Twenty Thousand Streets Under the Sky (66 page)

‘Oh yes, of course I will.
Bustah
! Bad dog! Personally I don’t
think
’ said Mrs. Sanderson-Chantry, ‘I don’t
think
that she’s really
likely
to come. And
then
, of course. . . .’

Ella was extremely anxious to hear the end of this trailing sentence, since it sounded very much as though in that event she could look upon herself as practically as good as engaged – but she was not destined to hear this. For at this moment the dog Buster having espied, or imagined that it had espied, a
tradesman entering the precincts, wrenched itself free from the grasp of its mistress, and with wild and deafening barks went rushing and slithering over to the window.

‘Bustah!
Bustah
! Come here, Bustah!
Bustah
! Come here! Bustah!
Bustah
!’ cried Mrs. Sanderson-Chantry, adding her own ear-splitting yells to the din and tumult already caused by the dog, and Ella felt that the atmosphere was no longer really ripe for pressing home any further enquiries, and signified by her look that she was ready to go.

The dog had now rushed out of the door, with Mrs. Sanderson-Chantry in hot pursuit. And with Ella following, and with Mrs. Sanderson-Chantry screaming ‘Bustah! Bustah! Will you come here! Will you stop that noise! Bustah! Bus
TAH
!’ – interspersed with a few polite repetitions of the fact that she would write to Ella, and that she was glad to have seen her, and did she know her way back all right – Ella took her leave, not feeling that she had made a very profound impression upon the Sanderson-Chantry household. ‘Bustah! . . . Bustah!’ were the last dim cries she heard as she turned around the corner.

However, she had all the elation of one who has got over an interview, a light, hilarious feeling, rather like coming out of school, and on reflection she decided that it had all been Very Satisfactory. She was a Nice Lady, a Very Nice Lady, really, and she was sure the gentleman was nice too, only she happened to have caught him in a temper. He was probably having his afternoon nap. Yes – they were both nice, and she could see herself being very happy with them. And it did look as though she was approved of, if only that Other girl didn’t decide to go after all.

She shot down the flying suspicion that this Other girl was a pure romantic fiction created by Mrs. Sanderson-Chantry in order to have a graceful line of escape, and again reassured herself that it was all Very Satisfactory. She would Love to be with them. Wage-slaves, as we have seen, are constrained to go on reassuring themselves like this.

But they cannot keep the flag of their spirits flying all the time, and in the train going back, and having a sudden reminiscent
vision of the hostile maid, the Sanderson-Chantrys, and Bustah, ‘Oh, if only I had some
money!
’ Ella said tensely to herself, thus revealing her underlying impressions of the interview.

‘O
F COURSE,’ SAID
Master Eric, who after a period of disinterest had condescendingly decided to help her again in the bar this morning. ‘If you can get the balls into the Anchor Position, you can go on scoring indefinitely.’

He was discussing Billiards – in which evidently he was an adept. She had to admit, sacrilege as it was, that she was getting a little tired of this little boy. Oh no, that was going too far – she would say rather that children were naturally a little ‘wearing’ when you had troubles on your mind. And she didn’t think she had ever had quite so many little troubles and perplexities as at the moment.

To begin with, her stepfather had lain in a critical condition for well over a week now, and there had even been talk of his recovery. Not very serious talk, but enough to justify redoubled energy in nursing (her mother would kill herself nursing him if she was not careful), and to throw everyone into a state of confusion and suspense. Ella did her utmost not to think about that five hundred pounds, but now that it had shown these minute symptoms of withdrawing itself from her orbit she found herself thinking about it more and more. That the hellishly sinful words ‘Buck up’ had ever entered her mind in connection with her thoughts concerning the ill man was one of the dark disgraces of her inner soul. All the same in that inner soul she knew perfectly well that she wished he
would
Buck Up, and she was verging upon the consoling but disingenuous theory frequently adopted by people in like circumstances, that it would be Best for him.

Then there was India. She had had not a word from India, though four or five days had passed, and she was beginning to think that they were never going to write, and had decided against her. Finally, there was Mr. Eccles, to whom (in putting off meeting him) she had lied on that day she went up to Hampstead, and who had half-suspected this, and was also beginning to get a little angry and jealous over her enforced and frequent visits to Pimlico.

