‘Ah, to tell the truth, I don’t read much to the old lady. The occasional devotional extract, nothing exciting. No, I’m more useful making a cup of tea or frying a chop – the practical man.’
‘We have stymied Mr Bird,’ said Nurse Clock. ‘Are you aware of that?’
Studdy lit a cigarette from the remains of his previous one.
‘What d’you mean?’
She watched him trying to press the cigarette stub into the carpet in a clandestine manner and immediately drew his attention to it. She said:
‘Mr Bird thought to spread disaffection and anger. He thought that you and I would fight like cat and dog, Mr Studdy, and that all in The Boarding-House would suffer in the encounter. Mr Bird was a man of bitterness.’
‘Glory be to God,’ said Studdy. The hatred was still there between them, but it no longer raged; it was no longer on the brink of violence, because something stronger, something like self-interest or greed or small ambition, had put it into its proper place.
They looked at one another, their eyes meeting for once, and they recognized the hatred they had shelved away, and between them was the feeling of Mr Bird’s miscalculation.
‘Those are my clothes,’ said Mr Scribbin.
Mrs Trine and Nurse Clock paused to look at him.
‘What are you doing,’ demanded Mr Scribbin, ‘taking away my clothes?’
Mrs Trine glanced at Nurse Clock, suspecting something, thinking that Nurse Clock in her zeal had taken the law into her own hands. But Nurse Clock said:
‘These are the clothes of Mr Bird. They were left behind by Mr Bird in his room. How could they be yours, Mr Scribbin?’
‘That is my suit’ Mr Scribbin had seized a trouser-leg and tugged it. Some of the clothes fell from Mrs Trine’s arms.
‘Oh, Mr Scribbin, Mr Scribbin.’ Nurse Clock was angry, down on her hands and knees sorting out the confusion of the floor. She felt embarrassed that Mr Scribbin had behaved like this in front of Mrs Trine, in the hall of The Boarding-House. She wondered if Mr Scribbin went in for necrogenic excitement; she had heard before of people who are interested in the clothes of the newly dead. ‘You’ve had your gift from Mr Bird,’ she reminded him. She turned to Mrs Trine. ‘Mr Scribbin got left a lovely little ormolu clock.’ This in fact was not strictly accurate. The clock that had come into Mr Scribbin’s possession was a large black object built in the shape of a temple, with an inscription on a brass plaque that read: To Charles Edward Burrows on the occasion of his retirement, from his friends at Walter and Peacock. February 24th, 1931.
Mr Scribbin had a narrow tuft of moustache, a ragged, though noticeable, addition to his upper lip. The shape of his jaw was narrow too, so that his teeth protruded in an acute semicircle. To counteract the effect, the moustache might better have served its purpose had it been grown in a more profuse and extended way, but nobody had ever told Mr Scribbin this, and he, having cultivated it, had not thought of experimenting. On his head his hair grew ragged too, difficult to manage, inclined from an early age to stick out at the sides and on the crown. All this gave Mr Scribbin an untidy appearance, although in fact he was a tidy man in other ways.
‘My shirts. Those are my shirts. Nurse Clock, what on earth is going on? Why is this lady taking away my clothes?’
‘I have told you already, Mr Scribbin. These clothes were the property of Mr Bird and are now the property of Mr Studdy and myself, who have between us deemed it right that they should be handed over to the refugees.’
‘To refugees?’
‘We send them all over the world,’ said Mrs Trine. ‘To the East and to Africa; to Europe, South America and the Middle East. The situation is bad in the Middle East.’
‘I did not say, Nurse Clock, that my clothes could be sent away. Why do you keep talking about Mr Bird? I did not give Mr Bird my clothes. Mr Bird did not own the clothes of everyone in The Boarding-House. You have socks here belonging to Venables. Look, it says so. T. O. Venables. Just as mine say J. Scribbin.’
‘Good God,’ said Nurse Clock.
‘There has been some error, has there?’ Mrs Trine enquired, trying to keep cheerful. She had driven over specially for these clothes, and now apparently they were the clothes of living people in The Boarding-House.. Mrs Trine said to herself that Nurse Clock was unreliable.
