“’Urry up, then.”
Two more journeys were needed, and then, breathing hard, Georgie presented himself before Mrs. Underwood.
“Ere you are, boy. One pound sixteen.”
“Thank you very much indeed, Mrs Underwood. I’m sure you’ll be glad you bought them.”
“Come ‘ere, boy.”
Puzzled, Georgie went nearer. With a grip so sudden and so strong he could have done nothing against it, even if he had been prepared, she seized his arms, pulled him down, and gave him a wet, sucking kiss.
“There now, boy. Get out with ‘ee. And if that there young fly-flappin’ toad—wat d’ee call him: Caunter—got any more rubbidge to get rids of, tell him to send you with it, cos I won’t look at nobody else.”
“Very well, Mrs Underwood. Goodbye. And thank you.”
“Goodbye. Saucy young toad.”
The ground was swaying under Georgie’s feet as he went out into the street, unhooked the reins, and climbed up into his preposterous tipping tub of a trap. The horse looked round for another piece of sugar, but Georgie was in too much of a hurry to get away. He shook the reins brusquely, and the animal, his ears once more flat along his head, broke into an ill-tempered trot.
As soon as he was out of range of the shop, Georgie wiped his mouth hard on the back of his hand. His emotions were in turmoil. The old woman’s final act had so astonished him that he had no time to be repelled. Now that he was clear of the place, and between country lanes again, it began to sound in his mind with an ugly echo, opening the doors of cellars he had no wish to look into. Deliberately he turned his thoughts away from it, and with incredulous delight went over his conversation with the old woman, and the fact that he had made her give double her original offer. Even now, probably, she had had the better of the deal, but he had been shown a power in himself, an aptitude to bargain about which he had never had the least suspicion. How could he? Life had given him no chance to find it. Who was this new Georgie, this person who with no experience of a thing could come out creditably from an encounter with an old and practised hand?
The thought and the excitement it aroused were heady and ungoverned. Beneath it, too, like a disreputable companion skulking behind a guest on a doorstep and hoping to sidle in with him unnoticed, was a disturbing shameful wonder at the old woman’s kiss. It was quite different from the only other kisses Georgie had ever received: one from the lady with whom they lodged at the seaside, and one, years ago, when he had been ill, from the Matron. Even if no one had ever kissed him before, he would have known that it had a quality different from the affection or the compassion people give to a child. What then …?
The question was so disturbing that he decided to give the horse another piece of sugar. But this time, the perverse animal, relieved to be heading for home, did not want to stop. When at last he pulled it up, it made a favour of accepting the sugar, and started off before Georgie had climbed in again. If he had not had a good grip on the reins, he might have been left behind.
Georgie looked about him, as soon as he had got his balance, to make sure no one had observed his loss of dignity. All was well; and within a minute or so he was again possessed by the strange sense of power, and the even stranger, alarming, but not wholly repellent other sense hinting where further power might lie. It was a lovely evening: the sun, which had been hidden behind a barrier of cloud, came out sheepishly, seemed to look round, as Georgie had a couple of minutes ago, to make sure that no one had noticed his eclipse, then beamed as if nothing had happened. Chaffinches flitted along the hedges, keeping the trap company: and Georgie’s heart swelled with life.
It swelled still more when he returned, and Mr Caunter made much of him. He was sunning himself in the doorway as Georgie drew up, and stared to see the old horse turn his head expectantly and accept a caress with the last bit of sugar. He opened his eyes still wider when Georgie reported the sale of the whole consignment of shirts, and handed over the money.
“You’ve got a way with you, young Bagshawe. I never thought the old cow would cough up more than threepence halfpenny.”
“She offered me threepence at first. Then she put on a halfpenny.”
And he related the interview in detail, leaving out its final incident.
“Well done,” Caunter said, when he had finished. “You must go out again. Maybe you can sell those damned caps.”
“Didn’t Mr Manchester——?”
