by Louis Stone
Mrs Partridge received Chook very graciously when she learned that he was a friend of Pinkey’s and had offered to help in passing. She had been reading a penny novelette under great difficulties, and furtively eating some slices of bread-and-butter which she had thoughtfully put in her pocket. But now she perked up under the eyes of this vigorous young man, and even attempted to help by carrying small objects round the room and then putting them back where she found them. In an hour the van was empty, and Jimmy was told to call next week for his money. It was well into the afternoon when Chook resumed his hawking with the cart and then only because Pinkey resolutely pushed him out of the door.
Chook’s previous love-affairs had all been conducted in the open air. Following the law of Cardigan Street, he met the girl at the street corner and spent the night in the park or the dance-room. Rarely, if she forgot the appointment, he would saunter past the house, and whistle till she came out. What passed within the house was no concern of his. Parents were his natural enemies, who regarded him with the eyes of a butcher watching a hungry dog. But his affair with Pinkey had been full of surprises, and this was not the least, that chance had given him an informal introduction to Pinkey’s stepmother and the furniture.
He had called again with vegetables, and when he adroitly remarked that no one would have taken Mrs Partridge to be old enough to be the mother of Pinkey, she had spent a delightful hour leaning against the doorpost telling him how she came to marry Partridge, and the incredible number of offers she had refused in her time. Charmed with his wit and sympathy, she forgot what she was saying, and invited him to tea on the following Sunday. Chook was staggered. He knew this was the custom of the law-abiding, who nodded to the police and went to church on Sunday. But here was the fox receiving a pressing invitation from the lamb. He decided to talk the matter over with Pinkey. But when he told her of the invitation, she flushed crimson.
“She asked yous to tea, did she? The old devil!”
“W’y,” said Chook mortified.
“W’y? ’Cause she knows father ’ud kill yer, if yer put yer nose inside the door.”
“Oh! would ’e?” cried Chook, bristling.
“My word, yes! A bloke once came after Lil, an’ ’e run ’im out so quick ’e forgot ’is ’at, an’ waited at the corner till I brought it.”
“Well, ’e won’t bustle me,” cried Chook.
“But y’ain’t goin’?” said Pinkey, anxiously.
“My oath, I am!” cried Chook. “I’m doin’ the square thing this time, don’t yous fergit, an’ no old finger’s goin’ ter bustle me, even if ’e’s your father.”
“Yous stop at ’ome while yer lucky,” said Pinkey. “Ever since Lil cleared out wi’ Marsden, ’e swears ’e’ll knife the first bloke that comes after me.”
“Ye’re only kiddin’,” said Chook, cheerfully; “an’ wot’ll ’e do ter yous?”
“Me! ’E niver rouses on me. W’en ’e gits shirty, I just laugh, an’ ’e can’t keep it up.”
“Right-oh!” said Chook. “Look out fer a song an’ dance nex’ Sunday.”
About five o’clock on the following Sunday afternoon, Chook, beautifully attired in the larrikin fashion, sauntered up to the door and tried the knocker. It was too stiff to move, and he used his knuckles. Then he heard footsteps and a rapid whispering, and Pinkey, white with anxiety, opened the door. Mrs Partridge, half dressed, slipped into the bedroom and called out in a loud voice, “Good afternoon, Mr Fowles! ’Ave yer come to take Elizabeth for a walk?”
Ignoring Pinkey’s whispered advice, he pushed in and looked round. He was in the parlour, and a large china dog welcomed him with a fixed grin.
“W’ere’s the old bloke?” muttered Chook.
Pinkey pointed to the dining-room, and Chook walked briskly in. He found Partridge in his arm-chair, scowling at him over the newspaper.
“Might I ask ’oo you are?” he growled.
“Me name’s Fowles—Arthur Fowles,” replied Chook, picking a seat near the door and smoothing a crease in his hat.
“Ah! that’s all I wanted to know,” growled Partridge. “Now yer can go.”
“Me? No fear!” cried Chook, affecting surprise. “Yer missis gave me an invite ter tea, an’ ’ere I am. Besides, I ain’t such a stranger as I look; I ’elped move yer furniture in.”
“An’ yer shove yer way into my ’ouse on the strength of wot a pack o’ silly women said ter yer?”
“I did,” admitted Chook.
“Now you take my advice, an git out before I break every bone in yer body.”
