Sarah Morris Remembers

by D. E. Stevenson

  It was a warm friendly letter, saying how much they had enjoyed Lottie’s visit and what a dear girl she was . . . so natural and unaffected and so delightfully pretty. The letter continued:

  “At first we thought they were much too young to be engaged, but when we saw how devoted they were to each other we could not withhold our consent. Mac told us that you would give your consent to an engagement, if we would give ours, and when he explained that this was his embarkation leave and the battalion was being sent abroad we felt we could deny him nothing. We are afraid you must be feeling anxious about the engagement; your little daughter is so young and you do not know much about Mac, but we would like to assure you that our dear boy is wonderfully sensible and responsible. He has always been a good son, thoughtful and considerate, so we are sure he will be a good husband. Mac asked us not to tell Lottie that the battalion was under orders – he wanted her to have a happy time while she was here. Our hearts were heavy at the prospect of parting with Mac, and at the thought of the dangers lying ahead, but we were glad that he should have this brief period of happiness before he went away. It is sad that the two dear children are to be parted, but we must hope and pray that all will go well and they will be spared to enjoy a long and happy useful life together.”

  When I had read the letter I handed it back to father. “They must be very nice people,” I said.

  “Yes, it’s a kind, sensible letter,” he agreed.

  There was no time that night for me to mention clothes to father, but the next morning at breakfast I asked him if he could give me some money to buy a coat and a few other things that I wanted.

  “My dear, do you need new clothes? You always look very nice,” said father in surprise.

  “I want a warm coat for the winter.”

  “Of course you must have a coat!” He frowned thoughtfully and added, “But you’re getting a dress allowance, aren’t you?”

  “No, you just give me money for housekeeping expenses. I really need some new clothes, Father, so if you could——”

  “I thought I had arranged it with the bank . . . but that was for Lottie, of course! Oh, dear, I’m afraid I’ve been very inconsiderate, Sarah!”

  “It doesn’t matter,” I told him.

  “It does matter! I must go to the bank this morning and find out how much there is in my account. Dorrie always managed our financial affairs. I’m not very practical about money.”

  This wasn’t news to me. I had no idea what father’s income was (it was doubtful if he knew it himself), but he had a small private income which should have been enough for us to live on in moderate comfort, but he could never refuse a request for money; sometimes he ran himself so short that he hadn’t enough at the end of the week to give me to pay the rent and the very small bills for our living expenses. Lately this had happened more often for it had got about amongst the less desirable elements, who came nightly to the shelter, that Mr. Morris was always ready to listen to a hard luck story, and was “good for a fiver” if the hard luck story were sufficiently heart-rending.

  When I hinted gently to father that we ought to try to save a little he had reminded me that we should “take no thought for the morrow” . . . which had silenced me completely. Now, however, Lottie’s advice had made me think again and I had come to the conclusion that if father was “a lily of the field” I had better become a “wise virgin” or we should soon be left without any oil for our lamp.

  At supper that night father told me he had been to the bank and had discovered to his surprise that there was a nest-egg on deposit receipt; so he wrote a cheque for fifty pounds and gave it to me. “I’ve been selfish and thoughtless,” he said remorsefully. “You do all the work in the flat and make me very comfortable so it’s only right that you should have money to spend. I shall open an account for you and tell the bank to pay in fifty pounds every quarter.”

  “It’s too much.”

  “No, no! It’s what I give Lottie.”

  I thanked him suitably and made no more objections. It was more than I needed but I could keep it safely and have something to fall back on if necessary.

  We were both unusually cheerful that evening; father because he loved giving and I because I was looking forward to my shopping expedition.

  “Where will you go for your coat?” asked father.

  “Barrington’s,” I said. I had often dawdled past the huge block of buildings, looking in at the plate-glass windows. Several times I had gone in and wandered round. It was a “luxury store,” warm and comfortable; even in war-time Barrington’s had a wonderful display of goods. On the ground floor there were wide, carpeted corridors with stalls on each side upon which were displayed gloves and stockings, perfumery and soap, ribbons and laces. There were large halls with tiled floors where one could buy meat and fish, fruit and flowers and groceries. Upstairs there were departments for coats and hats and suits, children’s garments, shoes and underwear. There were furniture departments with whole rooms furnished in different styles; there were departments for books and toys and pets. There was a Gentleman’s Department, a Wine and Tobacco Department and several large restaurants. It was Barrington’s boast that they had “Everything You Want.”

  “Oh, Barrington’s,” said father, nodding. “It’s a big place, isn’t it? I’m afraid it wouldn’t be much use for me to come with you; I know very little about ladies’ clothes, but I shall be interested to see your coat. Be sure to choose a nice warm one, Sarah.”

  It was not until I was going into the store that I began to wonder what I should do about the cheque. How could it be turned into money? Then my eye fell upon a notice which was written in several different languages, “Bring Your Problems To Us,” so I took a lift and went up to the office. Here I found a broad shiny counter divided into sections for “Inquiries,” “Accounts,” “Complaints,” “Foreign Exchange,” etc., etc.

  The young man in the “Inquiries” section was very attentive.

  “It’s about a cheque,” I told him. “My father gave it to me to buy some things I want, but I haven’t got a bank account so I’ve brought my problem to you.”

  He smiled and said, “Quite right! If you don’t mind waiting for a few minutes I’ll send for Mr. Duncan.”

  I sat down on a comfortable sofa and waited. It was amusing to watch people coming in and looking round and making for the different sections of the counter; most of them were women, but not all. A fat man with a very disagreeable expression made a bee-line for “Complaints.” “It’s disgraceful!” he announced loudly.

  Unfortunately I never learned what was disgraceful, for at that moment Mr. Duncan appeared and invited me to come into his private room. Mr. Duncan was of medium height and strongly built; he had smooth brown hair, brown eyes and very white teeth. His voice was clear and incisive. He was well dressed in a brown worsted suit . . . altogether he looked a very pleasant capable man. His private room was an exceedingly comfortable apartment with a sofa and two easy-chairs; in the middle of it stood a very large table with an enormous blotter, a case of stationery, two baskets full of neatly clipped papers, and three telephones.

  Mr. Duncan placed a chair for me on one side of the table and sat down opposite me.

  My problem was no problem to Mr. Duncan. “Yes, I see,” he said. “We can deal with this in several ways, Miss Morris. First I’ll ring up your father’s bank and have a word with the manager – it won’t take five minutes – and then we can either cash the cheque for you or else you can leave the money with us and buy what you need in the store.”

  I said I would leave the money; I didn’t want to walk about with fifty pounds in my handbag.

  Mr. Duncan nodded. He picked up a telephone receiver and in less than five minutes he had arranged matters with the bank manager. He took the cheque, made out the receipt and handed it to me.

  “Now that you have opened an account at Barrington’s, Miss Morris, I should like to explain the advantages,” said Mr. Duncan. “For one thing
——”

  There was a tap on the door and the young man from “Inquiries” looked in.

  “Not now!” exclaimed Mr. Duncan, waving him away.

  “It’s important, sir. I wouldn’t have interrupted you if——”

  “This lady’s business is important.”

  The young man looked at me imploringly.

  “I can easily wait a few minutes,” I said.

  “That’s very kind, Miss Morris. Well, Marriott, what’s the trouble?”

  “It’s a foreign lady, Mr. Duncan. She speaks a few words of English but we can’t understand what——”

  “Get Mademoiselle Claire.”

  “She said she wasn’t feeling well and went home.”

  “She’s never here when she’s wanted!”

  “The lady is very excited, Mr. Duncan. She asked for someone who could speak German——”

  I said, without thinking, “Perhaps I could help.”

  They both looked at me.

