Two in a Train

by Warwick Deeping

  Mr. Allard proved himself man. In fact, one evening after he had dined and drunk half a bottle of Ambrosia’s red wine, he had a heart to heart talk with the lady.

  He said—“You have been very good to me, madam. You may be sure that I shall respect—your kindness. You see—your husband bears a strange resemblance to a man I knew in England, but that man is dead. Yes—completely and absolutely dead.”

  He raised his glass to Ambrosia.

  “Your very good health, madam. I am very much—your debtor.”

  Luigi the blackshirt, coming up to inquire how Ambrosia wished him to handle the blasphemer, was given a glass of cognac, and told that the situation was solving itself.

  “He is quite a good old puncinello, Luigi. You can let him be. He was just like an old child, a little thoughtless and mischievous. Besides, he cannot walk.”

  Luigi looked admiringly at his sister.

  “If necessary we can put him over the frontier in twenty-four hours.”

  Ambrosia went on knitting.

  “No—I do not think it will be necessary. He understands that—sometimes—the good God wishes us to hold our tongues.”

  CAKES AND SHERRY

  Messrs. Collard had opened a shop in Medstone, and Collard cakes and confectionery were famous throughout the Empire. Should a young man or some sentimental old gentleman desire to make an offering to Venus, a carton of Collard’s Chocolates might be considered as chic and more satisfying than a bouquet of carnations.

  It was only a small shop, and Medstone was only a small town, but growing fast and attracting more and more of the people who occupy the new world’s villas, and house in each garage a two-seater car. The new Medstone was ripe for Messrs. Collard’s products. A Collard cake in the drawing-room of “Cornerways” or “High Gables” added a cachet to the tea-party.

  Messrs. Collard’s new shop was managed and served by one young woman. The cakes and the confectionery arrived from London daily in a large white van, and rumour had it that the cake-shop girl was a product of Kensington. She was very smart and somewhat distant, with very black hair and very dark eyes. Her complexion was as perfect as the iced skin of a Collard cake. She wore a black frock and a purple apron.

  Now, Medstone, or a part of Medstone, contrived to be a parochial little place in which the members of the Established Church and the supporters of Nonconformity still regarded each other as painted papists or descendants of the Rev. Mr. Stiggins. Primordial Medstone knew everything about everybody, and everybody else’s business. It was a self-consciously respectable little town. In its recreation ground no games were permitted on Sunday. The white gloves of its police seemed a little whiter than the gloves elsewhere. It believed in fundamentalism, brisk trade, and a prompt settlement of all accounts.

  Old Medstone did not wholly approve of New Medstone. New Medstone had a casual air. It went out in cars or played golf and tennis instead of going to church; it was rather lax in the settlement of accounts; it produced very few babies. It was considered by Old Medstone to be very much a cocktail community, and completely contraceptive. Old Medstone would apply to this new world the one word—“Jazz.”

  Messrs. Collard’s shop belonged very much to New Medstone, and so did the young woman who served in it. Her name was Eve Garrison. She lived alone in a little maisonnette at the back of the shop. Only occasionally did Medstone see her save through a glass window, for she appeared to keep much to herself, and her Sundays were spent in London. She made no friends in the town, and was not seen in the foyer of the local picture house which was Medstone’s rendezvous for democratic fashion.

  Miss Sarah Bland, who was secretary of the local club that cared for the morals and manners of young women, and during the winter provided them once a week with weak tea and innocuous dancing, scrutinized Miss Garrison through the shop window, and Miss Sarah Bland, looking out of a first floor window, was able to watch Miss Eve Garrison arranging cakes and cartons of chocolates in the Collard shop. Miss Bland’s face expressed disapproval. What a flashy young woman was this! Miss Bland thought of all such young women as unwise virgins, creatures of lipstick and jazz. Jazz was a favourite word with the Blands. No cosmetics or mascara were allowed behind the Bland counters. Its world went respectably unpowdered.

