Francie Comes Home

by Emily Hahn

  Francie said, “I’d not only like it. I’m all swelled up with pride.”

  “Why, you didn’t think I was going to keep you as a stockroom slave forever, I hope,” said Mrs. Ryan, but she was gratified; Francie could see that.

  The next week was a busy one, showing Anne Clark such matters about the shop that her quick intelligence hadn’t already grasped during her frequent visits, and arranging the itinerary for the journey. Mrs. Ryan always drove her car on these trips, and had a regular beat on the way, calling in at other gift shops in the towns they passed through so that at least a day of her absence was used up on the road, going and coming. She outlined the plans to Francie, who marveled as she made note of the shops’ names.

  “‘Ye Olde Curiositie Shoppe’,” she said, reading it out in wondering tones from a letterhead. “Mrs. Ryan, not really!”

  “Well, why not?”

  “Oh, I don’t know; it just sounds like a parody of itself. And this one—‘Ye Corner Cupboard’.”

  “It’s a very good name,” said Florence stoutly. “Best thing about that shop, if you ask me. It attracts attention. Passers by know exactly what to expect when they see a name like that—antique china, pottery, glass, knickknacks.”

  “Not to mention greeting cards, and maybe a circulating library as well?” asked Francie with deliberate malice.

  Mrs. Ryan said, “As it happens, not a circulating library. You’re a superior young thing, Frances Beatrice; your Aunt Norah doesn’t spank you enough.”

  The preparations entailed a good deal of visiting back and forth with Fredericks & Worpels, for it was a part of Mrs. Ryan’s reciprocal arrangement with that firm that they should run each other’s errands when either of them made visits to Chicago. Several days before their departure Francie went in to take a message and found Chadbourne alone. Chadbourne said for the third or fourth time that she fiercely envied Francie’s opportunity. “I do wish Mummy would take me now and then when she goes on business trips, but until now she always had some reason for leaving me here,” she said, “and ever since Lucky joined us it’s been his job. So I don’t suppose I’ll ever get a chance.”

  Francie said, “You’re a silly, Chad. You know perfectly well you could go any time you liked, anywhere you liked. Your mother would take you with her, too, if she believed you really wanted to go or were interested in the firm’s affairs.”

  Chadbourne looked stubborn, but didn’t deny it outright. The fact was, Francie suspected, she had never thought of wanting to go to Chicago, or on any buying trip, until just now. The idea would never have occurred to her, or have seemed attractive if it had, until she saw her admired friend embarking on such a tour. “At any rate, I’m much too busy now,” she announced, palpably relieved at finding an excuse. “Because if I were to go away at this point, the whole J.D.S. would probably fall to pieces, since I’m the only one who really wants to see it through. I’d hate to have anything like that happen just when we’ve got going on something really promising, wouldn’t you?”

  Francie agreed. It was true that Charley’s Aunt needed careful nursing at this, the earliest stage of production. Moreover the committee had been hurried into hiring the town theater for a stated two nights some weeks in the future, so that they simply had to be ready by that time or postpone the play indefinitely. Chadbourne’s eyes glowed as she talked about the responsibilities and trials of her position. “And while you’re at it,” she suddenly said, “I mean while you’re in Chicago, keep us in mind. We’ll have to start getting the stuff together for the sets; in fact, that’s much the hardest part of putting on a play, I’ve discovered—there’s nothing to casting and rehearsing and all that. All this time I’ve been living in a fool’s paradise, expecting Mummy would let us take our pick of her stock here in the store, but no such luck. She says we can’t borrow anything that’s any good at all, only the rejects in the basement. I think it’s awfully mean of her.”

  Francie said, “You little dumbbell, don’t you know she doesn’t own the place one hundred per cent? She couldn’t be so high-handed as to let us use valuable stuff out of stock. The other owners would have a lot to say about that.”

  “Oh, I know; she explained all that,” said Chadbourne discontentedly. “But I shouldn’t think they’d notice. It’s only two nights, after all.”

  “There never was a more slapstick play than Charley’s Aunt, except that nobody throws a custard pie,” said Francie. “It’s bound to be sheer ruin to any props. Everything and anything’s likely to get smashed.”