“Mr Manchester didn’t.” Caunter’s jaw set grimly. “He isn’t worth his keep. I’d shoot him out to-morrow, only——” He looked at Georgie from under wrinkled brows. “Here we all are, trying to do the best for ourselves, and he contributes nothing at all. Goes around like a wet Sunday in Devonport—no wonder he can’t make sales. Any self-respecting person’d knock sixpence off the price, seeing that face come in at the door.”
“He does look a bit unhappy.”
“Yes, and he’s got something to be unhappy about, poor devil. Who’s going to give him another job, at his time of life?”
“But—isn’t he going to stay here?”
Caunter looked at him oddly, opened his mouth to answer, and decided not to.
“Come up and get your tea. You’ve earned it.” He shook his shoulders as if to shrug off the embarrassing weight of his pity for Mr Manchester. “I’ve no patience with the man. He should keep his troubles to himself, not go spreading ‘em round like a cold in the head. As if we hadn’t enough trouble of our own. No pride: that’s what’s the matter with him.”
“I’ll just wash,” Georgie said. “I’m all over dust from the road.”
From his bedroom he heard Caunter shouting for the meal, and chaffing the girls in the kitchen. When he came into the room, he found the young man in the highest spirits, slicing a cake of yellow soap into thin slivers. Miss Treglown was looking on, pretending to disapprove. Miss Smale was giggling.
While Georgie stared, Caunter pulled a plate of cheese sandwiches towards him, opened one, removed the cheese, and substituted the slivers of soap. He then put the soap sandwich on top, and shoved the plate in front of Mr Manchester’s place at the table.
“You’ll make him bad,” Miss Treglown said, as a last perfunctory remonstrance: then spoilt its effect by adding “Sssh. He’s coming.”
Mr Manchester came to the table like some indeterminate grey ghost; a presence rather than a person. Georgie did not dare to look up until he had seated himself; then he shivered at the drawn face, a rain-drizzled window of vacant misery. It produced a strange effect, as of sympathy turned sour. He saw what Caunter meant. It was not right for any man to go about advertising his unhappiness to the world. In a flash of guilty knowledge, he realized how easy it would be to turn cruel, to ill-use and bait the poor man, if only to escape from the hurt of having to be sorry for him.
Within a couple of minutes, he saw this happen with Caunter. In a kind of explosion, as if he had struggled to keep his feelings under control but could no longer, Caunter began indirectly to taunt Mr Manchester, first by praising Georgie in tones so loud they must penetrate even that glassy trance, and then by addressing the older man directly, and telling him of the good price Georgie, beginner though he was, had got for the shirts.
Roused from his unhappy dream, Mr Manchester quivered under the shock of the words.
“Ah, yes. Good. Good,” he murmured. “Glad to hear it.”
He turned his head to where Georgie was sitting, but did not seem to see him. Georgie for his part had sunk deep in shame. The feeling that he could have been cruel was banished by the reality of torment which he was forced to witness. He hung his head, blushing with embarrassment, and when, a minute or so later, Caunter kicked him under the table, and he saw that Mr Manchester had taken the sandwich, he felt none of the laughing excitement he had expected, but an ache of sick anticipation.
He sat, sweating against the seat of the chair, and thought with longing of his recent happy hours driving between the sunlit hedges with the ol
d horse and the gay fluttering finches. He would have given anything to be back there, miles away from this cruel scene, yet an ugly fascination made him watch.
Staring straight ahead of him, Mr Manchester bit into the sandwich, and began to chew. After a few seconds a bubble glistened at the corner of his mouth. It grew, and a second appeared on the other side. Georgie’s inside heaved with a spasm that was half nausea, half nervous laughter. He had to hold on tight to keep from some sort of convulsed explosion. When, having steadied himself a little, he dared to look again, the top of Mr Manchester’s beard had an incipient fringe of froth, and, as Georgie gazed, he jerked up his napkin and wiped it away. But he made no remark, and his expression did not change. He continued to stare blankly ahead, and eat the sandwich.
“What did I tell you?”-Caunter demanded triumphantly afterwards. “He’s so dotty he doesn’t know what’s happening to him. What good is he to any business? He’s a liability; that’s all he is.”