With all these things on her mind she felt justified in finding Master Eric a little ‘wearing,’ though of course she would never be so Unkind as to show it. Though she had been feigning a certain knowledge of Billiards, she hadn’t the remotest conception what the Anchor Position was, and replied ‘Oh yes, that must be very clever.’

‘It’s not a question of being
clever
,’ said Master Eric. ‘Anybody can do it.
I
could do it.’

‘Oh yes.’

‘You’ve only got to get the balls into the right position.’

‘M’m. That’s the thing to do.’

‘How would
you
, for instance,’ asked Master Eric, ‘set about getting the balls into the Anchor Position?’

‘Well, I really don’t know.’

‘I suppose you know what the Anchor Position
is
?’

‘Well – I don’t think I do, really.’

‘But I thought you said you understood Billiards?’

‘Well, so I do. I’ve played it once or twice.’

‘And yet you don’t know what the Anchor Position is?’

‘No. I’m afraid I don’t.’

‘Do you know
anything
about Billiards?’

‘Yes. I’ve said I did.’

‘Do you know what a Nursery Cannon is, for instance?’

‘Well – let me see now. . . .’

‘It’s nothing to do with
Children
’
s
Nurseries, if that’s what you think,’ said Master Eric, quite unfairly attributing this fanciful conception to her, and then unjustly scorning her for it.

‘No. I didn’t think it would be.’

‘Then what
is
a Nursery Cannon?’

Ella was anxiously hunting round in her mind for another evasive answer to this, when the situation was saved by the appearance of Bob, who had come to open the house (it had just struck eleven), and who told Master Eric that he was wanted by the Mrs. upstairs. Master Eric had therefore perforce to go, not without the threat that he would ‘come back and ask her later.’ But anyway the proper atmosphere for tying Ella up had gone for the moment, as the little beast was never able to show off in front of Bob, who could wipe the floor with him on Billiards, Football, Wireless, Chemistry or anything.

About a quarter of an hour later there were five or six customers in the bar, including a stout red-faced, middle-aged gentleman in pince-nez and a bowler hat, whom she had never seen in the house before. But he was talking, in a rather aggressive and haughty voice, to one of the other customers, and she had decided that she liked neither the sound nor the look of him, and hoped that he would not develop into a permanent customer.

Her surprise and resentment, therefore, was all the greater, when in passing his area of the bar to fetch a bottle, she heard a stentorian ‘Excuse me,’ and, turning, saw him staring impertinently at her.

‘Yes?’ she said, pretending that she thought he wanted to be served or something.

‘Are you the famous “Ella”?’ said the stout, red-faced gentleman, so that everybody could hear, and Ella’s heart missed a beat.

‘Yes,’ she said, enquiringly. ‘That’s right.’

‘Ah – I thought there was no mistake,’ he said. ‘You and I have a mutual friend, I think.’

‘Have we?’ said Ella, the blood rushing up to her cheeks as she realized what was coming. ‘I don’t think so.’

‘Oh yes, we have. You think again,’ said the stout red-faced gentleman, looking at her in a patronizing, appraising and confidential manner which made her want to run out of the bar.

‘No. I don’t know what you mean,’ she said.

‘Don’t you really? Surely you do. And very good taste brother Eccles has, I must say.’

Ella was so infuriated she could not trust herself to speak, and just gazed at him distraught. And broadcasting it in his horrible voice in front of the whole bar like this! By the grace of God Bob was not in the vicinity at the moment, but he might come into earshot at any moment, and
then
what was she going to do!

‘And she blushes very nicely, too, doesn’t she?’ said the red-faced gentleman, turning to the customer standing next to him, who had perceived Ella’s embarrassment, and was looking rather a fool himself.

‘I think,’ said Ella, ‘that you must be making some mistake.’

‘Oh no, there’s no mistake, believe me. I’ve been told all about it.’

‘Well – I –’

‘We’ve got to look into our old friends’ little indiscretions, you know,’ continued the red-faced gentleman, ‘just to see that they’re not being led on.’

This was too much for Ella, and she cast all courtesy and restraint to a customer to the winds.

