I Shall Not Want

by Norman Collins

  “I think a pair of these would do,” she said, still looking at him. “I don’t intend to go on wearing black for ever.”

  “You see,” she went on after Mr. Morgan had moved away again, “it isn’t possible to talk here—not privately. You had better come as I asked you.”

  John Marco’s face flushed.

  “I’m not coming,” he said.

  He turned his back towards her and walked over to the other counter. The temporary assistant, a pale, timid-looking girl, was standing there: she could not help noticing that there was some kind of trouble between her department manager and this lady in black.

  “Miss Carter,” John Marco said harshly, “don’t just stand there like that, go and serve that lady at once.”

  He did not even look back to where Miss Croome was standing: he went instead straight through into the small back wash-house where the male members of the staff spruced themselves up. At this hour, of course, it was empty. John Marco did not light the gas: he stood there staring in front of him into the darkness. Then realising that his absence might be noticed, he filled the enamel wash-basin and plunged his face into it. The shock of the icy water revived him. Five minutes after he had left the counter, he was back there. His hands still trembled, but nevertheless he was the polite, the perfect counter-jumper again. “Good-afternoon, and what can I show you, madam?” he said fifty times, always with a little nod of the head and a smile, between Miss Croome’s departure and closing time.

  There was, indeed, something in the mechanical regularity of the thing that soothed him; each new customer meant another moment’s respite from the thoughts that he did not enjoy. He was no longer the wretched John Marco tortured by a conscience and a fear; he was merely someone who measured off yards of stuff and rolled it up in flimsy paper; and wrote out flourishing cryptic bills; and helped fat ladies to try on tight gloves; and smiled and was obsequious and pleasant. John Marco, had indeed, almost forgotten about Miss Croome by the time seven o’clock came along and Mr. Morgan, taking out his gold half-hunter, gave the signal for them to close the shop and clear up after the shambles of the day.

  “The front door, Mr. Marco, please,” he said.

  John Marco put down the roll of ribbon which he was re-winding and went down the strip of drugget that ran between the counters. In the ordinary way it gave him a sense of position and authority to close the front-door; on the first occasion when Mr. Morgan had asked him instead of Mr. Hackbridge to close it, the staff had realised that times were changing and that it would be Mr. Marco to whom they would have to look up one day.

  He pulled down the blue roller blind and clipped it into place behind the panel of plate glass before attempting to close the door. The reason for this was simply courtesy; Mr. Morgan had long ago decided that it was permissible to close an opaque door in the face of a late customer whereas it would be unthinkable to close a transparent one. But to-night, just as John Marco was swinging the heavy door shut, a woman stepped in from the pavement and came forward as though determined to get in.

  From the crack of the door, John Marco gave her his usual correct little smile.

  “I’m sorry, madam,” he said, “but we’re just shutting.”

  It was then, however, that he saw who the woman was; he recognised the shabby overcoat that had once been black and was now almost green with age. He recalled where it was that he had last seen that garland of moulted feathers that was a feather boa, and those wisps of grey hair that straggled over it at the back. It was Mr. Trackett’s—now Miss Croome’s—general servant who had come to summon Mr. Tuke on the night of the Immersionist Revival Meeting. Even the umbrella, gripped like a weapon, was the same. In her hand she was carrying a black-edged envelope.

  “The young lady told me to give you this,” she said. She’s waiting for an answer.

  For a moment John Marco thought of slamming the door in her face and leaving her there with the envelope still in her hand. But he dismissed the thought as it came to him: he had almost betrayed himself in his manner to Miss Croome. He realised that now, more than ever, he must proceed clearly, and without emotion. He put out his hand and took the note.

  The handwriting on the envelope was sharp and angular; the capital J of his Christian name was like a dagger. He tore the letter open and began to read. It repeated, almost word for word, the mysterious message that Miss Croome had delivered in person.

  “Dear Mr. Marco,” it ran, the words set out on the paper as neatly and blackly as if a printer had disposed them there, “I have something important to discuss with you—something that affects us both. I ask you again to come to my house this evening. The maid will be there all the time so that we shall not be alone. I can only feel that we shall both regret it if you do not come. Yours earnestly, Hesther Croome.”

  John Marco stood staring at the words. They said quietly and by innuendo, everything that he dreaded. Yet, as he looked at them, he told himself that he had nothing really to fear; Hesther Croome knew nothing that could harm him—it was only the half-demented old man who had hoarded all that money who could have betrayed him—and he was safely laid away under six feet of clay in Kensal Green. No: this was something new and unforeseen, this sinister delusion, this infatuation perhaps, of Miss Croome’s. In the face of it, he would have to behave firmly and with decision.

  It was only when he realised that the creature was edging round beside him trying to read what it was that her mistress had written, that he spoke. He re-folded the paper and thrust the note back into its envelope.

  “There is no answer,” he said quietly.

  “But ...” the woman began.

  “I told you,” John Marco repeated, his lower lip jutting out threateningly again, “that there is no answer.”

  He did not wait to hear whether she would make any further protest or not, but shut the door abruptly in her face. Through the millinery window he could still see her. She stood there, undetermined for a moment, almost as though she were afraid to go back without the reply that she had been sent for; then, shrugging her shoulders, she drew the straggling boa closer round her neck, and went off up the street.

  John Marco glanced over his shoulder to establish that he was not observed in particular by anyone and then walked boldly up to the big iron stove that served to heat the ground floor of Morgan and Roberts’. Opening the top, he threw the note, just as it had come in its envelope, onto the glowing coals as though it were something trivial and unimportant, like a crumpled bill dropped by some careless shopper.

  The next three hours were probably the busiest, certainly the most tiring, of the day; everything had to be straightened out in readiness for the turmoil of to-morrow. The windows, from which hats and handbags had been snatched by special request had to be re-filled and re-designed. Basket-loads of stuff had to be carried through from the stockroom and set out on the counters. The carbon-counterfoils of the orders had to be checked against the cash in the till. The “lines” that remained unsold had to be gone over so that Mr. Morgan could decide whether or not to reduce the prices still further.

  John Marco worked with a rapid, fixed intensity that frightened his assistants and gratified Mr. Morgan. In his shirt sleeves now—they could afford to be informal once the front door was shut—he was taking down rows of boxes from behind him and going through them one by one measuring up the remnants; discarding empty reels; correcting other people’s errors—there was, for instance, a whole three yards of pure silk in among the mixtures; re-grading the colours; pairing up the gloves; smoothing out creases in odd blouse lengths; folding the stockings neatly toe to toe; and endlessly, tirelessly, sticking in the little price labels; “Special Line,” “Special Offer,” “Special Opportunity,” “Unique Reduction.”

  At nine o’clock the young ladies were sent home. It was a pleasant and gentlemanly convention that, having kept the girls on their feet for twelve hours with only an hour’s interval for lunch and ten minutes for tea, they should then be sent h
ome before the men, like the weaker vessels that they were.

  And it was understood that, once nine o’clock had passed, the men could go too when they were finished. John Marco had calculated, carefully and exactly, that by not breaking off even for a single minute he could get through his work by nine-fifteen. Then, by running if necessary, he could arrive at Abernethy Terrace where the Kents lived by nine-twenty-five: Mrs. Kent had told him that if he arrived no later than nine-thirty—after that it would have seemed somehow improper—he could have ten minutes of her daughter’s company before the family went to bed.

  But as nine-twenty was approaching—he was late already—Mr. Morgan came up to him. He seemed to take it for granted that John Marco would be ready before the others; he did not comment on it.

  All that he said was: “Do you mind stepping this way, Mr. Marco. I want to re-organise the corsets.”

  And John Marco answered, “Very good, sir.”

  It was ten minutes past ten when Mr. Morgan released him; John Marco, his arms round a pink silken bosom like a prima donna’s, deposited the dummy on the small table over by the window and Mr. Morgan announced that they were through. He said good-night and, walking through the empty shop, left him there. John Marco followed, turning out the gas-lights as he came.

  But this time John Marco did not run: there was no point in it. He walked slowly, like any other man who has worked too long; too long and too hard. Even so, he went in the direction of Abernethy Street instead of Chapel Villas.

  When he got there, the shop and the rooms above it were in darkness: he stood on the pavement and gazed up at the house front. He was late. But somehow he did not regard this weary détour as wasted: she was there even if he could not see her. And he knew that every night until they were married he would be here like this; whether she were awake or sleeping, sometime during the evening he would be standing there.

  Then he turned and still wearily went back to Chapel Villas and the nightly catechism of old Mrs. Marco.

  He knew before he reached the house that there was something wrong, something alarmingly wrong. His mother was standing out there in the cold on the pavement waiting for him. He saw her from the end of the street, a stooping, muffled figure, swathed in all the wraps and capes she could lay her hands on. From a distance, in the lamp-light, she looked entirely spherical; it was only as he got nearer that he could see that she had wrapped a rug round herself and was clasping the two ends across her.

  “What are you doing out here?” he asked. “It’ll be the death of you.”

  “Where have you been?” she began.

  “I’ve been at the shop,” he said. “We’re always late at sale-time.”

  But the answer did not satisfy her.

  “You’re not telling me the truth,” she said. “You’re in some kind of trouble and you won’t tell me.”

  He took her by the arm and began to lead her up the tiled front-path.

  “Come inside,” he said. “You’re not yourself to-night.”

  He was used to these moods of hers and knew how to handle her. At that moment his one thought was to get her inside so that their neighbours should not hear her; he wondered how long she had been standing there making an exhibition of herself.

  But once in the tiny porch Mrs. Marco would not budge.

  “She’s come,” she said. “She’s waiting for you.”

  “Who’s come?”

  “The young lady.”

  John Marco felt a sudden icy wind blow across him; but he controlled himself.

  “What young lady?” he asked steadily.

  But Mrs. Marco was past replying; it was doubtful indeed, whether she had even heard him.