Nurse Clock was thinking that any moment now the hall would fill with residents, wondering about the commotion. They would all pick clothes from the pile in Mrs Trine’s arms and the scene would resemble a draper’s shop. She felt considerably embarrassed and she thought of a similar moment, in the Lord-Bloods’ basement flat, when Mrs Cheek had thrown the pot of jam and the Indian had complained about the noise.
‘I do not know what to say,’ said Nurse Clock. ‘Something has gone wrong.’
‘Did we pick up the wrong pile?’ asked Mrs Trine. ‘Are these for dispatch to the laundry or the cleaners?’
‘My shirts are clean,’ cried Mr Scribbin, holding them to his chest. ‘My shirts do not require the laundry. What is she talking about?’
A scene then took place. Major Eele, a man with a feeling for all trouble, appeared in the middle of things. Behind him Nurse Clock could see Miss Clerricot in the television lounge and a little beyond her Mr Obd. Mr Obd was doing something that had never been done before: he was sitting at the large writing-desk with an open fountain pen in his hand. There was no paper on the writing-desk; the pen was poised in the air; Mr Obd’s head was at an angle, his eyes aimed upward, indicative of thought.
‘Your shirts are clean?’ said Major Eele. ‘Clean?’
The garments that Mrs Trine had been holding were now on the hall table. Owing to Mr Scribbin’s continued interference they were in some disarray. Coat-hangers had become displaced; sleeves hung down, collars were twisted this way and that.
‘What’s this?’ asked Major Eele, picking up something that had been in fact Mr Bird’s.
Nurse Clock took it from his hand, saying it was a medical thing.
‘What’s going on?’ said Major Eele, a smile touching his lips, looking at neither Nurse Clock nor Mr Scribbin nor Mrs Trine but at the clothes on the marble-topped table. ‘Is somebody buying second-hand clothes?’
Mrs Trine began to explain, saying that she represented a refugee organization. She said that she had called around for the clothes of Mr Bird and that some mistake had happened.
‘I have various things,’ said Major Eele. ‘Ties I have never used, underclothes, a pair of plus-fours. How about that, madam? Can I interest you? Shall I fetch what I have to offer?’
‘Mrs Trine, this is Major Eele,’ said Nurse Clock. She was looking through the clothes, trying to establish what belonged to whom. Mr Scribbin had taken his things. She laid aside the ties and socks of Venables and a glove that seemed to be a female glove. She still felt acutely awkward.
‘How kind,’ said Mrs Trine, speaking to Major Eele, employing a smile she reserved for such occasions.
Major Eele went quickly off. Nurse Clock said:
‘I am so sorry about this. I really cannot think what has happened.’
She could not think how it had come about that the clothes which she had cleared from Mr Bird’s room had become confused with the clothes of Venables and Mr Scribbin. She herself had sorted everything out: she had placed the suits and the shirts and the other things on the bed while Gallelty had cleaned around her, mopping the floor with Ajax and hot water.
‘Venables,’ called Mr Scribbin at the door of the television lounge, ‘they are taking away your clothes.’
Mr Obd, whose pen was no longer poised but who still sat at the writing-desk, heard the reedy voice of Mr Scribbin call out to Venables that his clothes were being taken away. Rose Cave heard the same, and Miss Clerricot and Venables himself. It was an unusual thing for them to hear at this time of night in The Boarding-House, or at any time. They came to attention; they raised their heads to listen further; Venables rose and walked across the room and ent
ered the hall.
‘What?’said Venables.
‘There are socks and ties of yours,’ said Mr Scribbin, ‘that this lady was about to make off with to the Middle East. There was a suit of mine too, and a couple of pairs of shirts. It is all in the name of charity, but you may not wish to give socks and ties to the Middle East.’
‘How about these?’ cried Major Eele, arriving out of breath, bearing another armful of clothes, more than he had said he had gone to fetch. He placed them on top of the pile on the table and held them up one by one.
‘Whatever is going on?’ asked Venables.
Mr Obd had come to the door of the television lounge and was watching the happenings in the hall. ‘Everyone is bringing clothes,’ he reported to Miss Clerricot and Rose Cave. ‘The hall is full of clothes.’
Miss Clerricot and Rose Cave joined him at the door. Venables was rooting through the pile, looking for his property.
‘That is my glove,’ said Miss Clerricot, seeing the grey glove laid aside on the marble-topped table.
