Another Part of the Wood

by Denis Mackail

  Snubs aired some general views on the greed of people who had lunched at three in the afternoon.

  Beaky advanced. the opinion that the foul snack with which he had undermined his system at the hour in question had merely served to increase his pangs. Some people, he said, might be camels or ostriches, but personally he was neither.

  Snubs suggested that they hadn’t set out on this expedition for the purpose of what he described as guzzling.

  Beaky replied that this truth had been self-evident from the very beginning, but that it would be dashed funny if he fainted. He begged his companion to behave like a human being.

  Snubs said that he never behaved like anything else, but if they went off and fed now, they might just as well have stayed in London, because they couldn’t go barging into the pierrots while they were doing what he characterised as their stuff. They’d got to catch them before the show started.

  “But,” said Beaky, “there’s a place just over there.…”

  And he pointed, and Snubs’s eyes followed the direction of his feeble and famished hand, and sure enough there was a shop-window which from this distance looked extraordinarily succulent. “The Pavilion Creamery,” it said on the awning. “Teas, Luncheons and Dinners.” The order was frankly ominous, but the words were irresistible. For all his obstinacy and philosophy, Mr. Tipton’s mouth began to water. And yet ….

  “Oh, come on,” said Beaky, faintly. “We must have something, and it’s only just across the street.”

  Snubs weakened visibly.

  “And nobody could possibly mind your leaving Gertie here. You know they couldn’t.”

  Snubs gave way.

  “All right,” he said. “We’ll try and get a table near the window. Only do remember we’ll probably have to tackle the Winter Garden too.”

  But Beaky was already stumbling across the worn grass, with a wild and ravenous light in his eyes. Snubs gave a last look at Gertie, and a last look at the barred entrance to the Pavilion Chalet, and followed swiftly in his wake.

  4

  Like Asmodeus, that invaluable fiend, the chronicler soars into the empyrean and peers down at his characters through a great number of temporarily-transparent roofs. In the big dining-room at the Majestic Hotel he sees Mrs. and Miss Shirley seated at a little round table. They are eating and drinking with one eye on the clock, for Carter has been ordered for ten minutes to eight, and it will never do for Mrs. Shirley to keep him waiting—just as it will never do for Sylvia to miss a moment of the Diamond Dominoes.

  “What are you thinking about, Mummie?”

  “Nothing, darling.”

  “You don’t mind coming to-night?”

  “No, of course not.”

  “Is it the garden, then? Because I thought it looked perfect.”

  “No, I wasn’t thinking about the garden.”

  “It’s me, then, I suppose?”

  “Well, partly.”

  “You’re not worried about me, darling, are you? Because I’m awfully sensible.”

  “I know you are.”

  “And nothing’s happened—yet.”

  “I know it hasn’t.”

  “But if it did?”

  “Well, I’d be on your side, of course. But you might have to wait.”

  “Money, you mean?”

  “Well, it’s rather important.”

  “Oh, dear. I wish I hadn’t told you.”

  “But I knew.”

  “Well, I suppose you did. But perhaps he won’t—say anything.”

  Mrs. Shirley makes a face across the little round table which mocks at such a preposterous idea. And Sylvia makes another face the significance of which is washed away by a tremendous blush. And they both laugh. And Sylvia says she supposes she’s an awful girl, but one can’t behave like people in books, and anyhow (she says) she’s thankful that she’s told someone.

  “Someone?”

  “Well, you, of course, darling. I’d never dream of telling any one else.”

  Undoubtedly we have no business to be listening to this conversation, or intercepting those glances under the red-silk candle-shades, and we turn away and look round the big dining-room for signs of Mrs. Millet. But Mrs. Millet has gone back to her London hotel, after all. Whitsun is no protection for her gas-bag of a lawyer, and she has tracked him down on the telephone and is giving him several large pieces of her mind. It would do a lot of young barristers a power of good to hear him yielding on point after point, yet yield he does—even though it means giving up his Sunday golf. But she calls him by a Christian name which he has practically forgotten, and of course no young barrister could conceivably do a thing like that.

