Jonah

by Louis Stone

  Chook had said nothing to her of his win at the two-up school, and she only heard of it at the last moment through a neighbour. She put on her hat, and just reached the shop in time to see Chook drive up to the door in his own horse and cart. Pinkey was standing there, radiant, her dreams come true, already feeling that their fortunes were made. Mrs Partridge looked on with a choking sensation in her throat, desiring nothing for herself, but angry with Fortune for showering her gifts on others. Then she stepped up briskly, and cried out:

  “I ’eard all about yer luck, an’ I sez to myself, ‘it couldn’t ’ave ’appened to a more deservin’ young feller.’ You’ll ride in yer carriage yet, mark my words.”

  She came nearer and stared at the mare, anxious to find fault, but knowing nothing of the points of a horse. She decided to make friends with it, and rubbed its nose. The animal, giving her an affectionate look, furtively tried to bite her arm, and then threw back its head, expecting the rap on the nose that always followed this attempt. Mrs Partridge trembled with fear and rage.

  “Well, I never!” she cried. “The sly brute! Looked at me like a ’uman being, an’ then tried to eat me, which I could never understand people preachin’ about kindness to dumb animals, an’ ’orses takin’ a delight in runnin’ over people in the street every day.”

  “It’s because they’ve got relations that makes ’em thankful animals are dumb,” said Chook.

  “Meaning me?” cried Mrs Partridge, smelling an insult.

  “You?” said Chook, affecting surprise. “I niver mind yous talkin’. It goes in one ear an’ out of the other.”

  Mrs Partridge bounced out of the shop in a rage, but next day she came back to tell Pinkey that she had found the very house in Surry Hills for a shilling a week less rent. She stayed long enough to frighten the life out of Pinkey by telling her that she had heard that Jack Ryan was well rid of the horse, because it had a habit of bolting and breaking the driver’s neck. Chook found Pinkey trembling for his safety, and determined to put a stop to these annoyances. He disappeared for a whole day, and when Pinkey wanted to know where he had been, he told her to wait and see. They nearly quarrelled. But the next morning he gave her a surprise. After breakfast he announced that he was going to take her to the Druids’ picnic in his own cart, and that Mrs Partridge had consented to mind the shop in their absence.

  When Chook asked Mrs Partridge to mind the shop for the day, she jumped at the idea. She felt that she had a gift for business which she had wasted by not marrying the greengrocer; and now, with the shop to herself, she would show them how to deal with the customers, and find time in between to run her eye through Pinkey’s boxes. She, too, would have a holiday after her own heart. She decided to wear her best skirt and blouse, to keep the customers in their place and remind them that she was independent of their favours. She found everything ready on her arrival. The price of every vegetable was freshly painted on the window by Chook in white letters, and there were five shillings in small change in the till. Lunch was set for her on the kitchen table, a sight to make the mouth water, for Chook, remembering the days of his courting, had ransacked the ham-and-beef shop for dainties—sheep’s trotters, brawn, pig’s cheek, ham-and-chicken sausage, and a bottle of mixed pickles. Nothing was wanting. As Chook drove off with Pinkey, she waved her hand to them, and then, surveying the street with the air of a proprietor, entered the shop and took possession.

  They were going to Sir Joseph Banks’s for the picnic; but, to Pinkey’s surprise, the cart turned into Botany Street and pulled up in front of Sarah’s cottage.

  “Wotcher stoppin’ ’ere for?” she inquired.

  “’Cause we’re goin’ ter git out,” said Chook, with a grin.

  “Git out? Wot for? There’s nobody at ’ome, Dad’s at work.”

  “I know; that’s w’y I came,” said Chook, tying the reins to the seat. “Git down, Liz; yer’ve got a ’ard day in front of yer.”

  “’Ard day? Wotcher mean?” cried Pinkey, suspiciously.

  “We’re goin’ ter move Sarah’s furniture to the new ’ouse she found in Surry Hills,” replied Chook.

  “She never took no ’ouse,” said Pinkey.

  “No, I took it yesterday in ’er name,” said Chook, grinning at Pinkey’s perplexed frown. “I wanted ter give ’er a pleasant surprise fer’ ’er birthday.”