‘Any good?’ asked Major Eele, holding up a pair of plus-fours.
Nurse Clock clapped her hands.
‘There has been a mistake. Somehow or other a few articles of clothing have got mixed up with Mr Bird’s old clothes which Mrs Trine was kindly taking away for the refugees. No one knows how it has happened. Well, we must not worry. Major Eele, let us just sort out what is what before you add your offering. Mr Scribbin, you have what is yours?’
But Mr Scribbin said he did not know. What he held in his arms, he explained, was his, but he did not know if other clothes had been taken from his room or how often Mrs Trine had previously called at The Boarding-House.
‘This was a good pressed suit,’ he complained, displaying the limpness of the material he held.
‘Any good?’ asked Major Eele, holding up a handful of ties. ‘I haven’t worn them once. They would cut quite a dash.’
Nurse Clock had collected together a pile that seemed indubitably to have been Mr Bird’s. ‘Nothing here is yours, Mr Scribbin.’
Mr Scribbin nodded.
‘And Mrs Trine has never before been here, so nothing else can possibly have gone the way of the refugees. Mr Venables, are you content too?’
Venables shrugged; then thinking that that was ungracious, smiled.
‘Now, Mrs Trine,’ said Major Eele, ‘how much for this?’
Major Eele was again displaying his plus-fours. They had braces attached and seemed in good condition.
Mrs Trine laughed. She thought it best to laugh, feeling a little at sea, not knowing whether the Major was being playful.
Nurse Clock knew he was not being playful. She said: ‘Mrs Trine is collecting for the refugees of the world. Major. She is not paying for our clothes.’
‘Who is paying then? Isn’t Mrs Trine authorized to name a price?’
‘The clothes are a gift. We are giving them to the clothes-less in the Middle East. This is an act of charity.’
Major Eele laughed sharply.
‘I am not giving my clothes away,’ he said. ‘Come now, Mrs Trine, these are first-class garments. The ties have never been worn, the trousers only once or twice.’
‘The lady has come to buy old clothes,’ said Mr Obd, still standing at the door of the television lounge.
‘No, no, no,’ cried Rose Cave, for Mr Obd was already mounting the stairs to his room.
‘Why is my glove there?’ Miss Clerricot asked again.
Rose Cave perceived that Mrs Trine had come for Mr Bird’s clothes and would convey them to the refugees. She saw that in some way Mr Bird’s clothes had become confused with other clothes in The Boarding-House, and that Major Eele had misunderstood the situation and was now offering his wardrobe on a commercial basis. She knew about Miss Clerricot’s glove because she herself had earlier found it on the floor of the hall and had placed it on the table.
‘I am so sorry,’ she said now, ‘I had meant to tell you. I imagined it must be yours. What has happened is that the clothes were placed on top of it.’
Miss Clerricot stepped forward and received her glove.
‘Fifty shillings,’ said Major Eele.
Nurse Clock looked harshly at him. She had found a piece of string in the pocket of her skirt and was tying the bundle together.
‘I have had these since first I came to England,’ said Mr Obd at the bottom of the stairs. ‘The material is most excellent. It has been in moth-balls.’
Mr Obd stood in his tribal robes. They were white, with decorations stitched in red and black. He held up his arms to display the large quantity of material involved.
‘Bravo! Bravo!’ cried Major Eele.
Nurse Clock had tied the bundle and had placed a hand on Mrs Trine’s arm, about to propel her to the door.
‘They will be most welcome, those robes,’ Mrs Trine said. She spoke in a low voice, addressing the observation to Nurse Clock, feeling that Nurse Clock should know what was in her mind before she made it public, since it was Nurse Clock’s boarding-house.
‘Are you giving them to the refugees?’ Nurse Clock asked Mr Obd.
Mr Obd slipped the robes over his head and stood in trousers and shirt.
‘I thought the lady was buying clothes. But the refugees may have them. They are no use to me.’
‘Mr Obd has pieces of bone for the nose,’ said Major Eele. ‘Very valuable.’
Mr Scribbin uttered a cry. He approached the bound bundle in Mrs Trine’s arms and pulled out a shirt.
‘Another shirt,’ he cried.
The string broke and the clothes descended to the floor. Major Eele, overcome by the drama of the situation, threw up his hands, releasing his plus-fours and his ties.