“Was he always so unhappy looking?” Georgie wanted to know.
“Can’t say I noticed. I think so.”
“He’s been worse lately,” Miss Treglown said. “His wife’s poorly. I expect he’s worrying.”
“Oh well, I’m sorry for him, and all that. But going on the way he is won’t do her any good. Nor anyone else.”
Georgie saw that, beneath his irritation, Caunter was sincerely sorry for Mr Manchester and ashamed of having treated him unkindly. Almost as if he read his mind, Caunter laid himself out to be pleasant, to such an extent that Georgie was entirely charmed. For the smart elegantly dressed young man to condescend at all to him was a great boon; but he seemed to do more, speaking to Georgie as an equal, and promising him fresh expeditions with horse and trap next day. Well, Georgie thought to himself, as once again he retired early to his bedroom, at this rate I shall soon run out of sweets. I’ll have to write to Aunt Butters and ask for some more.
The letter was never written. Next morning, immediately after breakfast, Caunter sent him on a trip to three village shops a mile or so off the main road. Just before he started, Mr Manchester appeared by the side of the cage, coughed nervously, and announced that he would look after the takings while Georgie was away. With all the warmth of his nature Georgie thanked him, as if Mr Manchester were conferring a great personal favour on him, and handed over his ledger. He guessed that Caunter had ordered the substitution, and so was at pains to spare the poor man further humiliation. His reward was a wan mounting smile and a slight softening of the thin voice; and he went out to the trap with his sense of guilt somewhat appeased.
The old horse greeted him with as near an approach to eagerness as his misanthropic nature would allow, received a generous ration of sugar stick, and started off without protest. The trip was not so successful as the first, one village shop bluntly refusing to make any kind of deal, and the next taking only a part of the goods offered.
The third shop did something to make amends, though all Georgie’s efforts to step up the price were useless. Still, he set off home with four pounds seventeen and sixpence in place of a dozen boys’ Norfolk jackets, of material and cut that even Georgie thought odd, plus nineteen shillings for two dozen so-called woollen stockings, and a pound for thirty boys’ caps.
Arriving back at the shop door, he pulled up as before, looking out eagerly for Caunter so that he might give account of his mission. This time there was no greeting, and no sign of the adenoidal Harry, who last night had come out and led the horse and trap into the yard.
After a brief hesitation, seeing that the horse was standing peacefully and showed no disposition to move off, Georgie got down, and went into the shop to investigate.
“Mr. Caunter, I——”
He broke off and stared. Standing behind her counter, Miss Treglown pushed over a small pile of boxes, and, as he looked round, put a finger to her lips. Then he saw that there were customers in the shop, two large men in bowler hats and mackintoshes. One of them, standing with his back to the door, turned round, and Georgie found himself inspected by a pair of hard blue eyes above a yellow stiff moustache.
“And who might you be?”
Tone and mien were frightening. Georgie cleared his throat. His voice came in a harsh squeak, and cracked. He cleared his throat again.
“Well. Go on. Don’t stand there coughing, boy. Who are you?”
“Bagshawe, sir.”
“Bagshawe, eh. And where’ve you been?”
“Out selling things. I’ve——”
He stopped, as the man turned to his companion.
“Another of ‘em at it.”
At the same moment Georgie caught sight of Caunter, standing on the far Side of the cage, half hidden by the second stranger. His face lit up, and he tried to step round the big man in front of him, to report himself and hand over the money. But the big man deliberately barred his way.
“Out selling things, eh?”
“Yes, sir. I have the money. I was just going to hand it to Mr Caunter.”
“Oh, you were, were you? Well—you can hand it to me instead.”
Georgie’s heart gave a sharp, painful bump. His mind raced wildly, trying to catch up with things. What was happening? Robbers? A hold-up?
Then Caunter stepped forward smiling.
“He’s not to blame, Inspector. He knows nothing about it. He’s only been with us two days. I take full responsibility for him.”
“Knows nothing? How can he know nothing, when he’s been selling goods from door to door?”
