Walking up Foxfield Road from the station, he decided that his black vicuna jacket might be too short for the tall hat, so he put on his raincoat, which reached below his knees. Though of dark grey mixed woollen and cotton material, this coat, with its raglan sleeves, did not really go with a topper, he felt. Mr. Tate wore his in the Lane with only a short jacket; still, Mr. Tate was big and hearty, looking as though he had had nothing but the biggest beef steaks for luncheon in the London Tavern for many many years. Some of the men in the Lane wore blue serge suits with top hats, but Mr. Hollis had explained that they put on their silk hats only when calling on one another in their offices, or meeting to do business in vault or exchange. They would not wear them with a blue serge suit outside the City. The silk hat was a compliment to the other fellow, as well as to the tradition of the City, said Mr. Hollis, in a tone that made Phillip feel that he too was of the City.
The silk hat survived its first crossing of the Hill. No small boys jeered. Indeed, no one appeared to notice it, to his relief. As he went down the gully, and approached the top of Hillside Road, his features became set, a little strained, his upper lip stiff, as he tried to think that there was nothing unusual in wearing such headgear, should he be seen by Helena, or Mr. and Mrs. Rolls, as he passed their house. After all, he was entitled to wear a silk hat; he was a man of the Lane; and one of the seven hundred and fifty thousand who kept the country going, as Mr. Hollis had said.
To his mingled relief and disappointment, none of the Rolls family were visible. Old Pye, in the next house lower down, was not in evidence, either, thank God. Now he was safe, opposite Gran’pa’s gate. He looked in, and waved. Gran’pa saw him through the window, and beckoned him in. Phillip mouthed through the glass that he would see him later: his purpose was achieved. Gran’pa had seen him in the hat, and so had Aunt Marian, who had come because of the departure of Miss Rooney, the housekeeper. He lifted it, feeling like Mr. Tate, and setting it at a slightly forward tilt, again like Mr. Tate, walked on down behind the privet hedge.
Mrs. Bigge was at her gate. He bowed, and raised what he felt was the equivalent of that splendid headgear of magazine stories, a ‘faultless Lincoln Bennett’, even if it was only a Lunn.
“Goodness me, Phillip, I thought for a moment you were your Father! Though you haven’t got a beard yet. My eyes are not what they were. Just come back from London Town?”
“Yes, Mrs. Bigge,” he said, disappointed that she had not remarked on his distinguished appearance. “There’s been a slight fire in the East India Docks this afternoon, and we are on several risks there. However, we always spread risks by guarantee.”
“Fancy that.”
“Do you like my new headgear?”
“So that’s what it is about you that was puzzling me! I knew somehow it wasn’t you, Phillip. My, you are quite a swell!”
He swept off his hat to her with a bow, and went in his gate, the hat now slightly over one brow, like Mr. Thistlethwaite wore his. He left his raincoat behind him on the wall of the porch. He rang the bell.
Mother came. She stared. He waited. Then a smile came upon her face.
“How do you do,” he said, lifting his hat slightly.
The sight of her little son, as Hetty still thought of him, standing there, so serious of face, made her laugh. Her laugh was of tenderness, of pathos, of a sense of childlike fun that her experience had not yet turned to despair and acceptance of defeat. Standing before her, he looked so comic, so much a slender, young-faced edition of Dickie, that she could not restrain her feelings. And knowing Phillip’s sense of humour at times, she felt he was giving a little parody of his father. To her dismay his expression changed.
“Well, you needn’t laugh! I don’t think it’s so funny, anyway. May I come in? Thank you.” He hung the hat on the top of the newel post and without further word went into the scullery. He always went to Timmy Rat when he felt upset, she knew.
Hearing his footfall, Timmy Rat dashed through its fretwork hole, tail knocking on box in its eagerness to be scratched. Nose pointed, whiskers trembling, pink raindrops of eyes glistening, it waited to dream as finger-tips gently rubbed its ears.
“At any rate, you don’t laugh at me,” said Phillip, loud enough for his mother to hear.