‘Wrap everything in Sambo’s robe,’ he cried, already busy on the floor, picking things up and throwing them about. Mr Scribbin put down his clothes a safe distance away and hunted afresh through the collected garments for further evidence of his belongings.
‘Cocoa,’ said Gallelty, coming up from the basement with her tray.
‘Mrs Trine, have cocoa and biscuits, do,’ said Nurse Clock. ‘Come and sit down, my dear, while this awful old chaos is sorted out.’
She led Mrs Trine away, into the television lounge, where promotion for margarine was taking place.
‘Modern England, modern England,’ murmured Mrs Trine, glancing nastily at the screen and hearing some falsehoods proclaimed.
‘It is not always like this,’ said Nurse Clock, thinking her guest referred to the incidents that had taken place in the hall. ‘Mr Scribbin was upset. The Major likes a joke.’
‘No, no,’ said Mrs Trine. ‘I was thinking of–’ She indicated the television screen but did not complete her sentence.
‘Sugar?’ said Nurse Clock.
In the hall Major Eele had laid Mr Obd’s robe on the floor and was piling the clothes on to it. Miss Clerricot and Rose Cave had returned to the television lounge and were drinking cocoa with Mrs Trine.
‘Mrs Trine, Miss Cave, Miss Clerricot,’ introduced Nurse Clock.
Mr Scribbin and Venables, satisfied that nothing of theirs now remained with the clothes for the refugees, returned also to the television lounge. Mr Obd and Major Eele were left to tie everything into Mr Obd’s robe.
‘These may go to your native Africa,’ said Major Eele, setting aside his plus-fours; and Mr Obd wondered who in Africa would wear the big baggy suits of Mr Bird, and then he thought how surprised they would be to see his robes come back.
Major Eele put his plus-fours for safety on the stairs. As he did so he noticed another heap of clothes on a higher step. He reached for them and threw them to Mr Obd, saying they must have been dropped.
‘Biscuits, Mrs Trine?’ said Nurse Clock.
‘It must be interesting work,’ Rose Cave remarked, herself taking a biscuit. ‘I suppose the clothes go all over the world?’
Mrs Trine said again that the clothes went in all directions: to the distant East, to
Africa, South America, Europe and the countries of the Middle East.
Mr Scribbin said: ‘I mean no offence, Mrs Trine. I only regret I cannot spare my suit and the shirts. It is simply that as far as I can see my bedroom has been looted.’
Nurse Clock laughed, and Venables, socks and ties folded upon his knee, laughed too. Earlier, in the hall, Mr Scribbin had turned to him and said, ‘What do you imagine these two are up to? There is no normal explanation for this.’
‘The African clothes will be most welcome,’ said Mrs Trine.
In the hall Major Eele secured the bundle by seizing the ends of the robe and winding string around it. He tied an effective knot.
‘That should do,’ he said to Mr Obd. ‘I’m afraid everything has fallen out of its folds,’ he warned Mrs Trine as she approached from the television lounge. ‘Everything has got knocked about, but no doubt that doesn’t matter to a starving man.’
Mrs Trine said it was marvellous to get so many clothes, and Nurse Clock apologized again for the delay and the confusion.
‘Where are my clothes?’ cried Mr Scribbin, staring at the stairs where he had left them in safety.
Nurse Clock heard Mr Scribbin say this and could not believe it. Her intention now was to get Mrs Trine, a local woman of standing, out of the house and into her car. She ushered Mrs Trine; and Major Eele and Mr Obd between them, at the Major’s instigation, picked up the bundle and made for the hall-door.
‘Where have my clothes gone?’ cried Mr Scribbin on the street.
‘Now, Mr Scribbin, you have had your clothes,’ explained Nurse Clock. ‘We have been through all that.’ But Mrs Trine, one foot on the pavement and one within her small car, paused, for she did not wish to be responsible for the pilfering of clothes.
‘My clothes have disappeared from the stairs,’ said Mr Scribbin. ‘Somehow or other my clothes have got into Mr Obd’s robe.’ He approached the robe and drew a penknife from his trouser pocket. With this he cut the string. The robe, held by Mr Obd and Major Eele, fell asunder and once again clothes fell to the ground.
The Boarding-House Page 13