  “I can speak German,” I explained. “Not as well as French, of course, but I might be able to——”

  “Why should you be bothered?” said Mr. Duncan. “Listen, Marriott, you’ll just have to tell the lady——”

  “Let her try, sir!” exclaimed Mr. Marriott. “The lady is very excited. I’ll bring her here.”

  “No, please!” I cried in alarm . . . but Mr. Marriott had vanished.

  Mr. Duncan smiled at me. He said, “It will be very kind of you, Miss Morris. Don’t look so frightened. If you can’t make anything of her it won’t be the end of the world.”

  There was no time to say any more before Mr. Marriott returned with a very large lady in a very expensive mink coat. I saw at once that Mr. Marriott had understated her condition; she was furiously angry. She stood in the doorway and glared round the room. “I am a Dutchwoman,” she announced in German. “If anyone here could speak my language there would be no need for me to soil my lips with the language of my country’s enemies. I ask for someone who can speak German because it is written over the doorway that German is spoken here. Does that mean I am German?”

  I shook my head and said, “Nein.”

  “Oh, you understand, do you?” she asked, frowning at me.

  I nodded and said, “Ja.”

  With that she burst into a torrent of abuse. She was so angry and so voluble that I couldn’t understand all she said, but I gathered that she was furious because she had seen the notice over the doorway, written in large letters, “Bring Your Problems To Us.” It was written in English, French and German . . . but there was nobody who could speak German in the place. No, nor French either!

  When at last she paused, breathless, I spoke to her in German and explained that the interpreter had been taken ill and gone home.

  She glared at me.

  “I regret that I cannot speak German well,” I said.

  “You speak quite well.”

  I smiled at her and thanked her and asked her to sit down. “I should like to help you,” I told her.

  It was gratifying to find that I was able to understand the lady, for my German lessons with Mr. Miller had ended abruptly when we left Fairfield. I began to wonder whether it would be possible to make friends with this lady and arrange to have conversation with her. However it was useless to think of that at the moment; it took me all my time to cope with the situation.

  She sat down on the sofa and I went and sat beside her. “I should like to help you,” I repeated.

  “Who are you? Do you belong to this god-forsaken place?”

  “No, I came to speak to Mr. Duncan on a private matter, my name is Sarah Morris.”

  “Mees Mawriss?”

  “Yes.”

  “My name is Mevrouw Zumbach. Can you deal with my problem?”

  “I hope so; I shall do my best.”

  She had calmed down now, and began to explain what she wanted. Her son had a post in the Netherlands Chamber of Commerce and she and her daughter had escaped from the Netherlands before the German troops overran the country. Her son had many friends in London and she wanted to give a luncheon party to make some return for the hospitality he had received. She had been told that Barrington’s had a private room which could be hired for parties.

  I looked at Mr. Duncan. “Is that right?” I asked.

  He was sitting there, smiling at me. “Is what right, Miss Morris?”

  “Oh, I’m sorry! I forgot you couldn’t understand. She wants to hire a room and give a luncheon party. If you give me a jotting pad I’ll make notes about it.”

  “But, Miss Morris, why should you bother? Just tell her that we’ll be delighted to do it for her; the details can be settled——”

  “Give me a pad and a pencil!” I interrupted impatiently. “If I don’t do it now she’ll probably get into another rage and go somewhere else.”

  He took a pad and a pencil out of his drawer and brought them to me. “It’s very good of you,” he said.

  I made notes of what she wanted: the date, the hour, the number of guests, the food and the wine and various other details. It took quite a long time, she was very unbusinesslike, but at last it was all settled.

  “I hope it will be a very successful party,” I told her.

  “Would you like to come, Mees Mawriss?”

  “Would I like to come?”

  She nodded. She was smiling now and her face looked quite different, round and fat and kindly. “Please come,” she said. ‘It would be a pleasure . . . and my other guests would like to talk to an English lady.”

