Deliverance

by L. A. G. Strong

  His feelings were soon confirmed by fact. The evening before Eddie was due to call in he told Grace he would be busy, and that she had better not come. She bristled at once, and took offence. It was no treat to her to see that he didn’t lose money. She had only tried to help.

  “No, no. It’s not that. I’m most grateful, truly I am. Only…”

  “Of course, if you’re ashamed of me… if I’m not good enough.”

  “It’s nothing like that.” A flash of cunning lighted his distress. “It’s only what you said yourself.”

  “What I said?”

  “Yes. That people might talk. My uncle—well—he mightn’t understand that you just came to help with the books.”

  He felt his perfidy, but the trick worked. Grace went off on a different path, saying that of course, if people had nasty minds … well, it seemed a pity to ask them in, even if they were relations. Then, seeing that this was a losing line, she recovered herself.

  “I might have known. It’s all you think I’m good for. It’s all you care.”

  “What is?”

  “Why, to do your books for you. No, thank you. I can find my own way out.”

  She stayed away for the following evening, but came back on the next, as if nothing had happened. Eddie caught a glimpse of her ten days later, as Georgie in a fever was seeing her off. She had hung about on purpose to tease him, and all but bumped into Eddie on the doorstep.

  “I beg your pardon,” she said, at her most refined.

  “Who the hell was that?” Eddie enquired, as Georgie helped him off with his coat.

  “She comes here now and then,” Georgie told him, “mostly for resin, and oddments like that.”

  “Resin?”

  “Yes. She plays in the orchestra at Smerdons.”

  “God help the customers,” Eddie remarked. “Herring-gutted, stuck-up snipe of a girl. No good. Keep her out.”

  But Grace had no intention of being kept out: and Georgie, even if he had wanted to, was not the man to defeat her. One Saturday in spring, after a high tea which included crumpets with jam, to which she had all but commanded him to sit down, she suddenly came round behind him, flung her thin arms about his neck, and gave him a hen-like peck on the cheek.

  “Darling,” she murmured. “I know just how it’s been, all the time.”

  Stunned, Georgie picked up his empty cup, and put it down again. Grace took out the tea tray and bustled about the room, poking the fire and fiddling about with movable objects in the way of women when they are planning the next move or gaining time. Next time she passed close to him, carrying forks and spoons in a little wicker basket, she suddenly put it down on the table, threw her arms round him again, and kissed him on the lips.

  It was a starved, clumsy kiss, and it produced no effect on Georgie, beyond a feeling of distaste for the hot face against his, and the rim of her glasses pressing on his cheek. Only one person had ever kissed Georgie on the lips, and the memory still made him sweat and writhe. He didn’t want it from anyone: certainly not from Grace. He had not even imagined himself being kissed by a girl. His dreams had not gone beyond the ideal of companionship.

  At this point any normally brought up young man would have started to protect himself. Georgie’s want of moral courage and sheer horse-sense owed much to his upbringing and to an era in which young people had few opportunities of getting to know each other. It was thought not only unchivalrous but caddish to let a girl feel any sort of affection, much less reveal it, unless one intended to marry her. Popular fiction made much of the obligations which a woman’s preference laid on a man of honour. And, even though he knew deep within himself that something was very wrong, Georgie had no one with whom to compare notes, no exterior standard against which he could measure what was happening.

  There was moreover a positive side to the situation. Even though he did not like the form it took, Grace’s attention flattered him. Without doing anything to attract it, he had won the admiration of a nice-looking girl. He had never expected anything of the kind, never even thought it possible.

  The most he had ever imagined was that he might hopelessly love some beauty from afar. Yet here was a girl who of her own accord chose to be with him.