  “In a good cause,” insisted Chadbourne. “Oh well, if we’ve got to provide our own, we’ve got to, I suppose. So you look out for something beautiful but fake, something that doesn’t cost anything, at the Merchandise Mart. After all, you’re property manager.”

  Francie said, “Assistant property manager, and that’s a long way from being boss. Bruce is the real props; we’d better let him do the deciding when the time comes. I’d be picking out all the wrong tables and chairs.” She turned and surveyed the polished pieces that stood around elegantly in Fredericks & Worpels’s chaste gloom. “They do look lovely,” she said, “and terribly expensive.”

  “Oh, they are!” Chadbourne assured her.

  “Well, we couldn’t aspire to this standard in the sets,” said Francie, “so you may as well forget about it.” She moved toward the door.

  “That’s just what makes it difficult,” said Chadbourne. “We’ve got to aspire to some sort of standard that’s not too low, you know. That last act, for instance; it takes place in an English drawing room which is supposed to be absolutely beautiful, very swanky. Even in the first act, in Jack’s chambers at Oxford, we mustn’t let things look exactly shabby, because he’s supposed to be living on a high scale. I still think Mummy’s got the wrong idea. It would be magnificent publicity for the firm, I should think, to have ‘Furniture kindness of Fredericks & Worpels’ on the program, the way they do about jewels and clothes and things on New York programs. What are you laughing at?”

  “Your comparisons,” said Francie. “Imagine a little note, ‘Miss Fredericks’s costume kindness of Mrs. O’Grady, upstairs over the dairy on Main Street’.”

  Chadbourne laughed unwillingly. “It’s a good idea just the same. I haven’t quite given up hope of persuading Mummy to give; I can always set Lucky on her, and he’s got much more pull with her than I have. Makes me mad sometimes.”

  She spoke quite cheerfully and carelessly of Bruce. Francie’s ears pricked as they always did at such mention; she went back to the Birthday Box thinking about her words and wondering what Penny’s diagnosis would be of the situation. Lately, Chadbourne mentioned Bruce Munson calmly if at all. She didn’t act like a lovesick girl any more, though Francie thought she had started out like that. To judge by appearances, the possibility of a romance between them could be counted out, Francie decided. Lovesick girls aren’t so casual. Either they avoid any mention of the beloved’s name, or they go out of their way to make up excuses to pronounce it for the joy of becoming embarrassed, of blushing and bridling and generally advertising their feelings without using actual words. In fact, Francie reflected, she herself would have been unable to mention Bruce quite so easily as Chadbourne had done—“And nobody could call me lovesick,” she thought triumphantly.

  In the whirl of the last few hours before taking off, she was gratified to observe, there wasn’t any time for brooding about Glenn or Bruce Munson, not even to the extent of making up long mental letters to Penny. And it wasn’t as if she didn’t have plenty of reason and aggravation. The night before they started, there was the first rehearsal of Charley’s Aunt, which had finally been cast. Bruce was playing Jack Chesney, and that meant that he was on stage most of the time. Francie herself had begged off with the comparatively minor part of Ela Delahay, the orphan who doesn’t even make an appearance until the last act. Her Birthday Boxduties gave her an excellent excuse for dodging anything in the play that was more like work. Sh
e was a little disappointed that Bruce wasn’t playing Lord Fancourt Babberley. It wasn’t a romantic part, but it was the lead. She felt he would do it well, and was sure that he, too, was disappointed in not having been chosen for it. However, the casting committee had thought otherwise. Bruce was tall and slender and good-looking; the man playing Lord Fancourt should be not too tall, so that he would be reasonably convincing in feminine masquerade, and their choice fell on a small, plump, fair-haired boy named Jimmy Wolfe.

  No, there was no time to brood; there wasn’t even time to answer Penny’s latest letter. “I’ll do that from Chicago,” Francie vowed, and set to work at the last minute, packing all her newest clothes. In spite of being a Jefferson girl, she didn’t know Chicago very well, and certainly she wasn’t familiar with the side of the city that Florence Ryan would be able to show her. They had taken a double room at the Sheridan.

