Two in a Train

by Warwick Deeping

  “Mr. Montgomery, attend to this lady, please. Take a chair, madam.”

  Poor Eustace was always conscious of Mr. Cragg’s blue eyes fixed on him. Why did the fellow stare so? Mr. Montgomery found it very irritating and confusing to be watched as though he was some raw young assistant. And then—one day—he realized that Mr. Cragg was looking not at his face but at the crown of his head.

  Mr. Montgomery seized an opportunity of examining himself in a mirror. Had he failed to brush his hair properly? But no. Certainly, he was going rather grey. Was that it? Did Mr. Cragg suspect that he was growing too old for his job? A new fear arrived in Mr. Montgomery’s consciousness. He was afraid of his own grey head.

  That evening he slipped a bottle of hair dye into his pocket, and after supper he shut himself in the bathroom. The procedure was so unusual that his wife came up, and trying the door, found it locked.

  “Anything the matter, Eustace?”

  “No, my dear.”

  His voice was apologetic, and then, realizing perhaps that certain things cannot be concealed from a wife, he unlocked the door.

  “Just doing a little titivating, Mary.”

  She looked shocked. Her husband was dyeing his hair! And what was the significance of such an act?

  Mr. Montgomery tried to make a joke of it.

  “So much renovating going on, my dear, that I thought I ought to be in the fashion.”

  “Eustace, you don’t mean——?”

  He nodded and smiled.

  “Nothing to worry about, Mary, but the fellow seems to fix his eyes on my head. I don’t think he likes grey heads. He doesn’t like anything—that’s a bit old-fashioned. So, I thought I’d put the clock back. Nothing to be ashamed of.”

  She was touched. She kissed him.

  “Let me finish it for you. You can’t do it properly yourself.”

  Next morning at the breakfast table young Ralph’s eyes appeared to enlarge themselves. His father’s hair was jet black.

  “I say, dad, what have you been doing——?”

  His mother reproved him.

  “Personal remarks, Ralph, are stupid. Finish your breakfast. You’ll be late for school.”

  It so happened that the day turned out badly for a rejuvenated employee. Poor Montgomery was too conscious of his jet black head. He had discovered Mr. Cragg staring at him in a way that suggested that he was very much aware of the transfiguration. Apparently, Mr. Cragg did not approve of it, for he was abrupt to the senior assistant. Mr. Montgomery was very worried. Had he done the wrong thing in attempting to put on an air of gloss and uncorrupted gaiety? Also, one or two of his old and familiar patronesses came into the shop, and they too stared at him in polite and momentary surprise. Mr. Montgomery lost his suave poise and became agitated.

  A woman entered bearing a parcel. She was one of those formidable women who enjoy making a scene. She confronted Mr. Montgomery.

  “You sold me this yesterday. It leaks.”

  Mr. Montgomery should have remembered both her and her purchase, but he did not.

  “I’m very sorry, madam. What is it?”

  “A hot water bottle. The stopper doesn’t fit. It leaked all over my brother-in-law’s bed.”

  Why—brother-in-law? Why this detail? But Mr. Montgomery took the parcel from her and unwrapped it.

  “I’m very sorry, madam. All our bottles are tested.”

  “That one wasn’t.”

  “I assure you, madam—that it was.”

  She was offended. Did he suggest that she was lying?

  “Well, you try it yourself. I’m not accustomed to having my word doubted.”

  “I assure you, madam, I——”

  “You try the stopper of that bottle, and don’t argue.”

  Mr. Montgomery, a little flurried, took the bottle to the dispensing counter, and filled it at the tap. When he had screwed in the stopper and held the thing upside down he could detect no leak. He returned to the lady and with perfect politeness showed her that the article was innocent.

  “Perhaps you did not screw the stopper in sufficiently?”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “But you see——?”

  She was not going to be made a fool of.

  “How do I know that’s the same bottle?”

  “Madam—surely you don’t suggest——?”

  “What I want is a bottle that doesn’t play tricks. Do you think I can’t screw in a stopper?”