  It is not surprising, then, that Georgie took the easiest line, and concentrated his mind on the advantages of the position. There were several. He was lonely, she was useful about the place, it was pleasant to come in tired from the shop and find a tasty meal all cooked ready, instead of having to get it himself. If only it had been someone else! He did not actually put that to himself, since he had no one to compare Grace with. All he knew was that his feelings about her were bewilderingly confused, and, like most modest-natured folk in such a fix, he took the blame. He told himself that Grace was a dear good girl, that she was a wonder with the shop’s books, that she had a hard life, and that he was a horrible ungrateful fellow not to be more appreciative. To still his conscience, he forced himself to say appreciative things, and so played into Grace’s hands.

  Not that Grace needed much help. At this critical phase in her story, she showed a skill and a finesse that were never called on again. She had an easy job, but she handled it well. Where a less crafty girl would have forced the pace after that kiss, she had the sense to carry on a while as if nothing new had happened. Next, she developed a trick of every now and then dropping what she was doing, running to Georgie, and kissing him. After four or five goes of this, she sat herself on his knee.

  “You’re terribly fascinating,” she whispered in his ear. “You’ve no idea what you do to a poor girl.”

  She was right. Georgie had no idea of doing anything to any girl. Yet, what with one thing and another, whispering in his ear and playing him up, by the end of half an hour she had him feeling almost complacent, pleased rather than otherwise with this picture of himself as an irresistible disturber of the female heart.

  There was a reaction afterwards, a cold, two-in-the-morning backwash of dread and panic, sharpening into moments of actual dislike of this girl who had thrust herself into his life. But Grace was as good as gold for the next few days, quiet, considerate, methodical, concerned entirely with the shop and with his creature comforts.

  Then something happened that delivered Georgie to her altogether. He would have gone under in any case, but this hastened it. In a spell of chill weather he caught a cold. He took no notice of it at first, but carried on as usual. It went to his chest, and developed into ‘flu. Grace tried to get him to go to bed, but with the obstinacy such characters can show he struggled on until he all but collapsed over the counter.

  Grace bundled him into bed, and, as soon as he was between the sheets, even Georgie knew that he could not get up.

  “But what about the shop?” he croaked in anguish. “What about the shop?”

  “Don’t you worry,” Grace assured him. “I’ll see to that.”

  See to it she did, and to Georgie too. To give the girl her rights, she showed, as her kind sometimes can, a real talent for coping with illness. The doctor whom she called in complimented her, and said that in another day Georgie would have had pneumonia.

  He was running a high temperature, and needed to be given medicine at night. Grace put up a bed in the little extra room, and moved in. It was just the sort of opportunity she had been looking for. Probably—once again let justice be done to her—she honestly was glad of the chance to do what she could do well. She may even have felt a protective affection for Georgie. Anyway, this was her chance, and she took it.

  Georgie was aghast when he realized what had happened, yet thankful to be looked after. These states of mind alternated, with many variations. It was not so much the fact of Grace being a fixture that worried him, though he could hardly be glad of it. He was genuinely concerned at causing so much trouble and disruption.

  “What about your work?” he asked her.

  “Don’t worry about that. You know what the doctor said: worry is bad for you. And you’ve nothi
ng to worry about. Just you lie still and get better.”

  Georgie lay still for a day or so. Then he made a last feeble attempt at rebellion. This time Grace enlisted the doctor to secure obedience.

  “You stay where you are, my lad. You’ve had a damn narrow squeak. Nearly been very ill indeed. You can thank this young lady that you haven’t got pneumonia. Your business is being well looked after. The easier you take things now, the sooner you’ll be up and about again.”

  Georgie sighed, lay back, and let go. It was a comfort. He was fit for nothing else. Grace took the weight of everything off him. She managed to keep the shop going, and nurse him too. Inside a week she had become indispensable. Part of Georgie hated being fussed over, but the remaining three parts enjoyed it. Nothing of the sort had ever happened to him before, and Grace was genuinely good at it. She could not spend too much time with him by day; the shop bell was always interrupting; but she watched and tended him assiduously, drawing on a nervous energy that seemed to defy fatigue. She was making one of the major efforts of her life, and her organism, as if it knew the importance and the need, supported her in what was in fact a feat of biological adaptation. Grace was doing what she wanted and going where she wanted to go.