  “She’s there,” she said. “Sitting waiting for you. She wouldn’t tell me what she wanted. She only said that she’d got to see you to-night. . . .” Mrs. Marco paused. The night air had got into her lungs and she gave herself up to a fit of coughing. When she could speak again, she clung to him. “Oh, John, John,” she said, “what have you done to yourself? What is it she wants with you?”

  He pushed her away from him; he was rough with her by now.

  “Who is she?” he asked. “Who are you talking about?”

  It was only as he put the question that he realised that it might be Mary, who was sitting there. Something—anything—might have happened, and she had come to him. He pushed open the sitting-room door and stood there, staring into the white face and deep eyes of Hesther Croome.

  For a moment neither of them spoke. Then John Marco recovered himself.

  “Why have you come here?” he asked.

  “I told you I wanted to see you,” she replied quietly.

  “You had no right to come here,” he said.

  “I did it for your own good,” Hesther Croome answered just as quietly. “I am giving you one more chance.”

  “One more chance?”

  “To save yourself.”

  Before John Marco could answer—and he was trembling now so that he could scarcely stand—Mrs. Marco had pushed her way in front of him.

  “What is it you’re talking about?” she kept asking. “Why can’t I be told? What is it?”

  Hesther Croome looked at the old woman contemptuously, running her eyes up and down her.

  “Do you want me to tell her?” she asked.

  John Marco remained where he was; his face was greenish-white under the gas-light.

  “We’ll talk alone,” he said.

  Miss Croome removed a small, silver smelling-bottle and applied it first to one nostril and then to the other.

  “Send her away,” she said.

  But it was not easy. Mrs. Marco became strident. She began abusing Miss Croome. “She’s blackmailing you,” she said. “She’s come for money. That’s what it is. I can see it in her face; she’s come for money.”

  John Marco took her by the shoulders and pushed her towards the door.

  “You don’t understand,” he said. “Go to bed and leave us alone.”

  “I won’t go,” Mrs. Marco replied vehemently. “I shall stay here. I’m needed.”

  She was still protesting, as John Marco thrust her out into the passage and turned the key on her. Then the two people inside the room heard the sound of her voice subside, and the noise of crying begin. A moment later, they heard her footsteps shuffle brokenly away in the direction of the kitchen; she was beaten. She was still crying, crying like a child.

  Miss Croome was the first to speak.

  “You may as well confess it,” she said.

  John Marco turned on her. “I don’t know what you mean,” he said.

  “Oh yes you do,” she answered. “You’ve got it on your conscience.”

  “I’ve got nothing on my conscience.”

  “Then you’re worse than I thought you were. You’re not worth saving.”

  She removed the top of the smelling bottle again and started playing with it. He noticed as she did so that her hands were calm and steady. And for the first time he began to doubt his strength against hers. But he controlled himself and spoke coolly and deliberately.

  “What is all this that you’re imagining?” he asked.

  “You robbed the dead,” she answered.

  There was a silence which ran on until John Marco did not dare let it last any longer.

  “You’re mad,” he answered. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “I can tell you how much it was you stole,” she went on. “It was a hundred and fifty pounds.” She let the words linger on her tongue as she said it.

  John Marco had left his place by the chair and began walking up and down the room. His mind had suddenly grown clear and resourceful again.

  “Is that sum missing?” he asked.

  “You know it is.”

  “And what makes you think I took it?”

  “There was no one else.”

  He laughed at her.

  “No one else,” he said. “It might have been anyone. It m
ight have been the servant. She was in and out of the room the whole time. It might have been the lawyer: he wouldn’t be the first lawyer to steal his client’s money. It might have been the doctor—people trust doctors. It might have been Mr. Tuke—we’ve only got his word for it. I gave the box to him in the bedroom.”

  Miss Croome was regarding him again: she was smiling now.

  “How do you know it was that night it was stolen?” she asked.

  “I know nothing about it at all,” he answered.

  “Yet you accuse all those people,” she said. “Good men like Mr. Tuke and Dr. Preece.”

  “I accuse no one,” he retorted. “You’re forgetting that I—don’t even know that any money has been stolen. Women,” he looked hard at her—“especially unmarried women, have delusions sometimes. They get put away because of them.”

  “But I have certain proof,” Hesther Croome answered.

  At the sound of the word, John Marco stopped himself, he knew that he must be doubly calm now.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  “My uncle left me a letter saying how much was in the box,” she said.

  John Marco did not answer immediately. But he realised then that he had nothing more to fear. She had thrown her proof before him and it was useless. He began to laugh.

  “He left you a letter,” he said jeeringly. “A crazy old man whose mind was wandering. I don’t care if he left you a hundred letters. It proves nothing. You could arrest the whole of London on that kind of evidence.” Now that he felt safe he could afford to speak angrily. “And you come here at this time of night and accuse me!”

  “That wasn’t the only reason I accused you,” she said.

  John Marco paused.

  “I have other proof,” she continued.

  “What is it?” he asked. “More letters? More imaginings?”

  “I followed you,” she said. “I followed you at lunch-time when you left the shop.”

  He felt fear strike at him again as she said it. But he continued to face her, continued to look her full in the eyes.