  Shifting our position, we look down on the sitting-room at Holmcroft. Miss La Touche and Miss Selbrook have gorged on cold sausage and éclairs and, of course, pickles, and have drunk deep of the Saturday night stout. But Noodles has hardly touched her share of the spread, for she is in the distressing condition of being extremely hungry and having absolutely no appetite. At any moment she expects to hear Mr. Fitzgibbon’s rap on the door, and to have to explain him to her fellow-lodgers, and—hardly less difficult—to explain them to him. And if she survives that, how can she possibly make Mr. Vaughan understand that she is leaving him, when he never listens to anything that she says? And when she owes him all that money, and can’t pay it? And when he’s the only person who can possibly lend her more money for the bill at these horrible lodgings?

  And all the time he’s really expecting her to dress up and do Heaven knows what, for even if he does listen to her he can’t re-engage Miss Dolores at a moment’s notice. And everyone will stare at her, and wonder what on earth she’s there for, and it will be exactly like the nightmare where you’re suddenly asked to do something that you’ve never done in your life, and they all hoot at you when you can’t do it.

  And when that’s over—if it ever is—there’ll still be Fitzgibbon, but there’ll be nothing and nobody else, and sooner than be helped by Fitzgibbon, she’ll—she’ll …

  Mercifully, the vision fades. We catch a glimpse of Fitzgibbon himself, redder than ever after the refreshment required to support him during nearly five hours’ billiards, leaning against the bar-counter of the Black Horse Shades, and dining frugally off cloves, coffee-berries, cinnamon and potato-chips. We wish, with all the strength at our command, that he wouldn’t keep looking at that gold watch of his, or that the pawnbroker from whom he has recently recovered it had been inspired to tamper with the works. We wish …

  But we’re looking down on another scene now. The interior of the Pavilion Creamery, with its imitation marble-top tables, and its imitation tiled walls, and its imitation mosaic floor. And its small stock of cream, and its large stock of mass-produced and semi-petrified delicatessen, and its still larger stock of empty tins and cardboard containers and glass bottles which are piled in decorative pyramids, and are then duplicated (and slightly distorted) by the skilful use of mirrors. And its hissing, nickel-plated pillar from which jets of scalding water can produce, at a moment’s notice, equally tasteless cups of tea, coffee, cocoa or even soup. And its ancient and sinister wooden bucket from which courageous customers can be supplied with a strange and liquescent substitute for ice-cream. And its totems or symbolical emblems in the shape of a golden cow under a glass dome and a china stork which has broken its beak in the effort to consume a china frog. And its two female attendants habited in white overalls which are so very far from white. And its scanty clientèle munching mournfully and gulping gloomily, and endlessly shifting its hard little chairs in the search for some spot where all four legs shall touch the ground at the same time.

  And nowhere near the window—because this part of the Creamery is filled with the counter and the hat-racks—Messrs. R. H. Brett and W. G. Tipton crouching uncomfortably at the same wobbling table, and eating what they haven’t ordered and very much doubt if they can digest, and drinking that which rather suffocates than quenches, and continually twistin
g their arms so as to consult their watches, or their necks so as to keep an eye, as far as possible, on Gertie and the Pavilion Chalet.

  The Pavilion Chalet, however, is still apparently deserted, and no queue has yet formed outside its undignified entrance. While Gertie, though a closer inspection shows us that she has not altogether overcome her tendency to lubricate the roadway, has attracted neither policemen nor thieves.

  But we cannot say that we quite take to her singularly mulish expression. She is obviously thinking of something, as she stands there with such ironical patience, and Gertie’s thoughts—if we may say so in her master’s temporary absence—are hardly ever pleasant ones. She has been amazingly docile ever since she left Great Wissingfield, but let no one suppose that this represents a genuine change of heart. As we watch her, guardedly, we hope that she is still congratulating herself on her behaviour earlier in the day, but we feel far from certain that she isn’t plotting fresh mischief. “Let me see,” she seems to be saying, “I’ve tried the puncture and the leaky sump, and a pretty good job I made of them; but can’t I think of something more original? It’ll be getting dark soon, and I might have some fun with the lighting. Or how about the ignition? If I got a really rough bit of road again, I think I could manage to earth that frayed cable from the distributor. Or what about something really meaty? After all, it seems a pity to waste a public holiday like this, when everything’s closed till Tuesday, and you can just whistle for spare parts. Big-end? Well, I must think it over.”