  “Wot about the picnic?” exclaimed Pinkey, suddenly.

  “There ain’t no picnic,” said Chook. “It’s next Monday; the date must ’ave slipped me mind.”

  “An’ yer mean ter move ’er furniture in without ’er knowin’?”

  “That’s the dart,” said Chook, with a vicious smile. “If Sarah’s tongue don’t git a change of air, I’ll git three months fer murder. So ’urry up, Liz, an’ put this apron over yer skirt.”

  The impudence of Chook’s plan took her breath away, but when he insisted that there was no other way of getting rid of Mrs Partridge, she consented, with the feeling that she was taking part in a burglary. Chook took the key from under the flowerpot and went in. They found the place like a pigsty, for in the excitement of dressing for her day behind the counter, Sarah had wasted no time in making the bed or washing up, and Pinkey, trained under the watchful eye of Chook’s mother, stood aghast. She declared that nothing could be done till that mess was cleared away, and tucked up her sleeves.

  The appearance of the cart had roused the neighbours’ curiosity, and Chook engaged them in conversation over the back fence. He explained that Mrs Partridge had begged him to come down and move her furniture while she minded the shop. There was a general sigh of relief. Nothing had escaped her eye or tongue. Mrs King, who was supposed to be temperance, did wonders with the bottle under her apron, but was caught. Then she found out that Mrs Robinson’s brother, who was supposed to be doing well in the country, was really doing seven years. Chook refused half a dozen offers of help before Pinkey had finished washing up.

  As Chook lacked the professional skill of Jimmy the van-man, Pinkey was obliged to make two loads of the furniture; but by twelve o’clock the last stick was on the cart, and Pinkey, sitting beside her husband on a plank, carried the kerosene lamp in her lap to prevent breakage. By sunset everything was in its place, and Chook and Pinkey, aching in every joint, locked the door and drove home.

  Meanwhile, Mrs Partridge had spent a pleasant day conducting Chook’s business on new lines. She had always suspected that she had a gift for business, and here was an opportunity to prove it. The first customer was a child, sent for three penn’orth of potatoes. As children are naturally careless, Mrs Partridge saw here an excellent opportunity for weeding out the stock, and went to a lot of trouble in picking out the small and damaged tubers, reserving the best for customers who came to choose for themselves. Five minutes later she was exchanging them for the largest in the sack under the direction of an infuriated mother. This flustered her slightly, and when Mrs Green arrived, complaining of rheumatic twinges in her leg, she decided to try Pinkey’s sympathetic manner.

  “Ah, if anybody knows what rheumatism is, I do,” she cried. “For years I suffered cruelly, an’ then I was persuaded to carry a new pertater in me pocket, an’ I’ve never ’ad ache or pain since; though gettin’ cured, to my mind, depends on the sort of life you’ve led.”

  Mrs Green, a woman with a past, flushed heavily.

  “’Oo are yer slingin’ off at?” she cried. “You and yer new pertater. I’d smack yer face for two pins,” and she walked out of the shop.

  This made Mrs Partridge careful, and she served the next customers in an amazing silence. Then she dined royally on the pick of the ham-and-beef shop, and settled down for the afternoon. But she recovered her tongue when Mrs Paterson wanted some lettuce for a salad.

  “Which I could never understand people eatin’ salads, as I shall always consider bad for the stomach, an’ descendin’ to the lower animals,” she cried. “Nothing could make me believe I was meant to eat vegetables raw when I can ’a
ve them boiled an’ strained for ’alf an ’our.”

  In her eagerness to convert Mrs Paterson to her views, she forgot to charge for the lettuce. When Chook and Pinkey arrived, she had partially destroyed the business, and was regretting that she had been too delicate to marry the greengrocer. She showed Chook the till bulging with copper and silver.

  “Yer’ve done us proud,” cried Chook, staring.

  Mrs Partridge sorted out ten shillings from the heap.

  “That’s Mrs Robins’s account,” she remarked.