  Screened by a case of manicure sets and toilet sundries Mr. Cragg had been listening to this argument. He now appeared.

  “Of course, madam. Most annoying. Mr. Montgomery, bring out a new bottle and test it. I want to see it and be sure that the lady is satisfied.”

  It was done, and the lady, having her dignity saluted by Mr. Cragg, and feeling that Mr. Montgomery had been ticked off, departed triumphantly with the substituted article.

  Mr. Cragg spoke rudely to his assistant.

  “Look here, haven’t you learnt how to meet a complaint?”

  “But I assure you, sir——”

  “Fudge. When a woman comes in and complains—don’t argue.”

  “But I didn’t argue, sir. The bottle——”

  “You’re not arguing now, I suppose?”

  “No, sir. I’m only——”

  “Look here, Montgomery, you don’t seem to know how to deal with a customer like that. Accept what she says, in reason. Don’t go and blow off and make her feel——”

  “But, sir, the bottle——”

  Mr. Cragg glared at him.

  “Oh, very well, very well. You talk too much——” and his eyes added—“You damned ass.”

  Mr. Montgomery felt bitterly humiliated. Never before had he been spoken to with such rudeness, and in the hearing of the lady cashier and two other assistants. His urge was to retaliate, to tell Mr. Cragg just what he thought of him, and then to put on his hat and walk out of the shop. But how could a man of fifty-three with a family dependent upon him allow his outraged dignity such free expression? Mr. Montgomery swallowed his shame. He was frightened. He might and did say to himself that this Cragg was no gentleman, but then Mr. Cragg held the whip and could crack it.

  From that day Mr. Montgomery’s self-regard appeared to shed its protective illusions. For many years he had felt himself to be a person of some importance, a gentlemanly fellow with an impressive forehead to whom people came for advice. Almost, he had conceived himself to be Pendlebury, and now he saw Eustace Montgomery as an ageing and obscure assistant in a chemist’s shop, a fellow who could be pushed out into the street and who was at the mercy of another man’s whims. It was horrible.

  His sense of humiliation was partnered by fear. He did not dare to think of unemployment. He found himself treating his employer with repulsive humility. He trembled at the flicker of a Cragg eyelash, and was stricken dumb by a frown. He loathed himself for this servility. It made him feel so grossly inferior.

  He tried to conceal his secret sufferings from the family. He was full of quips and of false cheerfulness. He could not bear to think of himself being exposed before his children as a mean fellow who was a failure and who truckled and lied to his tyrant. He may have deceived his children, but he could not deceive his wife.

  “Something’s wrong, Eustace.”

  “Wrong! How?”

  “You’re worried. You’re not yourself.”

  “Since when have you noticed this terrible change?”

  His facetiousness was useless.

  “Oh, ever since Cragg took over. You may just as well tell me the truth, dear.”

  Mr. Montgomery did tell her. He told her much more than he had meant to tell her, though, after all, she had been his best friend. Mary Montgomery was greatly indignant. She did not regard her man as a failure. Far from it.

  “You must give notice.”

  “Give notice! At fifty-three!”

  “You don’t look much more than forty.”

  “My dear, i
n these days, jobs don’t grow on bushes. Who wants an elderly man? I shall have to stick it.”

  “I think it’s abominable. I should like to——”

  “Oh, the man can’t help himself. He’s made that way. He’s after money. I dare say I shall get used to it. One mustn’t be too sensitive. Besides, I haven’t much to complain of at home, Mary. You and the kids are pretty good to me.”

  Christmas arrived, but this year there was no bonus. Mr. Montgomery had not counted upon any such windfall, but he missed it considerably. He had a little sum of money put by, and he and his wife agreed that some of their savings would have to be spent on education. Both children were doing well, and Ralph had his eyes on a scholarship. His ambition was to be a doctor. The Montgomerys agreed that they could not curtail their children’s education at this most critical juncture.

