‘Mr. Haynes, Mr. — is coming, don’t forget to ask him for the records.’
When she saw him calculating his income and expenditure, she warned him not to forget to buy shoes or new socks as the case might be. When he came back from paying she would enquire and if he had neglected to settle one or two accounts which he had promised her to pay, she would show her annoyance and wash her hands of him for the time being. She enquired solicitously when he was likely to finish paying off the mortgage. She said she wanted to see him out of debt and free of worry. She sometimes even undertook useful bits of his education.
‘No, Mr. Haynes, I am not going to fix those books again. Not till – till – next Saturday. I fix them yesterday morning and look what you have done with them. No, no, no. I have to teach you order.’
‘Well, well, well, well, well,’ said Miss Atwell one day. ‘You speaks to the man as if you is his wife.’
‘Tst, tst, tst, tst, tst,’ said Maisie. ‘What is that to you? Is you his mother?’
But Miss Atwell’s words stuck in Haynes’s mind. He wondered if the girl of his dreams, the divine, the inexpressible she whom he was going to marry one day, he wondered if in some things she would be to him what Maisie was in all.
Chapter Thirty
In August, Haynes, doing what he liked with old Carritt, claimed and got a month’s holiday and made arrangements to spend it by the seaside. The last night he spent with Maisie and had a long talk with her, in which he begged her hard not to get into any trouble while he was away. Philomen’s departure had steadied Mrs. Rouse. The tension had eased and Haynes decided to take the risk and go.
He made Maisie promise to do her work carefully and to keep away from Mrs. Rouse at all costs. He left his gramophone and some records at No. 2 so that she might have them to amuse herself with. The key of his room he gave to her. She was to sleep there, so that she might go and come as she pleased. If anything happened she was to send for him at once. He did not tell Maisie this, but he had already had a long talk with Mrs. Rouse, and she had very graciously promised to be as patient with Maisie as she could be. She deprecated the idea of spoiling Haynes’s holiday; but finally promised to send for him if need be.
‘You like Maisie a lot, Mr. Haynes,’ she said and smiled indulgently. ‘If I didn’t know that, she would have gone from here long ago. You’ll find her here when you come back.’
‘Hell,’ thought Haynes. ‘She knows. Anyway, I don’t care.’ And he didn’t.
Peace endured during the whole month and no message came to Haynes except replies from Maisie whenever he dropped her a card. He sent a card to Mrs. Rouse also. In a letter from Maisie she stated that Mrs. Rouse had ‘asked her to send kind regards,’ a very good sign.
The holiday was uneventful except that Haynes tried Benoit’s dictum on one of his seaside acquaintances and was sharply rebuked, but nothing daunted, tried again and added to his experience.
On the last day of August he returned to town to resume his regular life at No. 2. August 31st was a Sunday and it rained the whole day. The yard at No. 2 was a little morass of mud and water and for him to get to his room he had to walk carefully along two boards which Maisie always placed for him whenever it was wet, and had fixed since the early morning. After he had shaken hands all round in the kitchen, he stepped carefully across and remained alone with Maisie in his room. It was early, about half-past four. Mrs. Rouse had been cooking in the kitchen, but after greeting Haynes she had gone into Miss Atwell’s room.
Despite the long absence there was just one brief moment between them.
‘Glad to see me back?’ asked Haynes. And she did not reply, but held his arm and squeezed it, a thing she had never done before. A second after she was unpacking his bag and chattering gaily. She gave him little bits of news – who had come to see him, how long they had stayed, what they had said, who borrowed books and records, how when she saw Mr. — coming, she had rushed and locked the door and said that Haynes had taken the key with him to the country ’cause he borrows the books and keeps them too long, Mr. Haynes.’
‘And what about you, Maisie? What has been happening to you?’
‘Me – I am O.K., Mr. Haynes.’ She gave him a knowing smile. ‘Nothing new. Just the same old story.’ Then she leant forward and said in a low voice:
‘But, Mr. Haynes, I have a piece of news for you. Such a piece of news. But I can’t tell you that now. Later.’
Whenever she had anything exceptionally exciting to tell him (Haynes by now made no secret with her of his curiosity about all who lived in No. 2) she always made merry by dangling scraps of it before him and making a great mystery before she would say what it was.
‘Oh, you and your special news,’ he said. ‘Some nonsense or other.’
She put her finger quickly before her mouth and whispered: ‘Hush, not so loud!’
But he had spoken too loudly. For the rest of his life he would regret that piece of carelessness. There was a peremptory knock at the door. Mrs. Rouse. One glimpse of her face was enough for Haynes to be instantaneously aware that something was up. He knew that expression too well.
‘Mr. Haynes,’ she said, a thin surface of politeness above the volcano beneath. ‘I want to speak to Maisie. Ask her to come to me, please.’
This to Haynes, and not looking at Maisie, who was standing not three feet away.
Having spoken she walked a few paces away to the centre of the yard and stood waiting.
‘What is it, Mrs. Rouse?’
‘Just a little matter between me and Maisie, Mr. Haynes. It can be settled in a moment.’
‘What she wants to speak to me for? I don’t want to speak to her, Mr. Haynes. I haven’t addressed a word to her for a month.’
‘That doesn’t matter. Go on. Hear what she has to say and come back. Now, don’t spoil it.’
‘I am waiting for her, Mr. Haynes,’ said Mrs. Rouse in such a cold and menacing voice that he wondered what Maisie had done. Under present circumstances especially Maisie was not the one to enquire from, so Haynes went to the door.
‘Mrs. Rouse, I hope nothing is wrong.’
‘No, Mr. Haynes.’ Not a smile on her face. ‘I only have a few words that I want to tell Maisie.’
Miss Atwell was in the kitchen and came to the door. Susan, the cook, came to the other. A lodger and her daughter peeped over their blind.
He turned to Maisie.
‘Well, Maisie. Come on. Go out, hear what it is and come back. I am waiting for you.’
A black frown was on her face and she stood irresolute. Then—
‘O Christ,’ she burst out. ‘I am not afraid of any damn body, man. She can’t frighten me. Let me pass there, Mr. Haynes.’
She strode out and stood at the bottom of the step.
‘Well, what is it you want to say?’ and she eyed Mrs. Rouse dangerously.
‘You know well,’ said Mrs. Rouse, slowly and solemnly. ‘I have warned you. As if you have not do me enough, you want to spread slander on me now. But beware! I am going to have peace in my own house. I work hard to build it. And I am going to have peace in it. Now I have warned you. This is the second time. I will not do it a third.’
No Cassandra could have prophesied tragic doom with more impressive dignity. But Maisie was quite unmoved. ‘You hear me say anything?’ she asked abruptly, and giving a quick and contemptuous shrug she walked off to lean against her old friend, the mango tree.
Mrs. Rouse went back into the kitchen.
Haynes beckoned to Maisie through the window to come back in. ‘No, Mr. Haynes,’ she said aloud. ‘I am not coming back in there. I’s an offence to speak to you. That is what it come to now. I have no right in there.’
‘No, you have no right in there,’ said Mrs. Rouse, coming again to the kitchen door. ‘I don’t know how a gentleman like Mr. Haynes can stand to have a thing like you about him. Look at you this Sunday afternoon.’ Maisie was working and had not changed.
‘Good God, woman, l
ook at yourself before you look at me. If you can’t see yourself go and look in a glass. You nastier than me. Ask anybody.’ Which was an obvious truth.
‘Now, you mind your stops, or I will put you out this afternoon.’
‘Who you could have you putting out, but who you want you can’t have.’
Mrs. Rouse was fast losing her carefully controlled temper.
‘Why don’t you ask one of those boys you always talking to in the front to put you in a house and keep you?’
‘I’d only be following the example you set me.’
Mrs. Rouse advanced a step into the yard, shaking her finger at Maisie.
‘When I ready for you, young woman, I am going to see after you.’
‘Why don’t see after the nurse and Mr. Benoit? They do you worse than me. And to besides, woman,’ said Maisie, changing from her calm and speaking without passion, but with a deliberately assumed pretence of mere irritation, ‘the days of slavery past. My tongue is my own to say what I like.’ She walked from the mango tree towards the centre of the yard. ‘I not going to let an old blow-hard like you frighten me. You always to put me out. After all, people is not dog. Let me see you put me out. I, Maisie—’ (She was in the centre of the yard now, ankle deep in muddy water.) ‘I, Maisie, stand up here and say that after all that talk you talk, Mr. Benoit come up here and make a fool of you again. He live with you and fool you and he gone again. I know you will deny it. But I see. With these eyes I see.’
Mrs. Rouse sped from the kitchen and seized her by the shoulders. But Maisie was awaiting the charge. She held on also and the two of them swayed in the slippery yard. Indignation lent strength to Mrs. Rouse and making a sudden heave she threw Maisie forcibly from her so that Maisie fell full length in the mire. Mrs. Rouse staggered a little with the effort but retained her feet.
There had not been time to do anything. But as Maisie, quite unhurt, scrambled to her feet and made for Mrs. Rouse, Haynes ran down the steps and gripped her by the arm, while Miss Atwell rushed to Mrs. Rouse’s side.
‘Come, Maisie, enough of this,’ he said. ‘Come in here with me,’ and he tried to pull her away.
‘Come on,’ said Mrs. Rouse, standing immovable, her chin raised, her arms by her side and her fists clenched. ‘Come on! You think because I am old I am feeble. But come on! I have given you one tumble. If you want another I am here to give it to you. Let her come, Mr. Haynes.’
‘No, no, Mrs. Rouse,’ said Haynes. ‘Miss Atwell, take Mrs. Rouse inside. You come with me, Maisie’; and holding her by the arms, he pushed her by main force up the steps and into the room.
From outside came Mrs. Rouse’s voice.
‘You dirty little whore. Mr. Haynes give you his key and you had his own friend, Boyce, in there while he was away.’
Maisie screamed and leapt towards the door, but Haynes was just in time to pull her away.
‘It is not true. He came but he got nothing from me. Mr. Haynes, let me go. You are not my friend. You see that old bitch insulting me and lying on me and you keep me here.’
Mrs. Rouse had won the first round, but if they held on again Maisie was going to beat her badly.
‘O God, Mr. Haynes,’ said Maisie, holding the top of the bed and shaking it as if she were shaking someone, ‘why you interfere? The woman is going to say that she beat me and put me out.’
‘You sit down there,’ said Haynes. ‘No,’ as she made another attempt to go out. ‘No, I am not going to see you do anything stupid. You are not going out there. You will have to knock me over to pass. I don’t believe anything against you, Maisie.’ He closed one half of the door and stood in the other half. Then he heard Mrs. Rouse’s voice and looked out to see her standing at the door of Miss Atwell’s room.
‘You don’t come back in here again. Here are your things. I gave them to you and I am not going to keep them. Here,’ and she flung a dress out into the muck of the yard.
‘Here!’ Another dress.
‘Here!’ Another dress.
‘Here!’ A petticoat.
Maisie behind Haynes was shaking with rage. ‘O God, Mr. Haynes. Let me go out. You letting that woman triumph over me.’
Haynes thought she would assault him.
‘Don’t mind all that. I am not going to let you pass. Let her do what she likes. We’ll fix things after. But for the time being be quiet.’
A little crowd had gathered and people were peering through the hedge. ‘Don’t tell me anything, Miss Atwell,’ said Mrs. Rouse. ‘I don’t want to hear.’
‘Merciful Father!’ said Miss Atwell, returning to the kitchen door. ‘This quiet Sunday afternoon,’ and could say no more. Meanwhile Mrs. Rouse continued to throw until dresses, underwear, stockings, shoes, hats, Maisie’s sorry wardrobe, covered the centre of the muddy yard. Then with a dramatic gesture she came out and locked the door, and put the key in her pocket.
‘That is the end of you,’ she said, and coming down the steps walked across the yard into the kitchen with her head high in the air, trampling Maisie’s clothing into the mud as if she did not know that they were there.
Haynes had said nothing, not a word, nor made any attempt at interference, but for the first time since he had lived in No. 2 he was in a ferocious temper with Mrs. Rouse. It had come at last and he was on Maisie’s side. He stood fuming for a minute and then went to Maisie who was sitting crouched in a chair, her eyes fixed on the ground, clutching at her hair with both hands. He put an arm around her and didn’t care who saw.
‘Now listen to me,’ he said. ‘I am going out for those clothes.’
‘You needn’t waste your time. I don’t want them.’
‘But you must have them. What are you going to wear?’
She burst into a rush of furious tears.
‘Now, promise me to sit here and wait until I come back in. Please, Maisie.’
She didn’t answer.
‘Please. Promise.’
‘All right.’
‘Now, you are not coming out to begin to fight again?’
‘No, Mr. Haynes,’ and she gave him a reassuring squeeze.
‘Good.’
Pushing open the door, he went out and began to pick up the clothes. That, he knew, would annoy and wound Mrs. Rouse. Miss Atwell came from the kitchen to help him.
‘Leave them, Mr. Haynes,’ she said. ‘That don’t suit you. Look at the lodgers watching. What will they think? Look at you’ shoes and you’ trousers in the mud, Mr. Haynes,’ and then she whispered to him. ‘I’s better she go, Mr. Haynes. I’s better she go. If she stay it will mean sessions for one o’ them.’
‘I suppose she will have to go now,’ Haynes said. ‘I don’t see how she can stay after this.’ And checked himself in time from saying: ‘And I am going too.’ But he picked up the things in a way that showed Mrs. Rouse and all who were looking what he thought.
And then Maisie appeared, astonishingly, at the window of the room Mrs. Rouse had just locked with such finality.
‘Come on, everybody. Here,’ she screamed and she pitched one of Mrs. Rouse’s dresses through the window into the mud.
‘Here!’ she said and threw two others.
Mrs. Rouse came to the door of the kitchen to see Maisie holding up a dirty chemise.
‘Here!’ she said, but she did not throw it. She caught sight of Mrs. Rouse and paused to speak to her. ‘You are a bit old-fashioned, Mrs. Benoit. And the chemise nasty. Humph.’ She put it to her nose. ‘Christ, but it stink. No wonder, although the man come back he had to leave again.’
She let it float to the ground.
Mrs. Rouse rushed from the kitchen and in a second was on the steps.
‘Just let me put my hands on you,’ she panted and fumbled in her pocket for the key.
‘Oh, you coming to open, eh?’ said Maisie. ‘Come on,’ and continued with her catalogue.
‘Here!’ she said, and Mrs. Rouse’s buttoned boots plunged into the mud. ‘Old stuff. The days for button boots over, ol
d woman.’
Mrs. Rouse turned the key and wrenched violently at the door knob. It came away in her hand and she nearly fell backward. Maisie had bolted the door on the inside.
‘Here!’ continued Maisie, remorselessly. She held up, as if gingerly, between finger and thumb, an intimate garment, a capacious intimate garment. She held it before the infuriated Mrs. Rouse and dangled it so that the people watching shook with sniggering laughter.
‘Ah,’ said Maisie, as if a long-concealed light had broken in on her. ‘I see now. This is why the man wouldn’t stop. I see now. All you look at this thing. Old lady, people don’t wear these balloons today. They make them out of celanese now. You didn’t see those the nurse used to wear?’
Mrs. Rouse, talking distractedly to herself like a mad woman, had rushed up the steps into Haynes’s room to find that the careful Maisie had pulled the bed away, and after passing through the connecting door had locked it behind her.
‘O God, show me a way, show me a way,’ she screamed at last. She turned her face to the sky and raised her clutched hands and shook them at Heaven in agonized supplication.
‘Here!’ said Maisie, and she threw a rolled pair of stockings so that they hit Mrs. Rouse on her chest. ‘And here is your hair dye.’ She poured it out. ‘You lose the man. He ain’t coming back a third time. So what you want with hair dye? Show your dirty, grey hair to the world and stop thinking of men.’ She lifted the bottle high as if she would hit Mrs. Rouse with it, but she threw it hard into the mud instead.
Haynes neither could nor wished to interfere with Maisie breaking up his life at No. 2. For the moment he pushed aside all thoughts of the future and stood lost in a fearful admiration at her winning her last great victory.
‘But, Father in Heaven, what is this here today?’ said Miss Atwell.
‘What is it? I’s murder,’ replied Mrs. Rouse. She ran into the kitchen, took up the hatchet, and going to the door began to break it open. But by this time Maisie was finished.
‘Stop breaking down your door, old woman,’ she said. ‘Stop or I’ll break this bottle on your head.’
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