  “Wot made ’er pay?” inquired Pinkey, suspiciously. “Yer didn’t go an’ ask ’er for it, did yer?”

  “Not likely,” said Mrs Partridge; “but when she complained of the peas bein’ eighteenpence a peck, I pointed out that if she considered nothing too dear for ’er back, she should consider nothing too dear for ’er stomach, an’ she ran ’ome to fetch this money an’ nearly threw it in my face.”

  “Me best customer,” cried Pinkey in dismay. “She pays at the end of the month like clockwork.”

  Mrs Partridge stared at the heap of silver, and changed the subject.

  “It ’ud give me the creeps to sleep in the ’ouse with all that money,” she remarked, “after readin’ in the paper as ’ow burglars are passionate fond of silver, an’ avin’ no reg’lar ’ours for callin’, like to drop in when least expected.” She noted with satisfaction that Pinkey changed colour, and shook the creases out of her skirt. “Well, I must be goin’,” she added. “I never like to keep William waitin’ for ’is tea.”

  A cold wave swept over Chook. He had clean forgotten William, who would go home to Botany Street and find an empty house. Pinkey dived into the bedroom, and left Chook to face it out.

  “’Ere’s yer key,” he said helplessly, to make a beginning.

  “This is my key,” said Mrs Partridge, feeling in her pocket, “an’ the other one is under the flowerpot for William, if I’m out. I dunno what you mean.”

  “I mean this is the key of yer new ’ouse in Surry Hills,” said Chook, fumbling hopelessly with the piece of iron.

  “You’ve bin drinkin’, an’ the beer’s gone to yer ’ead,” said Mrs Partridge, unwilling to take offence.

  “I tell yer I’m as dry as a bone,” cried Chook, losing patience. “Yer think yer live in Botany Street, but yer don’t. Yer live in Foveaux Street, an’ this is the key of the ’ouse.”

  “I think I live in Botany Street, but I’ve moved to Foveaux Street,” repeated Mrs Partridge, but the words conveyed no meaning to her mind.

  She came closer to Chook. He looked and smelt sober, and suddenly a horrid suspicion ran through her mind that her brain was softening. She was older than they thought, for she had taken five years off her age when she had married William. In an agony of fear she searched her memory for the events of the past month, trying to recall any symptom of illness that should have warned her. She could remember nothing, and turned to Chook with a wild fear in her eyes. Something must be wrong with him.

  “Can you understand what you’re sayin’?” she asked.

  “Yes,” said Chook, anxious to get it over. “Yer lived in Botany Street this morning, but yer moved today, an’ now yer live in Foveaux Street in the ’ouse yer picked on Monday.”

  “Do you expect me to believe that?” cried Mrs Partridge.

  “No,” said Chook; “but yer will w’en yer go ’ome an’ find your ’ouse empty.”

  “An’ who moved me?”

  “Me an’ Liz,” said Chook. “The picnic wasn’t till next week, an’ Liz an’ me thought we’d give yer a surprise.”

  For the first time in her life Mrs Partridge was speechless. She saw that she had been tricked shamefully. They had ransacked her house, and laid bare all the secrets of her little luxuries. She quailed as she remembered what they had found in the cupboard and the bottom drawer of the wardrobe. Never again could she face Chook and Pinkey, knowing what they did, and take her pickings of the shop. Suddenly she recovered her tongue, and turned on Chook, transformed with rage.

  “William will break every bone in yer body when ’e ’ears what you’ve done,” she cried, “mark my words. An’ in case I never see yer again, let me tell yer somethin’ that’s been on my mind ever since I first met you. If that ginger-headed cat ’idin’ behind the bedroom door ’adn’t married yer, nobody else would, for you’re that ugly it ’ud pay yer to grow whiskers an’ ’ide yer face.”

  And with this parting shot she marched out of the shop and disappeared in the darkness.

  21

  DAD WEEPS ON A TOMBSTONE

  The scene at Cremorne Point had suddenly reminded Clara that she was playing with fire. In the beginning she had consented to these meetings to humour the parent of her best pupil, and gradually she had drifted into an intimacy with Jonah without the courage to end it. To her fastidious taste his physical deformity and the flavour of Cardigan Street that still clung about his speech and manners put him out of court as a possible lover; but it had gratified her pride to discover that he was in love with her, and as he never expressed himself more plainly than by furtive glances and sudden inflections in his voice, she felt sure of her power to keep him at a distance.