Chook stared at him with an unnatural stolidity for fear he should spoil everything by grinning.
“Well, wot are yer starin at?” inquired Partridge, with irritation.
“I was wonderin’ ’ow yer’d look on the end of a rope,” replied Chook, quietly.
“Me on the end of a rope?” cried Partridge in amazement.
“Yes. They said yous ’ud stiffen me if I cum in, an’ ’ere I am.”
“An’ yet you ’ad the cheek?”
“Yes,” said Chook; “I niver take no notice o’ wot women say.”
Partridge glared at him as if meditating a spring, and then, with a rapid jerk, turned his back on Chook and buried his nose in the newspaper. Pinkey and her stepmother, who were listening to this dialogue at the door, ready for flight at the first sound of breaking glass or splintered wood, now ventured to step into the room. Chook, secure of victory, criticized the weather, but Partridge remained silent as a graven image. Mrs Partridge set the table for tea with nervous haste.
“Tea’s ready, William,” she cried at last.
William took his place, and, without lifting his eyes, began to serve the meat. Mrs Partridge had made a special effort. She had bought a pig’s cheek, some German sausage, and a dozen scones at seven for threepence. This was flanked by bread-and-butter, and a newly opened tin of jam with the jagged lid of the tin standing upright. She thought, with pride, that the young man would see he was in a house where no expense was spared. She requested Chook to sit next to Pinkey, and talked with feverish haste.
“Which do yer like, Mr Fowles? Lean or fat? The fat sometimes melts in yer mouth. Give ’im that bit yer cut for me, William.”
“If ’e don’t like it, ’e can leave it,” growled Partridge.
“Now, that’ll do, William. I always said yer bark was worse than yer bite. You’ll be all right w’en yer’ve ’ad yer beer. ’E’s got the temper of an angel w’en ’e’s ’ad ’is beer,” she explained to Chook, as if her husband were out of hearing.
Partridge sat with his eyes fixed on his plate with the face of a sulky schoolboy. His long features reminded Chook of a horse he had once driven. When he had finished eating, he pulled his chair back and buried his silly, obstinate face in the newspaper. He had evidently determined to ignore Chook’s existence. Mrs Partridge broke the silence by describing his character to the visitor as if he were a naughty child.
“William always sulks w’en ’e can’t get ’is own way. Not another word will we ’ear from ’im tonight. ’E knows ’e ought to be civil to people as eat at ’is own table, an’ that only makes ’im worse. But for all ’is sulks, ’e’s got the temper of an angel w’en ’e’s ’ad ’is beer. I’ve met all sorts—them as smashes the furniture for spite, an’ them as bashes their wives ’cause it’s cheaper, but gimme William every time.”
Partridge took no notice, except to bury his nose deeper in the paper. He had reached the advertisements, and a careful study of these would carry him safely to bed. After tea, Pinkey set to work and washed up the dishes, while Mrs Partridge entertained the guest. Chook took out his cigarettes, and asked if Mr Partridge objected to smoke. There was no answer.
“You must speak louder, Mr Fowles,” said Mrs Partridge. “William’s ’earing ain’t wot it used to be.”
William resented this remark by twisting his chair farther away and emitting a grunt.
Pinkey, conscious of
Chook’s eyes, was bustling in and out with the airs of a busy housewife, her arms, thin as a broomstick, bared to the elbow. His other love-affairs had belonged to the open-air, with the street for a stage and the park for scenery, and this domestic setting struck Chook as a novelty. Pinkey, then, was not merely a plaything for an hour, but a woman of serious uses, like the old mother who suckled him and would hear no ill word of him. And as he watched with greedy eyes the animal died within him, and a sweeter emotion than he had ever known filled his ignorant, passionate heart. For the first time in his life he understood why men gave up their pals and the freedom of the streets for a woman. Mrs Partridge saw the look in his eyes, and wished she were twenty years younger. When Pinkey got her hat and proposed a walk, Chook, softened by his novel emotions, called out “Good night, boss!”
For a wonder, Partridge looked up from his paper and grunted “Night!”
“There now,” cried Mrs Partridge, delighted, “William wouldn’t say that to everybody, would you, William? Call again any time you like, an’ ’e’ll be in a better temper.”
When they reached the park, they sat on a seat facing the asphalt path. Near them was another pair, the donah, with a hat like a tea-tray, nursing her bloke’s head in her lap as he lay full length along the seat. And they exchanged caresses with a royal indifference to the people who were sauntering along the paths. But, without knowing why, Chook and Pinkey sat as far apart as if they had freshly studied a book on etiquette. For to Chook this frail girl with the bronze hair and shabby clothes was no longer a mere donah, but a laborious housewife and a potential mother of children; and to Pinkey this was a new Chook, who kept his hands to himself, and looked at her with eyes that made her forget she was a poor factory girl.
Chook looked idly at the stars, remote and lofty, strewn like sand across the sky, and wondered at one that gleamed and glowed as he watched. A song of the music-hall about eyes and stars came into his head. He looked steadily into Pinkey’s eyes, darkened by the broad brim of her hat, and could see no resemblance, for he was no poet. And as he looked, he forgot the stars in an intense desire to know the intimate details of her life—the mechanical, monotonous habits that fill the day from morning till night, and yet are too trivial to tell. He asked some questions about Packard’s factory where she worked, and Pinkey’s tongue ran on wheels when she found a sympathetic listener. Apart from the boot factory, the great events of her life had been the death of her mother, her father’s second marriage, and the flight of her elder sister, Lil, who had gone to the bad. She blamed her stepmother for that. Lil had acted like a fool, and Mrs Partridge, with her insatiable greed for gossip, had gathered hints and rumours from the four corners of Sydney, and Lil had bolted rather than argue it out with her father. That and the death of Pinkey’s mother had soured his temper, and his wits, never very powerful, had grown childish under the blow.
“So don’t yous go pokin’ borak at ’im,” she cried, flushing pink. “’E’s a good father to me, if she lets ’im alone. But she’s got ’im under ’er thumb with ’er nasty tongue.”
Chook thought Mrs Partridge was an agreeable woman. Instantly Pinkey’s eyes blazed with anger.
“Is she? You ought ter ’ear ’er talk. She’s got a tongue like a dog’s tail; it’s always waggin’. An’ niver a good word for anybody. I wish she’d mind ’er own business, an’ clean up the ’ouse. W’en my mother was alive, you could eat yer dinner off the floor, but Sarah’s too delicate for ’ousework. She’d ’ave married the greengrocer, but she was too delicate to wait in the shop. We niver see a bit o’ fresh meat in the ’ouse, an’ if yer say anythin’ she bursts into tears, an’ sez somethin’ nasty about Lil. She makes believe she’s got no more appetite than a canary, but she lives on the pick of the ’am shop w’en nobody’s lookin’. Look ’ow fat she is. W’en she married Dad, you could ’ear ’er bones rattle. I wouldn’t mind if she did the washin’. But she puts the things in soak on Monday, an’ then on Saturday I ’ave ter turn to an’ do the lot, ’cause she’s delicate. I ain’t delicate. I’m only skin an’ bone.”
Her face was flushed and eager; her eyes sparkled. Chook remembered the song about eyes and stars, and agreed with the words. And as suddenly the sparkle died out of her eyes, her mouth drooped, and the colour left her face, pale as ivory in the faint gleam of the stars.
“Yous don’t think any worse o’ me ’cause Lil’s crook, do yer?” she asked piteously.
Chook swore a denial.
“P’raps yer think it runs in the family; but Lil ’ud ’a’ gone straight if she ’adn’t been driven out o’ the ’ouse by Sarah’s nasty tongue.”
Chook declared that Lil was spotless.
“No, she ain’t,” said Pinkey; “she’s as bad as they make ’em now; but…wot makes yer tail up after me?” she inquired suddenly.
Chook answered that she had sent him fair off his dot.
“Oh yes, that’s wot yer said to Poll Corcoran, an’ then went skitin’ that she’d do anythin’ yer liked, if yer lifted yer finger. I’ve ’eard all about yous.”
Chook swore that he would never harm a hair of her head.
“The worst ’arm is done without meanin’ it,” said Pinkey, wisely, “an’ that’s w’y I’m frightened of yer.”
“Wotcher got ter be frightened o’ me?” asked Chook, softly.
“I’m frightened o’ yer…’cause I like yer,” said Pinkey, bursting into tears.