  Mr. Jack was the one protagonist of progress.

  “We ought to be more up to date.”

  Usually the family snubbed him, or tolerated him. He was the baby. But Mr. Jack could take a great deal of snubbing. He had remained a boy, and retained a boy’s hatred of humbug, and an unholy quickness in detecting it.

  “Well, if you’d listen to me I’d have all our vans painted canary yellow. Cheerful—and bright—and all that.”

  Someone at the table uttered the word “Jazz,” and Jack retorted:

  “O, rot! We’re always three years late. What about the passion for pyjamas?”

  His sister looked at him with a characteristic movement of the nostrils that suggested sniffing.

  “I suppose—that new young woman across the way——”

  “Wears pyjamas, Sis? Well, probably. Go and ask her. I can’t, can I?”

  Mr. Bland senior boomed “John, don’t be vulgar.”

  That such a parental remark should be possible in post-war England might appear a little incredible, but in such a city as Medstone the fundamentalist may sit bearded, bathotic and stubborn in the last ditch.

  Miss Eve Garrison of “Collards” was a black and white young woman, tall, slim, aloof. She wore black, a purple apron and a white lace collar, and her hands were meticulously clean. While exhibiting extreme politeness to her customers she conveyed to such as them as were male an impression of iced indifference.

  Young John Bland, having surveyed both Collards and Canaan, ventured into the shop. The wife of one of the Medstone canons was buying cakes, and young Bland waited and watched.

  “Madeira, madam? Yes, of course, if you prefer it, but I would recommend our golden sponge.”

  The lady fell to the golden sponge. She had the episcopal outlook. She spoke kindly—if a little patronisingly—to the strange young woman.

  “And how do you like Medstone?”

  Miss Garrison was wrapping up the cake, and from her face you would have concluded that she was concerned with nothing but cakes.

  “I don’t think I have been long enough here to know, madam.”

  This was rank heresy, for ever since Ruskin had written on the Medstone spire all the world knew instantly—or should have known—that Medstone was unique.

  “Have you any friends in the city?”

  Miss Garrison’s dark eyes were studiously vague.

  “Not yet.”

  “Perhaps you would like to become a member of our social club?”

  Miss Garrison handed the cake across the counter.

  “Very kind of you, madam. As a matter of fact I spend my Sundays in London. Yes, that will be three and sixpence.”

  Her aloofness was so marked that the canoness withdrew her sympathy into cold storage, and even Mr. Bland wondered whether his interest was not a little premature. Miss Garrison was an iced cake, but Jack Bland was somewhat bored with the too facile friendliness of the Medstone girls. He was a catch, in more senses than one. He had wavy hair.

  The lady walked out of the shop, and Miss Garrison waited calmly for the thing in trousers.

  “I want some chocolates, please.”

  “Three and six, four and six, and five and six a pound, sir.”

  “What’s the difference?”

  She did not respond to his friendly smile.

  “Oh, quality—though—of course—all our chocolates have quality.”

  “I see. More silver paper and frillies—and all that.”

  She looked just a little bored with him.

  “Are they for yourself, sir?”

  He tried flippancy.

  “No, as a matter of fact—they are for a great-aunt.”

  “Then—I should sugge
st—something—quite simple.”

  “Just plain chocolate?”

  “Quite so.”

  He selected the four and sixpenny brand, and she wrapped up the carton for him, and before he could explore her mysterious hauteur further, other people entered the shop. He paid, received his purchase, and departed.

  He said to himself: “Gosh, she’s a bit stiff! Very much Collard. No change for you, Johnnie!”