“I’m very sorry, dear, but I was not really laughing at you, you know. I was really so taken by surprise that——”
“There is really no need to explain, thank you all the same. You weren’t laughing at me, only at my hat. Personally, I always thought you tried, not always successfully, I admit, to impress on me that it was rather bad manners to take any notice of other people’s appearances. At least, that is what you and Father were always trying to drum into me when I was young!”
She was shocked by his tone of voice. “Really, Phillip, if anyone else heard you speaking like that, they might think you were serious.”
“I am serious.”
Could this be her own son speaking? Could it mean that he had really taken her expression amiss, in the manner of his father? Must she then in future guard all her feelings with her own son? Her son—he who, only a little while ago, almost a terrifyingly short while ago, had been entirely hers to confide in, trusting in her for everything. She sighed; and as he remained with his back to her, unspeaking, she went away, and sat in the front room, to be beside the aspidistra fern she had tended, and even confided in, from almost the very beginning of her married life with Dickie, in the little house in Comfort Road, before her little boy was born.
*
She felt suddenly overcome. She told herself that it was foolish to let her imagination carry her away; that she was probably exaggerating a molehill into a mountain; but all the same, the feeling persisted that he no longer had the same affection for her as before. Could it be that he had never had any real feeling for her, apart from his need of her in the matter of protection, food, and the necessities of life? Was he going to be Dickie all over again? Oh, please God, spare him from an unhappy life. That tone of voice! If she had shut her eyes, it might almost have been Dickie speaking, in the days when the children were small.
Ah well, it was done now. She saw it clearly—she had made the mistake of giving up her entire life to her children, and they —or at least Phillip and Mavis—had grown up selfish, taking all for granted, as her husband had from the very beginning. The more one did for others, the more they expected; the more they demanded. She felt like weeping, for a moment; then telling herself not to exaggerate things, not to be silly—all that fuss over a hat!—O, why had she laughed—she got up, thinking that Phillip would be hungry, and wanting his tea.
This was more the case than Hetty realised. For the past fortnight Phillip had had nothing to eat in the middle of the day. His tickets had run out for the Head Office club, and he had not been able to ask Father for a further loan, in case Father said something.
As the rule about juniors not going out to luncheon applied to Head Office only, nobody knew that Phillip had spent his forty minutes each day in wandering about Leadenhall Market, watching the porters and poultry-salesmen, staring at windows with plates of cheese-cakes, ham-and cheese-rolls, tomatoes on plates, and large glass containers of lemonade with lemons stuck in their necks. He had gone several times on London Bridge and watched the shipping in the Pool. Once or twice he had sat in the Churchyard of St. Botolph, at the corner of Houndsditch and Aldgate, and in other City churchyards, small dank places where soot-spotted tombs were splashed with pigeon-droppings from the plane trees above, where poor-looking office-boys and other workers sat on the seats eating sandwiches, or walking slowly on paths confined between half-dead patches of grass. Once beside him sat a pale-faced girl with no expression in her eyes as she waited there, not eating, like himself. He wished he had sixpence, to press it into her hand, and then to leave her—his intentions strictly honourable in every way. Alas, he had not even a penny for a cheesecake, which was a nourishing thing.
For himself, in a remote sort o
f way, he had enjoyed the feeling of having nothing to eat. It was rather like the feeling when in the past he had run away from Mother. Self-imposed suffering made you feel very clear and simple, somehow.
*
Hetty went into the kitchen.
“Are you hungry, Phillip?”
“No thank you. I think I’ll go out on my Swift.”
“Well, you ought to have something, dear. It’s a long time since twelve o’clock.”
He did not reply.
“Will you let me boil you an egg, Phillip?”
He turned an anguished face upon her.
“Why can’t you let me alone? You don’t like me spending so much time with Mrs. Neville, but at least she doesn’t laugh at me, or worry me about this or that!”