Mrs Partridge was disappointed in Chook. He was too much taken up with that red-headed cat, and he ate nothing when he came to tea on Sunday, although she ransacked the ham-and-beef shop for dainties—black pudding, ham-and-chicken sausage, and brawn set in a mould of appetizing jelly. She flattered herself she knew her position as hostess, and made up for William’s sulks by loading the table with her favourite delicacies. And Chook’s healthy stomach recoiled in dismay before these doubtful triumphs of the cookshop. His mother had been a cook before she married, and, as a shoemaker believes in nothing but leather, she pinned her faith to good cooking. The family might go without clothes or boots, but they always had enough to eat. Chook’s powerful frame, she asserted, was due entirely to careful nourishment in his youth. “Good meals keep people out of jail,” was her favourite remark. Chook had learned this instead of the catechism, and the sight of Pinkey’s starved body stirred his anger. What she wanted was proper nourishment to cover her bones.
The next Sunday, while Pinkey was frying some odds and ends in the pan to freshen them up for breakfast, Mrs Partridge, who was finishing a novelette in bed, heard a determined knock on the door. It was only eight o’clock. She called Pinkey, and ran to the window in surprise. It was Chook, blushing as nearly as his face would permit, and carrying two plates wrapped in a towel. He pushed through to the kitchen with the remark “I’ll just ’ot this up agin on the stove.”
“But wot is it?” cried Pinkey, in astonishment.
Chook removed the upper plate, and showed a dish of sheep’s brains, fried with eggs and breadcrumbs—a thing to make the mouth water.
“Mother sent these; she thought yer might like somethin’ tasty fer yer breakfast,” he muttered gruffly, in fear of ridicule. Pinkey tried to laugh, but the tears welled into her eyes.
“Oh, Sarah will be pleased!” she cried.
“No, she won’t,” said Chook, grimly. “Wot yer can’t eat goes back fer the fowls.”
While Mrs Partridge was dressing, they quarrelled fiercely, because Chook swore she must eat the lot. Sarah ended the dispute by eating half, but Chook watched jealously till Pinkey declared she could eat no more.
The next Sunday it was a plate of fish fried in the Jewish fashion—a revelation to Pinkey after the rancid fat of the fish shop—then a prime cut off the roast for dinner, or the breast and wing of a fowl; and he made Pinkey eat it in his presence, so that he could take the plates home to wash. One Sunday he was so late that Mrs Partridge fell back on pig’s cheek; but he arrived, with a suspicious swelling u
nder his eye. He explained briefly that there had been an accident. They learned afterwards that an ill-advised wag in the street had asked him if he were feeding Pinkey up for the show. During the two rounds that followed, Chook had accidentally stepped on the plates.
Whenever Ada met Pinkey, she wanted to know how things were progressing; but Pinkey could turn like a hare from undesirable questions.
“Are you an’ ’im goin’ to git spliced?” she inquired, for the hundredth time.
“I dunno,” said Pinkey, turning scarlet; “’e sez we are.”
PART TWO
THE SIGN OF THE SILVER SHOE
12
THE SIGN OF THE SILVER SHOE
The suburban trains slid into the darkness of the tunnel at Cleveland Street, and, as they emerged into daylight on the other side, paused for a moment like intelligent animals before the spider’s web of shining rails that curved into the terminus, as if to choose the pair that would carry them in safety to the platform. It was in this pause that the passengers on the left looked out with an upward jerk of the head, and saw that the sun had found a new plaything in Regent Street.
It was the model of a shoe, fifteen feet long, the hugest thing within sight, covered with silver leaf that glittered like metal in the morning sun. A gang of men had hoisted it into position last night by the flare of naphtha lamps, and now it trod securely on air above the new bootshop whose advertisement sprawled across half a page of the morning paper.
In Regent Street a week of painting and hammering had prepared them for surprises; two shops had been knocked into one, with two plate-glass windows framed in brass, and now the shop with its triumphant sign caught the eye like a check suit or a red umbrella. Every inch of the walls was covered with lettering in silver leaf, and across the front in huge characters ran the sign:
JONAH’S SILVER SHOE EMPORIUM
Meanwhile, the shop was closed, the windows obscured by blinds; but the children, attracted by the noise of hammering, flattened their noses against the plate glass, trying to spy out the busy privacy within. Evening fell, and the hammering ceased. Then, precisely on the stroke of seven, the electric lights flashed out, the curtains were withdrawn, and the shop stood smiling like a coquette at her first ball.