  Georgie slept and slept. He needed the rest. First there had been the slow undermining of what constitution he had, in the three years of drudgery underground and insufficient food above. On that had come the excitement of his new life at the shop, which had raised him up, but had not really had time to stabilize him at the new level. Excitement and happiness had kept him going. There had been no respite. He was due for a slump.

  When at last he got back on his feet, after three weeks in bed, it was some time before he could do more than an hour or so in the shop. The customers one and all expressed themselves thankful to see him back, but—it seemed to him—their attitude was different. They kept referring things to Grace, as if he were an assistant instead of the owner. They looked furtively past him into the living room.

  “Will that be all right? Really? ‘Cos Miss Chidden’fold said …”

  “Oh yes you ‘ave. Miss Chiddingfold got them in special.”

  “No, they’re not kept there. Up on top, look. Over there. That shelf.”

  It was bewildering: almost as if he were a stranger in his own shop. Some of the customers looked at him pityingly. Others leaned close to him over the counter, and dropped their voices. One reproached him.

  “I did think you’d let us have credit up to the end of the month, same as usual.”

  Georgie stared at her open-mouthed.

  “But, Mrs Musgrove, I assure you——”

  “Sssh!”

  The customer stepped back, sharply, and a second later Grace came in. Mrs Musgrove’s face changed at once. She buttoned it up tight, and the voice that asked him for matches and a screw of salt might have belonged to a different person.

  It was all very bewildering, very disturbing. Grace had moved out as soon as he was on his feet again, and gone back to sleep at her lodging, but she was in and out all day, doing spells in the shop, getting his meals. Georgie did not know where he was, or what to think. He was deeply, genuinely grateful to her for all she had done, so much so that he hated the part of himself, the very obstinate, unsuppressible part, that wanted to be let alone; that resented seeing her all the time about the place; that longed to run his own shop in his own way and do what he liked in his own house.

  Grace had all the cards now, and she no longer hesitated to play them. One evening, a day or so after he was doing full work again, or something near it, she came and sat on his knee.

  “Darling. I don’t think we ought to wait any longer.”

  Georgie felt as if cold fingers were closing on his stomach. Doomed, he asked the question to which he knew the inevitable answer.

  “Wait? What for?”

  “Why, to put up the banns, of course. We must. I—you see—everyone knows I was sleeping here. My—my good name—I mean to say——”

  She was whispering coyly, hotly, into his neck.

  “And,” she went on, “I’ve given up all my work.”

  The movement of panic settled into despair.

  “You—you shouldn’t have done that,” he heard himself say hoarsely.

  She lifted her thin face, and looked at him reproachfully.

  “I had to, darling. You needed me. You had to be nursed. All the time. So, you see——”

  Then she gave a quick wriggle, and pressed herself against him.

  “Oh darling, we’ll be so happy. And I’ll be able to look after you always.”

  And so, next day, when they closed the shop for an hour at lunch time, Georgie and Grace went round to see the Rev. Sylvester Tuckett and put up the banns.

  The worst part of all was telling Eddie. Not till the banns had been called a second time did Georgie force himself to break the news. He had turned over a score of openings in his mind. “By the way, Uncle Eddie, I’m going to be married.” Too abrupt, too bald. “Uncle Eddie, what would you say if I told you …” Georgie winced. He had all too clear an idea. “I’ve been lonely here, and so …” “I need help in the shop, and I’ve found …” None would do.

  In the end, it was Eddie who gave him the opening. It could hardly have been less propitious, but such was Georgie’s extremity that he took it at once.

  “I was passing here a couple of days back,” Eddie said malevolently, “when I seen that slab-sided faggot come out of the door.”