She felt the shock right through her. She strove to hide her feelings. She, too, ate little in the middle day: a cup of tea, some scraps of left-over dishes, or a slice of white bread and butter. She was alone in the house, except when Mrs. Feeney came, or she went up to London with Papa, on a ‘stolen’ visit to the Tower, one of the picture galleries, perhaps Westminster Cathedral, or the Abbey and St. James’s Park with its water-fowl. Sometimes they went to a matinée in a theatre in the Waterloo Road, which Thomas Turney and his wife, before their children came, used to go to in the early Camberwell days. Then, said Papa, it was called the Royal Coburg Theatre; but later it changed its name to the Royal Victoria Coffee Music Hall, where lectures and penny readings were held. Now it was the Royal Victoria Hall, and gave an occasional play by Shakespeare.
“Well dear, have a cup of tea with me before you go out, do! Won’t you let me boil you an egg? I do so look forward to everyone coming home, you know. It’s a little lonely sometimes, with everyone away all day. If it were not for Gran’pa, I should feel quite lost! Of course, dear, I don’t mind in the least you spending any of your time with Mrs. Neville! I am only too glad that you find her such good company. Well, I’m going to make some tea, anyway.”
He jingled the coins in his pocket. Then she remembered what he had told her that morning. Of course, his first salary!
“It must be a very satisfactory feeling, Phillip, to have your own money.”
“Oh, I don’t know. In a way, I suppose it is. Look.”
He put the coins in a neat row along the edge of the kitchen table.
“Aren’t the sovereigns lovely? They feel so heavy, but if they were lead, it would not be the same feeling. These kind-of know they’re gold. I suppose they will soon be gone. I’ve got to pay back Father quite a lot. Then there’s what I’ve got to give you for my keep. How much is that?”
“Well, your Father and I have discussed it, Phillip, and we thought half-a-crown a week, if you could manage it, dear.”
“That’s fifteen shillings out of one sovereign. Then my monthly season ticket, nine and fourpence. Luncheon tickets, twenty-five bob, for thirty meals. Pay back Father, two pounds.” He calculated. “Four pounds nine and fourpence. What have I got here? Four pounds six and six. H’m. I owe two shillings and tenpence, and have to pay one pound to Mr. Howlett for my Fidelity Guarantee. So I shall have exactly nothing for the next six weeks except luncheon and train tickets. Well, all of you can take this!” he cried, sweeping the handful of coins on the floor. “Take the lot, all of you,” and ran out of the house.
Less than a minute later, he returned. “I am sorry, Mum,” he said, and burst into tears.
“I know how you feel, dear,” said Hetty afterwards. “But why didn’t you tell me you weren’t having any food in London? Of course, you are wrought up. I’ll soon have two boiled eggs, they are new laid, and such lovely brown shells. Mrs. Feeney brought them today. I’ll just put them on to boil, then I’ll help you find the rest of the money.”
It was picked up, except one sixpence, which had rolled down the mouse-hole beside the gas-pipe.
“No, dear, for goodness gracious sake don’t go digging under the floor for it! I am sure Father won’t expect the two pounds returned, but he would be pleased if you were to offer to do so. But you do what you think is best. Now you’re grown up, and come to manhood, you must decide things for yourself.”
“Of course I’ll do what you say, Mum,” he said, after his tea, optimistic once more. And when Richard came home, he found two sovereigns under his plate. He saw also the silk hat in the hall, but said nothing about that. About the money he said, “Look, old chap, I really don’t want this returned, but thank you for thinking of it. You keep it. Put it in the bank is my advice, for what it is worth. Did you see the smoke as you walked over the Hill? Or did you come home by taxi?” he said, lightly.
“What smoke, Father?”
“In the East India Docks. As I was leaving the City all the Outer London fire-engines were clanging their bells as they rushed east through the streets. It must be a big fire, judging by the smoke to be seen from the Hill.”
“Good Lord!” said Phillip. He had made it up to Mrs. Bigge, and it was true after all! But what Phillip had forgotten, as he had ‘invented’ the news to Mrs. Bigge, was his idle glance at the stop-press column of The Globe, while his thoughts had been all on the gloss of his hat.