  In spite of strict instructions, Aunt Norah and Pop both got up very early to see her off, and Francie thought ruefully that they were as excited as she was. It showed what a dull life Pop was leading, in spite of the brave face he was putting on it, she decided; nobody would have thought that Fred Nelson, who in his day had been—well, a captain of industry, she reflected (never mind how banal that sounded, it was a fair description)—could get so worked up over a little buying trip that his daughter was making on behalf of an obscure retail store in Jefferson. It was sweet of him to feel that way, nevertheless. Ever since she had been old enough to think about it, Francie had been sorry for Pop’s sake that she didn’t have a brother, or that she hadn’t been a boy. Now she began to realize that it wasn’t really very important whether a child was boy or girl. The main thing was that a parent should be able to interest himself in his child’s affairs. Pop couldn’t have been more proud and happy if she had indeed been a son setting out to make a fortune. He and Aunt Norah made a great fuss about her breakfast, and getting her suitcase out to the car, and talking the plans all over again with Mrs. Ryan, and checking the address of the hotel and their return date and all the rest of it. Finally, rather late, they got started.

  On the way they stopped at a place called Wiggintown, to call on the gentle old lady there who ran the Curiositie Shoppe, which turned out to be a candy store that sold what she called antiques on the side. They also dropped in on Ye Corner Cupboard, where Francie looked around with suitable awe at the genuine antiques and excruciatingly expensive porcelain and glass while Florence Ryan talked business with the proprietor and took notes on the names of firms he recommended for imported ware. This all used up more time, so that they had to hurry after their late lunch. In the ordinary way the drive from Jefferson would have brought them to Chicago by mid-afternoon, but it was past that before they got anywhere near the city. Mrs. Ryan said they would stop for supper at a roadhouse and get to the hotel in nice time to unpack and go to bed early.

  “It’s going to be a rugged week and you’ll need some reserve sleep,” she said cheerfully.

  They were just approaching Chicago’s sooty outskirts when a car caught up with them and hooted impatiently, hanging on their rear. Francie was spelling Mrs. Ryan at the wheel, driving at as good a clip as was safe on the busy-road. She was surprised that anybody should want to pass, but like a good girl she moved over slightly and waved to the driver, indicating that he should go on. He didn’t pass: he only continued to toot at great length.

  “What is the matter?” demanded Florence Ryan indignantly.

  Francie said, “I wouldn’t know. Maybe our slip is showing. Oh, all right, if he won’t, he won’t.” She stepped on the gas, but the car behind stayed with her, now and then hooting plaintively.

  “It’s a familiar-looking car,” declared Mrs. Ryan at last. “Better slow up, Francie. It’s probably somebody we know.”

  Francie pressed the brake and the other car immediately turned out and shot past, the lone driver waving exultantly. He didn’t stop, but went ahead and was soon lost in the distance. It was a blue car of sporty make, and the driver was Bruce Munson.

  “For Pete’s sake,” said Francie. “What’s he doing down here?”

  Mrs. Ryan said, “That young idiot. He’ll get in trouble if he tries driving at that speed after a few more miles. The Loop is no joke.”

  Francie finished the trip in thoughtful silence.

  CHAPTER 11

  In the drowsy daze that follows a long, successful drive, the two women had a snack in a nearby drugstore and then went to bed. There was little to say to each other at that hour of the evening. Francie had been plunged into secret thoughts by seeing Bruce Nunson. What could it mean, his having come to Chicago, as he obviously had? Not a word had been said about such plans when she set out, and Mrs. Fredericks had given her to understand that she and Mrs. Ryan, not Bruce, were representing the firm for the week. Oh well, tomorrow might tell: their paths no doubt would cross.

  Francie took a bath and went to bed. A few minutes later, Florence Ryan came out of her turn in the bathroom wearing a gown and negligee that astonished her young companion. Somehow one expected her to sleep in thick white, with long sleeves and a high neck. Instead she had decked herself out in apricot-colored nylon trimmed with pleated frills and lace inserts, which looked very odd indeed, for her face was as uncompromisingly plain as ever. It was worse, in fact, because it glistened with cleansing cream and was surrounded by tight hair done up in bobby pins. As if she had read Francie’s mind, she said cheerfully, “do you like my actressy get-up?”

  “It’s lovely,” said Francie. “Wherever did you buy those things?”