  He gave Georgie a bleared, sideways glance. Even the least chivalrous could hardly acquiesce in this description of his girl, and Georgie affected bewilderment.

  “Slab-sided …? Who can you be thinking of?”

  “You know damn well,” Eddie told him. “Thin bitch. I asked you about her before.”

  “If you mean Miss Chiddingfold——”

  “How do I know what she calls herself?”

  “—the girl who comes to buy resin for her violin——”

  “Resin for her violin!”

  It is not possible to convey the ferocity of obscene sarcasm with which Eddie envenomed the words. Georgie, appalled, continued none the less.

  “If it’s her you mean, you’ll be seeing her very often. As often as you come here.”

  The lump in his throat was so hard he could scarcely speak. Eddie was looking at him with livid intensity, his face a shining ruin.

  “Meaning——?” he said at last.

  “I’m going to marry her.”

  There was a silence. A coal in the fire slipped, chattered to itself, and sent up a small cheerful flame. Eddie’s eyes were lowered. He looked at the floor, moved his head a little to one side, than raised his brows until his forehead was a rippling screen of furrows that were finally rigid as in a convulsion. He let out his breath.

  “Jesus God,” he said softly.

  Georgie dared not look at him. He found this expletive more paralysing than all the volleys of abuse he had shrunk from in imagination. The silence stretched itself out to a torturing ache. At last Eddie put his hands on his knees, and wagged his chin jerkily from side to side.

  “Well,” he said. “That’s the end. Q.E.D.”

  “But why, Uncle Eddie? What’s so wrong? Other people get married.”

  “Other …” Eddie’s face seemed to boil beneath the skin. It worked so uncontrollably that Georgie feared he would have a fit. Then, mastering some inner earthquake, he gained control.

  “Did they teach you nothing in that place? No. It’s that Entiknapp. God, if I could come to him, I’d… Entiknapp!”

  Georgie felt a wholly unexpected spurt of anger.

  “I wish you’d tell me just what’s wrong. I can afford to marry. I’m old enough.”

  “Old enough! that you aren’t. You’ve let yourself be taken in and done for. Helpless as a baby.” He suddenly pointed a swollen, palsied forefinger. “Don’t tell me you’re in love with that girl.”

  Georgie’s eyes were
held so fast by the swollen, jigging finger joints that no words came from him.

  “There you are. You daren’t say it. You aren’t. You can’t be. Then why? For God’s sake, Georgie boy—why? Why?”

  The sudden appeal somehow steadied Georgie.

  “I’ll tell you why,” hp said: and, quite simply, he gave Eddie a short account of what had happened.

  “So, you see,” he concluded, “I owe it to her. And after all,” he added, as Eddie did not speak, “I don’t see why we shouldn’t be happy.”

  For two or three seconds Eddie sat still. Then, with a suddenness that made Georgie start backwards, he shot to his feet.

  “Happy? Holy God, man, you’ll be in hell. Don’t you know anything about men and women? Haven’t you any instincts in you, any blood? Look here.” He jerked round so violently that his bones cracked. “There’s only one reason for having a woman in your house: and that is that you bloody well can’t do without her.”

  “But that’s just it. Grace will be useful——”

  “Useful!” Eddie rolled his eyes upwards and uttered such a flood of profanity that Georgie stiffened in horror. “I mean can’t do without her as a man. Want her. Love her, if you like. Now do you understand?”

  Georgie stared at him, the colour slowly leaving his face.

  “I’ve seen the girl,” Eddie cried, stabbing at Georgie with that hideous forefinger. “She’s dead, I tell you. Dead and rotten. Do you want to touch her? Smell her? Shove your face against hers?”

  Georgie recoiled and winced. For a horrible swimming instant Grace’s mouth merged with that of the obscene old woman in the shop in a wet, sucking abomination. Eddie’s voice, high and hard, delivered him.

  “There! The truth at last. You’re in fear of love, boy. In fear of your life. You don’t want hair or hide of her. I knew it.”