  Mr. Cragg, too, had a son, rather a lumpish lad who had been sent to a public school. Young Cragg had no particular ambition beyond sensual gratification. He was just a lout to whom a number of cultured gentlemen were attempting to apply some polish. In all probability he would develop into an excellent business man, quite as self-assured if not quite so shrewd as his father. Cragg senior was absurdly fond of Olly, and if he saw himself in Oliver he was not ashamed. Olly was a chip of the old block, and inclined to be rough and aggressive, and Mr. Cragg would say to himself that the lad had the right stuff in him.

  Trade seemed to be particularly brisk that Christmas in spite of the financial crisis. The dispensing side of the business was keeping up well, yet Mr. Cragg grumbled, and talked about income tax. He talked about it to Mr. Montgomery, and with such an air of truculence that poor Eustace trembled before the voice of doom. Was Mr. Cragg giving him the broadest of hints on future economies?

  “Penalizing the brains and the guts of the country, that’s what’s happening. Pauperizing everybody for a lot of paupers.”

  Mr. Montgomery hurried to agree.

  “Yes, a most fatal policy, sir.”

  “Income tax doesn’t worry you much, does it?”

  “Just a little, sir. Of course—in my small way——”

  “You’re lucky.”

  Mr. Montgomery smiled faintly. Was it not probable that Mr. Cragg would subscribe to the craze for economy, retain one junior certificated dispenser, and import two or three young women to attend to sales? Probably Mr. Cragg would regard an elderly and more highly paid assistant as a luxury, and axe him. Financial stringencies! It was all very disturbing and tragic.

  If only he could make himself indispensable, mix some magic mixture in an eight ounce bottle and prescribe it for Mr. Cragg, one ounce, t.d.s. after meals!

  Mr. Cragg’s Christmas dinner was a champagne affair, and also in the nature of a family reunion. Two of Mr. Cragg’s brothers and their wives were staying in the house, and Mrs. Cragg had invited a sister. It was quite a merry party. There were crackers, and Mr. Cragg wore a pink cap. Had his shop assistant seen him under such circumstances he would have been both puzzled and surprised. This domestic Cragg was a wholly different creature from the formidable idol with the glaring blue eyes who gloomed at the back of the shop. The domestic Cragg was a jovial fellow, generous and expansive.

  Over their port and cigars the men talked money and business.

  “How’s the new place doing, Bob?”

  “Oh, not so badly.”

  “Got a manager yet?”

  Mr. Cragg watched young Olly beginning to dally with his first cigar.

  “Well, no. I had thought of putting in the chap who was with the Pendleburys for umpteen years, but he’s a bit of an ass. No guts. Talks too much.”

  “Been too long in the place—perhaps.”

  “Besides—he’s so scared of me. I can’t stick a man who can’t cock his tail.”

  “How old is he, Bob?”

  “Oh, fiftyish.”

  “Children?”

  “Believe so.”

  “The poor devil may be afraid of being out of a job.”

  Mr. Cragg refilled his port glass and observed his son whose complexion had taken on a suggestive sallowness.

  “Better chuck the rest of that cigar away, old lad.”

  Master Olly was insulted.

  “Why? I’m all right.”

  “You won’t be—in three ticks. I told you to take a half corona and not one of those bombshells.”

  “It won’t beat me, dad.”

  “Righto. It’s your funeral.”

  And it was.

  The party spent the rest of the evening playing roulette. Master Olly had retired to the upper regions, and his father left the party to see how Olly was bearing his first defeat. He found his son lying on his bed complete as to dinner jacket and white waistcoat, and with a face like yellow parchment.

  “Well, old lad, feeling a bit cheap?”

  Mr. Cragg junior was sullen and subdued.

  “Something wrong with the champagne.”

  Mr. Cragg laughed.

  “Oh, was there! I think not. You’d better undress and get into bed. Here, I’ll give you a hand.”

  He helped his son off with his clothes.

  “Nothing like experience, old lad. Got a hot-water bottle? No. I’ll have one sent up.”

