Twenty Thousand Streets Under the Sky (33 page)

She now accidentally dropped a fork, and they smiled at each other again.

‘Did you find your way here all right?’ asked the old lady, and in the manner common to those who are slightly deaf and imagine others equally stricken, repeated the question. ‘Did you find your way here?’

‘Oh yes, madam. It was quite easy.’

This was the first time Bella had heard a full-blown ‘madam’ uttered in the house since the war. It gratified her, but she was unable entirely to rid herself of the impression that it was merely in keeping with the solemn game being played by this little thing.

‘I came by the 27 ’bus,’ she added.

‘Oh yes. Let me see now – you live up at Hackney, don’t you?’

‘No. Camden Town, madam.’

‘Oh yes. Camden Town. How silly of me.’

‘Yes. It’s just a threepenny ride, madam.’

‘Oh yes. But then you’re coming in to live with us on Saturday, aren’t you?’

‘Yes, madam. That’s right.’

She left the room, returning a few moments later. She herself next volunteered a remark.

‘It’s over a pet animal shop, madam – where we live,’ she said, in naïve, clear, and peculiarly childish accents. She was clearly delighted and diverted by the uniqueness of her own habitation.

‘Oh yes?’ Bella was surprised by the girl’s simplicity. ‘That must be very interesting.’

‘Yes madam. They’re interesting to look at – some times.’

There was then a silence, and Bella again looked at her. What on earth did it all mean – this prettiness, this neatness, this humility, this grave courtesy, this perfect charm and complacency? She had an air of being much too good to be true.

The wild dogs of optimism in Bella’s heart leaped to the occasion. What if the problem was as clear as day? What if the
good, for once, had come true? What if this child were a treasure? Why not? She looked at her again and was convinced she was.

At this moment Marion came into the room. Rendered self-conscious by the presence of the other two, she went to poke the fire.

‘Jane’s been telling me about where she lives,’ said Bella. ‘We must start calling you
Jane
now, mustn’t we?’

‘Yes, we must, mustn’t we?’ said Marion. ‘Is that what they call you at home?’

‘Yes, madam. Though a lot call me Jenny.’

‘Oh. Jenny. That’s very pretty.’

‘Though you couldn’t hardly say it’s for short, could you, madam?’

All three laughed nervously at this truism and said ‘No!’

‘Yes,’ said Marion. ‘I think that’s
very
pretty. We’ll call you that . . .
Jenny
. . . .’

Jenny, without blushing, here assumed the countenance of one who blushes, and a moment afterwards left the room, closing the door softly behind her.

‘Well, what do you think of
that
?’ whispered Bella.

‘Don’t know at present. What do you?’

Bella here mumbled a few words culminating, as had been anticipated by Marion, in the word Treasure.

‘M’m,’ said Marion severely. ‘New brooms sweep clean.’

But there was an unhabitual gleam of exultation in her voice, and she did not look at her sister as she brushed the fireplace.

Jenny had been advised to beat the gong five minutes before actually laying the supper on the table. This was a crude estimate of the time it should take the ‘Doctor’ to bring himself downstairs. The beating of the gong was supplemented by a stentorian visit from Marion, and the old man got to work at once. With his mouth agape, and gazing fixedly ahead, he achieved the journey in a series of methodical advances from one stair to another – remaining a full period upon each, it seemed less with the object of recuperation than of appraising
and exhausting its responsive creaks. With experience a maid might well boil an egg from observation of his progress.

Jenny’s first glimpse of the Doctor was when he was on the seventh stair from the bottom. She was moving rapidly in and out between the dining-room and the kitchen, and she caught the straight beam of his steady but alarming eye. She imagined he would be in the dining-room by the time she returned. He was, however, still in serious occupation merely of the next stair further down. Indeed, so far as she knew he had remained quite stationary. He again caught her eye, looking at her without embarrassment, pleasure, or disgust. She kept on coming in and out, and he continued to look at her. It struck her (but not apparently him) as being a singular mode of making an acquaintance.