  Miss Garrison obtained the reputation of being a very haughty young woman. She dressed as though she had every intention of attracting the male, but Medstone never caught her walking with one. She kept very much to herself. On Sundays she travelled to London by one of the Blue Line buses that left the market-place at 9.30, and she returned by a bus that reached Medstone at 10 p.m. Miss Sarah Bland, who spent much of her time looking out of windows at a world that had suffered her to grow thin and bitter, became quite an authority on Miss Garrison’s comings and goings. Undoubtedly, Miss Garrison’s cold virtue was kept for Medstone. Miss Bland was quite sure in her own mind that the woman went up to London to meet men. The secret Sarah Bland would have sacrificed her immortal soul for some such adventure, but the Sarah whom love had scorned was almost venomous in her virtue.

  Her young brother was growing more interested in the cake shop and seriously so, but he did not confide in the family. Brother Mark had a wife and a home of his own and two little prigs of children. Inevitably brother Mark would be one of Medstone’s mayors. His figure was swelling for the gold chain of office. Brother Luke remained a bachelor, and composed music for the organ. Young Jack could confide in none of these. They would not have approved. The Blands considered themselves to be the leading business people in the cathedral city. Their cult of the respectable was complete.

  Young John rode alone on the adventure. He discovered that on Wednesday afternoons when the shop closed Miss Garrison took a book and walked to the St. Giles’ meadows south of the city, and choosing some solitary willow, sat down by the river to read. This was unexpected. It almost suggested secret assignations, but when John Bland realized that Miss Garrison chose to be alone with herself, he was both surprised and pleased. Her aloofness made her appear even more alluring and mysterious.

  He, too, developed a liking for the water meadows and the river. He studied to make his entry upon the stage appear as casual and fortuitous as possible. His face mingled shyness and audacity. He raised a hat.

  “Good afternoon. Rather peaceful here, what?”

  Miss Garrison looked up from the pages of her book.

  “Quite. That’s my reason.”

  She did not welcome him. She made it almost too plain to Jack Bland that she had chosen solitude, and her choice provoked him. He hesitated, fidgeted, sat down.

  “I say—excuse me—but you’re awfully—unsociable.”

  She gazed across the river.

  “That’s my—privilege, when the shop’s shut.”

  “Mine—too.”

  She turned and regarded him with the faintest of smiles. He was a nice lad, with good teeth and eyes, and his freckles were so ingenuous.

  “Really—I should have said——”

  “Would you——? Now, that’s unkind. I’m not a Breezy Bertie.”

  Her face seemed to close up.

  “So—you’re a regular misanthrope, a hermit. I see.”

  He did not like her sarcasm.

  “Oh, don’t be so hard on a chap. Can I sit here for five minutes? It’s—so—peaceful.”

  “Quite”—and she reverted to the pages of her book.

  According to modern standards her attitude might have been considered either absurd or extremely logical, slyly provocative or calmly self-sufficient. Young Bland persevered, and on three successive Wednesdays he followed her to the river, and with quite admirable frankness attempted to convince her that he was in earnest. She did not question his sincerity, but it embarrassed her. He was just a silly young fool. In fact, he was so much more than that that mere toleration of his enthusiasm became difficult.

  She had so few illusions about life that she could afford to be honest with him.

  “Look here, kid, you are wasting your time. I’m not in a position to let you be serious, and if—you are just the other thing—well—I’m not feeling like it. And that’s—that.”

  He said: “I am serious, damned serious. What’s the objection?”

  She looked him straight in the face. “I’ve got a kid, and I’m not married. So—now you know.”

  For a moment he was shocked, but her candour impressed him.

  “I say—you’ve got some pluck.”

  “Perhaps it is because I don’t care.”

  “Oh, don’t say that. What about the—other chap? I mean——”

  “Just a casual cad, my dear.”

  Young Bland flushed up.

  “I should say so. I should like to——”

  “Much better—cut me out. I’m just a woman who has a job to do, and a kid to keep.”

  “Is that why you go up to town on Sundays?”

  “It is.”

  “I’m glad.”

  It was she who divined that other presence, and turning her head saw Miss Sarah Bland standing behind them. