magnificent pictures. Here, children can slip over to Africa and roam about the jungle in perfect safety. They can see the wild animals, study their habits and learn how they live. The King of Beasts. Isn't that a wonderful picture? Look, Tommy, look at the tiny cubs. They're like ordinary kittens, aren't they? But they'd scratch if you met them in the jungle." He glanced at Mr Thomas. "See how interested the boy is? Every page has been planned to attract children to look further. It's scientific teaching of the highest possible standard." He turned another page. "Now, what have we here? The story of wireless, and, more interesting still, how to construct many various kinds of sets. I'm sure you, Mr Thomas, would be interested in this section. Have you ever thought of making your own wireless? These instructions are simple, and you don't have to have any previous knowledge." He made sure that Mr Thomas was looking at the coloured plates a little wistfully before turning on to another section. "Here's something that's useful to everyone in the home: the Medical section. Your kiddie might scald himself—so many kiddies do—turn to page 155 and you learn how to deal with such an emergency. Your own doctor in your own home! Isn't that something worth having? No waiting, no bills, easy reference— possibly a life saved!" He noted the slow-rising interest, but decided that neither Mr nor Mrs Thomas was as yet quite convinced, so he turned on, delighted with the sound of his own voice, pleased with the set, worn phrases which now automatically came to his lips without the need of thought. "Tommy perhaps has to write an essay on ships: here it is, all ready for him Tommy will soon be at the top of his class. Jean has a problem in arithmetic: she fords her answer here. You, Mr Thomas, want to know what will best grow in your garden: here is the whole thing ready for you in the Gardening section. A few nights' reading and Mr Thomas' garden is the envy of all his neighbours. Mrs Thomas, although you're no doubt an excellent cook, you can get new ideas from the Cookery section." He stepped hack and thumped his large fist on the back of the chair. "It's a great work! A work for every one of you. You will agree with me, I am sure, that it'd be useful to have a set of these magnificent books in your home? Can't you see how they'd help your kiddies get on and assure a sound future for them?"

Mrs Thomas stared at her husband, her eyes bright. "Ain't that a wonderful turn out, Bert?" she said. "I've never seen anything like it. What say, shall we 'ave 'em?"

"Yes, dad," the children chimed in, "let's 'ave 'em. Coo, dad, look at all them pictures . . ."

"You shut up," Mr Thomas growled. He scratched his head and fingered the specimen thoughtfully. "I'm not saying they ain't all right, but this sort of thing costs money . . ."

"Now let me explain about that," George said, with an expansive smile. "The Child's Self-Educator is in four handsome volumes. Although we're making every effort to put this work in all homes at cost price, it still needs a little effort on your part to secure it. Good things don't just fall from Heaven. I wish they did, but they don't. You have to make a small sacrifice for them." He shook his head solemnly Then, lowering his voice, he said impressively, "It's going to cost you tuppence a day."

"Tuppence a day?" Mr Thomas repeated blankly. "Wot yer mean?"

"Just that," George replied, knowing that he had reached the crucial part of the sale and moving with caution. "Consider what tuppence a day means. A shilling odd a week for your children's future success. Surely that isn't asking too much? We don't collect the money daily or weekly, of course, but monthly: five shillings a month.

"The whole work costs seven pounds, ten shillings. We're not asking you for that amount, we're asking for five shillings a month. The way to look at it is that you're going to pay tuppence a day to help your children and yourselves."

"Seven palms ten!" Mr Thomas gasped. "Not bloody likely! Not for me, chum. No, I can't afford that." He picked up the specimen and handed it to George. "Thank yer for calling, mister, but it ain't no good."

The two children immediately began an uproar, and Mrs Thomas had to drive them from the room. The small house echoed with their disappointed yells, and George became slightly flustered.

"Now, one moment, Mr Thomas," he began hurriedly, realizing that he had struck the worst kind of prospect—the man who can't afford it. "You've agreed the books are good and . . .

"The hooks're orl right, but the price ain't," Mr Thomas said, a stubborn light in his eyes. "It's no use arguing. I can't afford it, so that's that."

George stared at him helplessly, aware that Brant was watching him with a sneering grin.

"Of course you can afford it," George said warmly. "You mean you can't afford to be without it. Tuppence a day! Why, anyone can afford that."

"Just a moment," Brant said quietly. "I can prove you can afford to pay tuppence a day for these hooks."

Both Mr Thomas and George turned and stared at him He was eyeing them with a hard, calculating expression in his eyes. Before they could speak he went on, "You're a sporting man, Mr Thomas. I bet you half a dollar you can afford to pay tuppence a day. If I prove to your satisfaction that you wouldn't miss this small sum, will you buy the books?"

"You can't prove it," Mr Thomas said, beginning to grin.

"In that case, you'll get the half dollar," Brant said, putting a half a crown on the table. "Fair enough, isn't it?"

Mr Thomas hesitated, then nodded his head. "Okay, cocky, prove it."

Brant produced a soiled ten-shilling note. "I'll have another bet with you," he said, his lips curling into a smile, but his eyes like granite. "I bet you don't know how much money you have in your trousers' pocket."

Mr Thomas blinked at him "Wot's that got ter do with it?"

"If you can tell me to the exact penny how much you have in your pocket, I'll give you this ten bob."

"I can do that orl right," Mr Thomas returned, automatically moving his hands to his pockets.

"No . . . don't do that. Tell me, without looking, exactly how much you have."