  I laughed and thanked her and accepted the invitation; it would be a good opportunity to practise my German.

  When she had gone Mr. Duncan said, “I’ve been sitting here watching you tame a tiger.”

  “She was more like a bear.”

  “She was a wild animal of some sort,” he agreed, laughing. “I couldn’t understand a word but I gathered she was extremely rude.”

  “I didn’t understand all the rude things she said.”

  “Perhaps that was just as well.”

  We looked at each other and smiled. Then I drew a chair up to the table and made a fair copy of my notes for him.

  “This is excellent,” he declared. “I’m extremely grateful. You see we’ve just made some rooms on the top floor into a suite for parties. There’s a very large room for dances and wedding receptions and a smaller one for luncheons and dinners. The English Rose Suite is a new idea of mine; I’m tremendously keen on new ideas. It isn’t only that the Zumbach party will be a paying proposition, it will also be an advertisement. We’ll do it well, of course, and the guests will tell their friends – that’s how things get known.”

  I nodded and rose. “I expect you’re busy, Mr. Duncan, so——”

  “Just a minute,” he said quickly. “The fact is I’ve been wondering . . .” he paused.

  “Wondering?”

  “I suppose you’re a business woman, Miss Morris?”

  “A business woman? What do you mean?”

  “You’re a secretary, I expect. You’ve got a post in some firm? I mean . . .” he paused again.

  “What do you mean?” I repeated in bewilderment.

  “I’m trying to offer you a job,” said Mr. Duncan.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  I waited until after supper before breaking the news to father. I waited until I had washed up the dishes and we were comfortably settled by the fire. I was just going to begin . . .

  “By the way,” said father, “you haven’t shown me your coat; I hope you got a nice one.”

  “Goodness! I forgot all about it.”

  “But I thought you were going to Barrington’s?”

  “Yes, I did, but something happened which——”

  “Something happened?” interrupted father in alarm. “Not anything unpleasant, I hope?”

  “No, it was rather amusing. I was just waiting until we were comfortably settled to tell you about it.”

  “Go
ahead,” he said, taking his pipe and filling it carefully. “Go ahead, Sarah. I’m all ears.”

  I told him the whole story from beginning to end and added, “I want that job, Father; I want to start to-morrow.”

  “But, my dear girl, there’s no necessity for you to take a job. You’ve got plenty to do at home – and at the shelter. To-day’s experience was amusing but other experiences might not be so pleasant. Anyhow I don’t like the idea of your working in a shop; it would be too exhausting for you.”

  “It wouldn’t be exhausting; Mr. Duncan said I’d be in the office most of the time, translating letters. Then, if a customer comes to one of the departments – someone who can’t speak English – they’ll send for me.”

  “I don’t like it at all.”

  “It won’t affect you, Father. Mr. Duncan knows I can’t be there until eleven o’clock so I can do all the housework and the shopping before I go.”

  “I wasn’t thinking of my own comfort, my dear. Sometimes I feel you make me too comfortable. I’m thinking of what’s the best thing for you. No, no, Sarah, it won’t do. You must ring up that man and tell him——”

  “This is the best thing for me,” I said earnestly. “I want something to do that will use my brain and prevent me from thinking. Cleaning and cooking aren’t any use.”

  He looked at me sadly. “I was hoping you were beginning to get over it.”

  I shook my head.

  “But you’re happy with the children. Why not come to the shelter more often? You’re so good at amusing them and keeping them quiet.”

  It occurred to me, quite suddenly, that Lottie never argued with father; she just went ahead and got her own way without any trouble at all. Why should I have to fight like a tiger for anything I wanted?

  “And another thing,” said father. “You don’t need a paid job; I’ve given you an allowance for your clothes.”

  “Yes – and it’s very kind of you – but it isn’t really the money. I’m keen on languages, as you know, and if I take this job I shall be able to make use of my one small talent and be helpful to people who are strangers in a strange land.”