“He’s only doing what I told him. He doesn’t know what it’s all about.”
The big man glared down at Georgie.
“Mean to say you don’t know that when a business goes bankrupt the stock belongs to the creditors, and not to any Tom, Dick or Harry that takes a fancy to sell it and put the money in his own pocket?”
“Bankrupt?” Georgie’s mouth fell open. The colour left his face. Caunter laughed.
“There you are, Inspector. You can see for yourself—he knows nothing whatever about it. He’s simply been doing what I told him.”
Late that evening the second of the bowler-hatted men travelled in the train with Georgie and took him back to the Orphanage, where a greatly shocked Mr Entiknapp had to submit to a lecture on the criminal folly of entrusting one of his charges to the world without first satisfying himself as to the circumstances. It was useless for him to protest that Mr Burngullow was an old friend of his, and that the arrangements for Georgie’s future had been made a couple of years before. The detective solidly persisted in his rebuke. It was no thanks to Mr Entiknapp that Georgie was not in custody on a criminal charge. A Warden’s duty was to safeguard the moral welfare of his boys. Mr Entiknapp had been guilty of great laxity.
All this, delivered weightily in his presence, was for Georgie the last touch in a nightmare. True, in the train the detective had shown himself humane and not unkindly. In response to Georgie’s anxious and timid enquiries, he had said that “nothing very terrible” might happen to Caunter and the rest—though, he added severely, what they had been doing was dead against the law. The shock of finding himself involved in any form of wrongdoing was terrifying and appalling. To see Mr Entiknapp scolded, and hear his indignant voice collapse into blurred submission and apology, was like the end of the world. It added to all the terror a kind of indecency. It was bad enough for Mr Entiknapp to be scolded, but that he, Georgie, should be a witness…. He longed to protect the Warden, to vanish, to be deaf….
The detective went at last, and left the two of them together, silent, avoiding each other’s eyes. When the silence became unbearable, Mr Entiknapp broke it with a nervous cough.
“Well,” he said. “Really. I would never have believed …” He did not know how to go on; and Georgie could not help him.
Chapter 3
This episode had on Georgie an effect out of all proportion to its brevity. Even in the Orphanage he had been apprehensive about the world outside, and th
is experience confirmed and increased his fears. It shocked him by uncovering what seemed to him deep wickedness, and, still more terrifying, instability. Seeking for support, he had found only pitfalls. The revered name of Burngullow had proved a sham. The expectation of book-keeping and upright dealing had been betrayed. People who outwardly had been kind were engaged in crime, and did not hesitate to involve the innocent. Here was a world where handsome young women were callous, and young men of godlike mien sold what did not belong to them. Instead of pitying the unfortunates, they jeered at them, and put soap in their sandwiches.
To see all this as Georgie saw it, and to feel its effect on him, calls for a real effort of the imagination. It rocked not only the unknown outer world, into which he must nevertheless go and battle for his place, but the small safe world to which he had belonged. For, as he at once saw, the incident had lost him Mr Entiknapp’s favour. Whatever his virtues, and he had many, the Warden here turned out to be made after a common pattern. He had suffered a sharp humiliation. The post he had recommended had proved worthless, and he had been obliged to swallow a blunt rebuke from the police for not using greater care. Since this was a responsibility which he took very seriously, and since, liking Georgie and wishing to show him special favour, he had reserved for him what he regarded as a plum, he had received a shock on more than one level.
It would not be fair to say that he now took a dislike to Georgie, but every sight of him revived the indignation he had felt at the detective’s censure. Georgie could hardly be blamed, but he was the occasion of the upset to Mr Entiknapp’s dignity; the less Mr Entiknapp saw of him, the better. What was more, the Warden soon persuaded himself that the depreciation of the magical name of Burngullow was in some way the fault of the police. To the Matron he described their behaviour as very high-handed. Mr Burngullow, a victim of injustice, regained his position plus a martyr’s crown, and the Warden’s self-esteem, that frost-nipped flower, began to bloom again.
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