Phillip went down to show his golden sovereigns to Mrs. Neville, and to tell her the latest news about everything, including the abrupt departure of Miss Rooney, Gran’pa’s housekeeper. Walking down the road, in tweed cap and old school jacket, rather tight and short in the sleeve, and Timmy Rat on his shoulder, he crossed over to the flat, waving to Mrs. Neville sitting at her open window.
“I’ve had to close the door, dear,” she called down, “as it’s catsmeat day. Here’s the key.” She threw it on the grass.
He opened the door, and having closed it, walked upstairs, hiding his white rat under his jacket. On the landing, front paws over the top step, sat Mrs. Neville’s huge cat, Mazeppa, who, according to Mrs. Neville, had second-sight. Mazeppa could see ghosts; most animals could, the fat woman often declared.
Mazeppa’s yellow eyes were fixed on its second-sight dinner now, thought Phillip. He knew the cat had been crouching there for hours, awaiting the well-known Tuesday miracle of the brass letter-box turning into horse-flesh. The catsmeat man was young Soal, the coalman’s son, who went his rounds on his bicycle after hours.
Mrs. Neville was telling Phillip that she was sure some human beings as well as animals—“After all, the same God made us all!”—were gifted with second-sight, and illustrating this with a story of her journalistic friends at Highgate, when a dull noise, a prolonged thudding, seemed faintly to be shaking the room. It was about sixteen pounds of Mazeppa hurtling down the stairs. The catsmeat man had arrived, to slip the weekly twopenn’oth of skewered horse-flesh through the letter-box. Up the stairs the grey cat bounded, to enter the drawing-room growling; and then from under the sofa came a steady noise of sideway chewing.
“Mazeppa knows the day and time all right, Phillip. He never makes a mistake in the calendar. Every Tuesday, as soon as he’s had his lunch and washed himself, he takes up his position at the top of the stairs.”
“Second-sight!” laughed Phillip; then over another cup of tea went on to tell her about Gran’pa.
“Don’t tell me, dear, if you think it is a family matter,” said Mrs. Neville, in the creamy voice she assumed sometimes, particularly when pouring from her silver teapot. “I don’t want your Mother to think that you come here only to tell me things which perhaps, after all, are not my concern. But I must confess that I thought something was in the air when I saw Miss Rooney following the outside porter from Randiswell wheeling her black corded box down Hillside Road this afternoon.”
“She came in this morning, just as Father left, and seemed a bit agitated, Mrs. Neville. She said nothing while I was there, but went into the front room with Mother. Then at tea tonight Mother mentioned that Great-Aunt Marian was going to keep house for Gran’pa for the time-being.”
“Do tell me, dear, how old is your grandfather?”
&nbs
p; “Seventy-three, I think.”
Mrs. Neville’s society manner disappeared as she cried, “The old roué!” with a shriek, and put down the teapot. The shriek always detonated laughter between them. “Ah, a woman is never safe when alone in a house with a man, Phillip! Why, your grandfather has tried more than once to come up and see me!” and they both shook with laughter again. “Ah, the old dog! Now not a word to your Mother, Phillip, promise me? I don’t want her to think——”
“You can rely on me, Mrs. Neville,” said Phillip, munching his second doughnut; and thus dismissing all thought of it from his head, asked after Desmond, his great friend, who was at boarding-school near Chelmsford in Essex.
Chapter 3
SPARE TIME
“TELL me, my lad,” said Mr. Hollis, soon after noon on the Saturday, “what do you do with yourself in your spare time? Tennis, I suppose, or is it cricket?” He lit his pipe.
“Well, just at the moment, Mr. Hollis, I go after birds.”
Mr. Hollis threw back his head and roared with laughter. Mr. Howlett smiled, as he lit his pipe; while Downham, tanned of face, looked sardonically across from his desk. Phillip knew the implication, of course, but pretended to innocence.
“By birds, I take you to mean our feathered friends?” enquired Mr. Hollis, with sudden assumption of courtesy towards his junior. “And not what the term apparently means in vulgar parlance?”
How Dear Is Life Page 4