  We leave her, also; distinctly alienated by this glimpse of her ungracious soul. And again we swoop into the sky, shivering a little as we note how the off-shore breeze has strengthened in the last few minutes, and how the sea is no longer blue and glassy but grey and uneasy, and how the hills behind the town are topped by a low, black cloud that has come hurrying from the north as it heard of the Biggest Exodus on Record—determined to keep its punctual appointment with the millions who know it so well. Having got as far as this, though, it is for the moment in no hurry to come further. It likes to lie there, piling up its reinforcements and slowly becoming darker and more massive; savouring its own unpopularity in advance, and ruminating on the best method of causing the greatest inconvenience to the largest number of people in this ridiculous, unsuspecting little town. It may even go away again, and return on Monday when the town will be fuller and more vulnerable than ever. Meanwhile it likes to wait there and chuckle to itself, and to hoard its resources for the deluge in which it will perish so gloriously for the honour of its odious family. Will its epitaph be the headline: “Another Bank-Holiday Ruined,” or will it be unable to resist its own growing impatience, so that it rains itself out during this very night?

  It doesn’t know yet, and no more do we. But we haven’t come up here to look at anything so vast or impersonal as a dark cloud. Down we plunge, and this time we pierce the opacity of a slate roof and two jerry-built ceilings, and focus the beam of our penetrating gaze on a new and strange sitting-room in some old and ordinary lodgings. The man standing there and gesticulating so clumsily and inexpressively is instantly recognisable as Mr. Lester Vaughan. But who is the large woman facing him? Wait a moment. Perhaps we shall place her if we listen.

  “I’ve told you a hundred times,” Mr. Vaughan is saying—but wearily and desperately, “that you brought the whole thing on yourself. Where’d I have been if I’d just waited like you seem to expect? Don’t you realise I’m in this up to the collar-stud, and if it fizzles, I’m bust?”

  “Well, why did you get in an amachoor?”

  “Blank in Dash, Maisie, have I got to explain everything that I do to a girl who walks out and tries to smash the show? I had to get someone, didn’t I?”

  “You could have listened to me first.”

  “Well, I am listening to you, aren’t I? Here I am, dog-tired after two long rides and a lot of work on a very important play, and you come in and start arguing while I’m trying to eat.”

  “Well, I’ve apologised, haven’t I?”

  “All right. You’ve apologised, and I’ve explained. Now, what else do you want?”

  “What else do I want?”

  “Yes, what else do you want?”

  We cannot help being struck at this point by the influence on Mr. Vaughan and Miss Dolores—for the large woman’s identity is now clearly established—of their long familiarity with concert-party dialogue. But whereas on the stage such a triple repetition would be the prelude to some ancient and whiskered jest, here the resemblance suddenly breaks down. It is with anything but a smile or an ogle that Miss Dolores announces what she wants.

  “I want,” she says, passionately, “to wring that new girl’s neck!”

  “What!”

  “Yes!”

  “Why?”

  “I’ll tell you why, Lester. Because she’s taking the bread out of my mouth and the clothes off my back. See? Because you know perfectly well I never meant to leave you really—only I happen to be a bit quick-tempered. Because I’ve always put the show first, wherever I’ve been, and they all know it, and here’s an amachoor who’s going to let you down, and——Oh, yes, she is; don’t tell me—and all because shall I tell you why? All right, I’ll tell you why. Because she’s got round you and played up to you and vamped you with those eyes I’ve heard about——” (Here Mr. Vaughan quite unconsciously glances at his reflection in the over-mantel, and fingers his tie)—“and because—oh, yes, you are; don’t tell me—because you’re soft on her!”

  The stream of logic is suddenly checked. The Chief Domino’s indignation is a sight to behold, and little he cares now about the looking-glass or his tie.