‘Well,’ she said, ‘I don’t think there’s any need to shout out about it all over the place – is there?’

‘Oh! So she’s a little Spitfire, too!’ cried the red-faced gentleman, but Ella had now left him, and was pretending to busy herself with some bottles in a cupboard beneath the surface of the bar.

Well! Of all the cheek! Of all the blooming nerve! Of all the cool calculating impudence! Her resentment was concentrated not so much upon the present offender, as upon the absent Mr. Eccles, for his underhand and unforgivable action in putting her in such a position. So he was sending Spies now, to come in and look her over! She had not the slightest doubt that she had been talked over and over with this red-faced man, who was apparently an old friend, and that Mr. Eccles had slyly sent him in to form a second opinion. Otherwise why should he as a stranger have gone out of his way to come to ‘The Midnight Bell’? The whole thing was as clear as day,
and never, never had she been so angry. Well, he had overreached himself this time, and wouldn’t she just let him Have it! Let him wait till she saw him to-morrow! She didn’t care a hang for his beastly money, and she would let him have it as he had never had it before from anyone, with his beastly Religion and gossiping!

The whole of this episode was over in two or three minutes (the red-faced gentleman, also furious because she was not going to play, leaving a few minutes afterwards with a very sarcastic ‘Good Morning, Madam,’ and an exaggerated raising of his hat) – but the memory of it stayed goadingly with Ella all day. A thousand schemes for revenge upon and retaliatory humiliation of Mr. Eccles went through her brain, but it was not until the evening that fate seemed to play into her hands, and oddly enough through the instrumentality of Bob.

It was getting on for closing time in the crowded bar when Bob, who, she noticed, had been in very good spirits all the evening (there was no mood of Bob’s she did not notice) – asked her if she would like to come to the pictures and tea with him to-morrow afternoon.

‘You’re free all right to-morrow afternoon, aren’t you?’ asked Bob.

‘I should say I
am
,’ said Ella, and indeed, she was so overcome and delighted at the rare prospect, that for a moment or two she quite forgot that she was engaged to meet Mr. Eccles at the usual time and place to-morrow afternoon. When she remembered this she at first had a great shock, for she realized that it was too late to get a letter to him in time, and she could not find it in her heart, richly as they might deserve it, to let anyone down like that. On the other hand she equally could not find it in her heart to relinquish this precious opportunity to know Bob better (she had half a mind to confide some of her perplexities to Bob) – and she at last alighted upon the reckless expedient which alone would meet the case – she would send Mr. Eccles a telegram.

A telegram! She had once sent one for the Governor, but never one on her own behalf, and she was appalled by her
own temerity and extravagance. But no sooner had the idea got hold of her, than she was intoxicated by its potentialities and nothing else would do. You could be as curt and excuseless as you cared in a telegram, and she could not help feeling that it would Show him as nothing else might. It wouldn’t have occurred to him that barmaids could send telegrams as well as anybody else, would it? – and what would haughty Sisters-in-Law think of telegrams from despised underdogs arriving at the house in the morning? In fact the more she thought about it the more she revelled in the luxurious thought, and she began to frame the brief words she would use.

She slept badly that night, staying awake into the small hours, thinking about her telegram, and sensing the silent proximity of the telegraphically innocent and sleeping Bob in the next room. At a quarter to three she heard him get up for a drink of water from his jug (a habit of his with which she was familiar in the dark quarters of the night, but her secret knowledge of which was never likely to be mentioned or come to light), and it seemed at least an hour after that before she dropped off herself.

In the morning she hastily slipped out just before the house opened, and despatched the wire.

‘DON’T MEET TO-DAY AFRAID ENGAGED.’

was what it rather crudely ended up as, for although she had innumerable other abrupt and wilfully mystifying alternatives, she had not definitely fixed upon any single one, and she was in such a hurry that she got in a panic and wrote down the first thing that occurred to her.

The morning dragged by slowly enough, and yet was insidiously pervaded by the excitement and pleasure of the afternoon jaunt ahead (though Bob, of course, had said nothing more about it, as it was his pose to appear blasé in matters such as this); and at three o’clock she hastened up to her room to get ready.