His journey was ultimately brought to a successful close in a chair on the fire side of the table, and all was in readiness for the evening repast. This was always of a sparse nature, consisting most often of boiled eggs and a little ham or tongue, in conjunction with brown bread and butter. In fairness to his waistcoat, which would otherwise have shared his supper, it was necessary to tie a large napkin around the Doctor’s neck. His beard, left out in the cold, but no more immune, was wipeable by another napkin which was tenderly placed on his lap.

Apart from such infinitesimally shamefaced details, the presence of this remarkable old dodderer in the room worked an austere and bracing effect upon the service. Voices were deferentially lowered, and it was felt that, whereas all confabulations between Marion and the girl had hitherto been conducted as it were behind-scenes, now the curtain was up. ‘Very well,’ she whispered, nodding and smiling. ‘We’ll ring when we want you, Jenny.’

The removal of the dish cover was a little sensation. The girl had done them omelettes. ‘She said she wanted to,’ said Marion. ‘So I let her.’

Bella was the first to taste hers, and she pronounced it next thing to a miracle of cooking. And the
sauté
potatoes (an unforeseen embellishment) were deemed as good. Both ladies
munched away, taking more salt, deciding a little pepper would be the thing, passing it affably, and in general betraying a highly self-conscious approach to their food.

This did not apply to the Doctor, upon whose drooping mouth and forsaken look, omelettes, like new maids (and, one might be sure, floods and earthquakes) were impotent to make any impression.

‘Looks as though we may be able to live decently at last,’ said Marion, and Bella agreed.

The faith that they were certain to live decently in the near future had furnished these two women with the self-respect they needed for ages – ever since, in fact, old age, advancing poverty, and an acuter servant problem had set them going down the steep decline leading to Mrs. Brackett. The true realization that they had not been living decently in the near past, however, only assailed them on occasions such as these. They then faced the truth frankly and fearlessly, and with the exaltation of spirit of all converts.

‘When I
think
of that woman . . .’ said Bella.

‘Don’t talk about her,’ said Marion. But she did not mean this. She loved to talk about Mrs. Brackett. As a saved sinner loves to talk of his sins, she loved to talk about her.

‘No. We
won
’
t
,’ said Bella, rigidly. But she did not mean it, either.

When Marion rang the bell, Jenny immediately appeared, and in perfect silence began to collect the plates. Obviously a morsel of Praise must be doled out at this juncture, but the timing and execution thereof was left to Marion. Everything was left to Marion, and in the manipulation of Praise, as in all else, she was an adept. She restrained herself until Jenny had gone out with the tray and returned again with the cheese.

‘I thought those omelettes were beautifully done, Jenny,’ she said, smiling up at her.

Jenny, again without blushing, again assumed the countenance of one who blushes. ‘Were they, madam,’ she said. ‘They make a nice Change, don’t they?’

This rejoinder was in the best traditions of a cook’s
modesty. It engendered a feeling that variety alone had been aimed at, and drew the attention away from the cleverness of the performance itself.

‘Yes,’ said Marion. ‘I don’t know where you learnt to cook like that, I’m sure.’

‘It was my aunt – taught me most, madam,’ replied Jenny, and left the room.

‘And so
pretty
!’ whispered Bella.

‘I know,’ said Marion. ‘That’s what’s so strange.’

Shortly afterwards they rang again, and Jenny entered to clear away. The old gentleman was tactfully released from his napkin by Marion, and rose, not without assistance. The door was opened for him, and he paused. Then slowly he set out upon the long expedition – the last of the day. Later Marion would go up and help him into bed.

The curtains were now drawn, and the electric light was switched on. They plied the girl with sundry questions concerning herself as she cleared away. She answered in the same modest, naïve, pleased tones – amiably expansive and yet never garrulous – and an atmosphere of bright accord grew and flowered apace. It was obvious that they liked her, and that she liked them, and if there was any evidence to show that this girl was not, as had been instinctively foreseen, a Treasure, it had yet to reveal itself. At last a peak of intimacy and cheerfulness was reached.

‘I expect
you
have some young man eating his heart out for you, haven’t you, Jenny?’ asked Bella.

Jenny looked at the table-cloth with a faint smile as she cleared the things.

‘No, madam. Not just at present, madam.’

‘Oh well. I expect there will be soon.’

‘I daresay, madam. But I always think there’s plenty of time for that, don’t you, madam?’