  “I get everything here or in the East. I don’t want Jefferson talking about my taste,” said Mrs. Ryan. “The fact is, I lead a secret life of surprising luxuriance. (Of course I’m talking about underwear, nothing else.) Don’t know why I do it, exactly, except that it’s such a relief; it’s an exhaust of some sort, I guess. We old ladies who live alone must indulge ourselves somehow.”

  “Oh, Mrs. Ryan!”

  “Well, why shouldn’t I say so?” asked Florence Ryan. “Mind you, I’m not wailing at my sad lot. I’m quite satisfied the way I am. I’ve tried living married and I’ve tried living single, and on the whole I prefer the life I’ve got now.”

  Francie didn’t reply, but she was startled. It had never occurred to her to doubt that women of Mrs. Ryan’s age were alone simply because they couldn’t help themselves. She had taken it for granted that when Mr. Ryan died, his widow had naturally elected to devote the rest of her life to his memory. In Francie’s opinion, Mrs. Ryan wasn’t being quite proper in professing that she liked things better as they were. Certainly life was full of surprises.

  Calmly Mrs. Ryan settled down on her pillows, snapped on her reading lamp, and opened a magazine. “Of course it’s been a long time since I knew about it and I may be doing it an injustice,” she said absently. “Married life, I mean.” She put on reading spectacles and turned to look over their rims at Francie. “That doesn’t go to show that we’re all the same, though,” she said rather severely.

  “Oh no. Of course not,” said Francie. She asked herself what that remark meant, and because her mind was so full of her own situation, she leaped to the conclusion that Mrs. Ryan was referring indirectly to Bruce Munson and herself, hinting that she mustn’t be put off marriage by any of her employer’s cynical remarks. The thought made her blush pleasurably, until Mrs. Ryan spoke again.

  “Take Anne Clark for instance,” she said. “Now, there’s a woman who was never meant to live alone, and I certainly hope she isn’t going to be so foolish as to try. Anne oughtn’t to waste any time getting married again, and whatever man she does marry will be lucky. Don’t you agree, Francie? Isn’t she a wonderful person?”

  Francie murmured acquiescence without putting her mind on the subject too strenuously. Instead, she was thinking that it was strange of Mrs. Ryan to be so chummy all of a sudden. She behaved almost as if they two were middleaged contemporaries, exchanging cozy gossip over th
eir teacups. This certainly wasn’t characteristic of Mrs. Ryan as Francie had always known her: Florence was a chatterbox, but not really a rattle-pate. Did she mean anything she didn’t want to say outright? What was she getting at? An uneasy question stirred in Francie’s mind. Though she was tired and sleepy and comfortable, she couldn’t quite slip off into unconsciousness. It almost sounded as if Mrs. Ryan was hinting that Francie ought to be aware of something that affected her closely. Surely she didn’t mean …

  The telephone shrilled and woke her up: she glanced at her watch and realized that it was not yet late. Florence, who was still reading, turned to the table between the beds and lifted the receiver.

  Francie waited. It must be for Mrs. Ryan, she told herself; all calls would be because it was Mrs. Ryan’s business trip. Still, she hoped and held her breath.

  “Yes, she is. She’s right here,” said Mrs. Ryan. “I don’t think so, not quite asleep. Just a minute.” She rolled her eyes mischievously as she handed over the phone. It was Bruce Munson, of course.

  “What are you up to, for heaven’s sake?” she demanded. Self-consciousness gave her voice a sound she hadn’t intended: instead of being gay and careless, it was cross. Lucky Munson was quick to react.

  “Whoa there I It’s a public city, Chicago is. I’m still allowed right of entry, as far as I know. Why shouldn’t I be here?”

  Francie said, “I didn’t mean that, only you did surprise us, passing us that way on the road. Anyway, what is the idea? You weren’t thinking of coming down when I saw you yesterday. Of course I’m delighted, but …”

  Bruce said No, she was right, and he had a message for her. “Lottie realized early this morning that I’d have to come in, as far as I can make out. She’s just heard of a plan to redo the country club entirely, and she has dozens of new Fredericks & Worpels ideas. First she meant to call you up tonight long distance, and then I persuaded her it would be simpler just to let me come and attend to the whole thing in person. I should think you’d be glad to have all that extra responsibility off your shoulders, you two girls.”