  “Me!” he snorts. “Me soft on a kid like that! Who’s been feeding you, Maisie? Who’s been spilling this stuff? Eh? Where——”

  “Oh, I’m not afraid of you. They’re all saying it.”

  “Blank in Dash, who’d be a manager!”

  “They’re all saying she can’t do a thing.”

  “Well, how was I to know that? You’d let me down——”

  “Haven’t I apologised?”

  “Apologised!”

  “Yes, haven’t I apologised? Listen, Lester, I’m clean on the rocks. Listen—I’ll take anything you like. Listen—I’ll go right on to-night, and I’ll never say another word about our argument. Listen—I mean it, Lester. Listen—I know you’re not soft on her, really …”

  “Ah!”

  “And, Lester, how’s the play going? You know I’m dead keen on it. Lester—you might tell me …”

  Mr. Vaughan has now retired into a dark cloud of his own. He rubs his sallow jaws. He stares mistily at the unspeakable wall-paper. His armour, which has never been of the highest proof, cannot defend him against that inquiry about the play. Maisie’s a good sort, too. She understands. And if she’ll really come back on a smaller salary … Well, what does that matter? She’s got to come back. She’s one of them, and that other girl—no, she’ll never be any good. Too damned meek and ladylike. No idea of anything. Hopeless.

  She can go. As she has no contract, she can go all the quicker. He ought never to have engaged her, and he wouldn’t have, what’s more, if only …

  Vague memories of something to do with swimming and something to do with a stringed instrument merely irritate the great man. He shakes them aside with a movement of his shoulders.

  Soft, indeed! Well, he can stop that sort of talk, and pretty sharp. And the girl won’t argue;

  That clinches it. The girl isn’t here and won’t argue. Maisie is only a yard away, and will.

  “All right, Maisie. That’s all right. Kiss and be friends. You can have the old salary.”

  “Oh, Lester! Oh, you darling!”

  Ugh! Gosh, they really are going to kiss.

  They’ve kissed. Revolting! But Noodles is free, so what does it matter?

  We long to tell her, but not even now can we interfere with the characters who are swiftly approaching the spot where Gertie stands in sar
donic solitude, and sneers at human frailty. Noodles must drink the cup as it is offered her; but we are dashed if we are going to hover up here any longer and listen to Mr. Vaughan telling Miss Dolores (née Davies) about the knock-out situation which he and his collaborator have devised for the new curtain of the second act.

  We have already, unfortunately, gathered that it has something to do with a man hiding in an ottoman, and another man hiding in a suit of armour, but that’s quite enough for us. With even less regret than in the case of Miss Mulberry, we bid farewell to the Diamond Dominoes for good.

  5

  “Well,” said Fitzgibbon; “I’ve kept my word, you see.”

  “Oh, yes,” said Noodles.

  “I didn’t forget, you see. Here I am.”

  And there he was. He hadn’t knocked on the stained-glass door at Holmcroft for the very good reason that Noodles had seen him through the window, and had run out to meet him. And this she had done for what, at the time, had seemed the very good reason that it would stop Miss Selbrook and Miss La Touche asking who he was. Only afterwards this second reason didn’t seem quite so admirable, because it also meant that Fitzgibbon looked as if he thought that she thought he was late.

  “Sorry if I’ve kept you waiting,” he said. “Still, here I am.”

  And there he still was—sort of smiling in a sort of horrible sort of way.

  “Oh, yes,” said Noodles.

  “Lots of time, though,” said Fitzgibbon. “The show doesn’t start till eight.”

  “Yes, I know. But I ought to get there a bit sooner.”

  “Why?”

  “Well, you see …”

  “Oh, rot, Noodles. You’re just saying that to rag me. Aren’t you?”

  “No, really not. And really I——”

  “What’s the idea. You’re going with someone else?”

  “Oh, no. But I mustn’t be late, because …”

  “Well? All right; you’re coming with me, then. I’ll treat you, if you like.”

  The natural thing was to say: “Oh, thanks awfully,” and Noodles had said it before she could stop herself. “Only, I mean—” she added.