  These outings, indeed, had nearly fallen through, when Jonah, fumbling for words and afraid to say what was on his mind, had touched on a detail of his business. To his surprise, Clara caught fire like straw, fascinated at being shown the inner workings of the Silver Shoe. And from that time a curious attitude had grown between them. Jonah talked of his business, and stared at Clara as she listened, forgetful of him, her mind absorbed in details of profit and loss. She found the position easy to maintain, for Jonah, catching at straws, demanded no positive encouragement. A chance word or look from her was rich matter for a week’s thought, twisted and turned in his mind till it meant all he desired.

  She saw clearly and coldly that Jonah had placed her on a pedestal, and she determined never to step down of her own accord, recognizing with the instinct for business that had surprised Jonah that she would lose more than she would gain. And yet the sudden glimpse of passion in Jonah had whetted her appetite for more. It had recalled the days of her engagement with a singular bitterness and pleasure. She thought with a hateful persistence of her first love, the man who had accustomed her to admiration and then shuffled out of the engagement, forced by the attitude of his relatives to her father. But for weeks after the scene at Cremorne Jonah had retired within himself terrified lest he should alarm her and put an end to their outings. So far she had timed their meetings for the daylight out of prudence, but, pricked on by curiosity, she had begun to dally on the return journey, desiring and fearing some token of his adoration.

  Meanwhile Jonah swung like a pendulum between hope and despair. He dimly suspected that a bolder man would have had his declaration out and done with long ago, and he waited for a favourable opportunity; but it came and went, and left him speechless. He had accepted Ada as the typical woman, and now found himself as much at sea as if he had discovered a new species, for he never suspected that any other woman had it in her power, given a favourable opportunity, to lead him to this new world of sensation. Women had always been shy of him, and with his abnormal shape and his absorption in business it had been easy for him to miss what lay beneath the surface. But for the accident of his meeting with Clara, his temperament would have carried him through life, unconscious of love from his own experience and regarding it as a fable of women and poets.

  Jonah never spent money willingly, except where Ray was concerned, and Clara in their first meetings had been surprised and chilled by his anxiety to get the value of his money. He had informed her, bluntly, that money was not made by spending it; but for some months he had been surprised by a desire to spend his money to adorn and beautify this woman. Clara, however, maintaining her independence with a wary eye, had refused to take presents from him. He had become more civilized and more human under the weight of his generous emotions, but th
ey could find no outlet.

  It was the affair of Hans Paasch that opened his eye to the power for good that she exercised over him. When his shop had closed for want of customers, Paasch found that his failing eyesight and methodical slowness barred him from competing with younger and quicker men, and, his mind weakened and bewildered by disaster, he had turned for help to his first and only love, the violin. For some years he had taught a few pupils who were too poor to pay the fees of the professional teachers, and, persuaded that pupils would flock to him if he gave his whole time to it he took a room and set up as a teacher. In six months he had to choose between starvation by inches or playing dance music in Bob Fenner’s hall for fifteen shillings a week. For a while he endured this, playing popular airs that he hated and despised for the larrikins whom he hated and feared, a nightly butt and target for their coarse jests. Then he preferred starvation, and found himself in the gutter with the clothes he stood up in and his fiddle. He had joined the army of mendicant musicians, who scrape a tune in front of hotels and shops, living on charity thinly veiled.

  They had passed him one night on their return from Mosman, playing in front of a public-house to an audience of three loafers. The streets had soon dragged him to their level. Unkempt and half starved, he wore the look of the vagrant who sleeps in his clothes for want of bedding. Grown childish in his distress, he had forgotten his lifelong habits of neatness and precision, going to pieces like a man who takes to drink.

  Clara, who knew his history, was horrified at the sight. She thought he lived comfortably on a crust of bread by giving lessons. Jonah turned sulky when she reproached him.