  The new year had reached Easter, and Mr. Montgomery still trembled and endured. Never had he applied himself so sedulously to the pleasing of people, especially Mr. Cragg. He did not dare to hope, for it seemed to him that his employer’s face was as unfriendly as ever, and that Mr. Cragg just tolerated him. Also, on May 1st Mr. Montgomery would be fifty-four years old, and May 1st had yet another place in the calendar. Mr. Montgomery’s one physical accomplishment was swimming. He was a really fine swimmer, and he had taught his son to swim almost as well as himself. On May 1st the season opened for them officially, and each morning at 7 a.m. they would walk down to the Municipal Bathing Station, and go in off the high board.

  It was at Whitsuntide that the thing happened. The weather was vile with a strong south-wester blowing, and the sea too rough for any but hardy swimmers. Mr. Montgomery was bathing alone, for Ralph had had flu and was not quite fit for strenuous exercise. There were very few people on the beach, and Mr. Montgomery had just come in when he heard someone shouting.

  “There’s a boy drowning.”

  A woman was pointing seawards, and Mr. Montgomery saw a half submerged head, and a hand protruding above the crest of a wave. He had never saved a person from drowning, but he and Ralph had often practised the procedure, and he plunged in and swam towards the figure in distress. It had disappeared, but came to the surface again quite close to him. The boy was semi-conscious, but still struggling.

  Mr. Montgomery clutched him from behind.

  “Don’t struggle. Leave it to me.”

  He brought the boy to shore in the presence of a small crowd. A passing doctor hurried down to the beach, and had the lad carried into a shelter. Someone fetched blankets from a house. A little pump-handling by the doctor soon brought the boy round.

  “Where do you live, son?”

  “Gore Park.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Cragg.”

  Mr. Montgomery was standing by with a towel over his shoulders.

  “Not Mr. Robert Cragg’s son?”

  “Yes.”

  Mr. Montgomery went pink.

  “Well—that’s an extraordinary thing. My name’s Montgomery. I’m your father’s assistant.”

  Young Cragg was packed into a taxi with borrowed blankets and a hot water bottle, and accompanied by the doctor, was driven home to Gore Park. He arrived just as his father was leaving to play golf, but Mr. Cragg did not play golf that morning.

  “Who was the chap who pulled you out, Olly?”

  “A fellow named Montgomery. Quite an old chap. Said he was in your shop.”

  Mr. Cragg’s blue eyes stared.

  “Well—I’m damned!”

  Mr. Montgomery was mowing his very small lawn when hi
s visitor appeared at the gate. It was a new and revised edition of Cragg so far as Eustace was concerned. One of Mr. Cragg’s very large hands was held out.

  “It was you who pulled my kid out.”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, it was damned fine of you.”

  Mr. Cragg sat down on Mr. Montgomery’s garden seat. The sky had cleared, but the seat was still rather wet. Mr. Cragg did not notice it.

  “Excuse me, sir, that seat’s wet.”

  “Is it? Well, never mind. As man to man, Montgomery, I’m damned grateful to you.”

  “Oh, that’s quite all right, sir.”

  “No—it isn’t. Fact is—I’m a plain-spoken man. I’ve had something on my mind for a long time. Couldn’t make it up—somehow—but now it’s as clear—as crystal. Obviously, you’ve got guts, my dear chap.”

  Mr. Montgomery blushed. Was he dreaming? Had Mr. Cragg really addressed him as my dear chap?

  “I’m sure—I’m very glad——”

  “Look here, I’m not a man who uses soft soap. I’ve made up my mind. I want you to manage the St. Helen’s shop. Will you take it on?”

  “With pleasure. But—I would prefer——”

  “Well?”

  “To take it on trial for a year. To be perfectly frank, sir——”

  “Yes.”

  “I always felt you weren’t quite satisfied.”

  Mr. Cragg laughed.

  “Oh—that’s me—all over. I’m a bit tough in business. You take it on, Montgomery. And I’ll make you a bet. The takings will be up at the end of the year.”

  “I don’t want to bet against myself, sir.”

  “All right. Four hundred a year, and a bonus of fifty—if the returns are up. How’s that strike you?”

  Mr. Montgomery could not deny himself a characteristic and rhetorical gesture.