The ladies laughed at this and prophesied that it would not be long. Jenny left the room.

If that was not a Treasure’s way of looking at things, what was? Indeed, was it not the remark not merely of a Treasure, but of an adorned Treasure – might they not even dare to aver an
Old Fashioned Treasure? In low tones they debated the delicious mystery of the girl.

At last a foreboding that she was tempting Providence (an ever-vigilant and revengeful monster of whom she lived in nervous dread) beset Marion.

‘We’ll have to see what to-morrow brings forth,’ she said, and casually took up the newspaper and began to read, as though striving not to attract Providence’s attention to what she had already let fall. Bella did the same with her book.

They were not aided in this nonchalant pastime, however, by innumerable clinking testimonies to fervid industry floating through the hatch from the kitchen. After Mrs. Brackett, the newcomer’s air of irresistible thoroughness simply cried out for notice.

She gave at least twenty minutes more to the kitchen than Mrs. Brackett had ever given, and then was heard mounting the stairs. She was evidently going to straighten the bedrooms and turn down the coverlets. During the long reign of Mrs. Brackett and her daily forerunners, this service had dropped out of use and been practically forgotten.

‘Did you ask her?’ whispered Bella, and Marion confessed that she had not.

‘My
dear
!’ said Bella, and even Marion was moved. Positively, instead of they shaming the child, the child had shamed them!

The pleasure they felt at this gratuitous assumption of a duty coincided, however, with a slightly hunted look upon the faces of both – a look brought into being by a fear of exposure derived from an automatic misgiving that they had ‘left something out.’ But a moment of rapid mental retrospection relieved their souls, and soon after Jenny came downstairs and was safely in the kitchen again. Rather curiously, complete silence fell.

Bella provided the solution. ‘Putting on her hat and coat,’ she said. . . .

This, after another period of silence, proved to be the case. A knock came, and she stood in the doorway dressed for the
streets. Broad smiles and a kind of sitting at attention occurred within the room.

‘Going now?’ asked Marion.

‘Yes, madam. Half-past eight to-morrow then, madam?’

‘That’s right, Jenny. Good-night.’

‘Good-night, madam.’

‘Good-night, Jenny.’ Bella was not going to be left out.

‘Good-night, madam.’ Jenny had no intention of leaving her out.

A moment later the front door closed with a click which in itself contrived to be modest and retiring, and then rapid footsteps hastened down the street into the distances of the dark.

Having seen her in her hat and coat, and hearing those receding footsteps, there dawned upon the two old women, for the first time, a faint realization that the girl actually had being, and pursued activities, apart from them. But it lingered for but the briefest of instants, nor did they say a word about it.

‘See how she’s left her kitchen,’ murmured Marion, and went out.

Bella could not resist following her, and they stumbled along the dark passage, one after the other.

There was only gas laid on in the kitchen. It was black and chill out here, and a tap hissed and dripped. They groped their way towards the matches. ‘Here we are,’ said Marion. . . .

The weak gas lit with a pop, and in its frigid, aquarium illumination was revealed the zeal of a saintly and scrupulous personality. With a single stroke a kitchen Cromwell had subdued the insidious advances of dirt and derangement, and retrieved from anarchy the miserable pass into which Mrs. Brackett’s slovenly reign had brought all things. Clean and suspended pots, cups, and pans, a brushed floor, a shining oven, a scrubbed sink, spread sheets of newspaper, hanging cloths – all displayed an air of symmetry and meticulous method. Countless little details and tokens of ingenuity refreshed the eye. And in one corner the child’s neat working shoes – dainty reminders of the departed genius, and prim promise of her return.

In the throaty noise made by the gas the old ladies cast round their eyes in awe. At last Bella could restrain herself no more.

‘My dear,’ she said. ‘We’ve got a
Treasure
.’

They returned as it were dramatically to the dining-room, and made ready to go to bed. It was of no avail: neither could hold out any longer. They could discern no flaw in the pattern of the evening: their content in their servant was ripe and unblemished.

And because of this, and because this problem of a servant had lately filled their anxious minds to the exclusion of all else, to these old women all life itself, at this instant, was flawless, and a thing of joy.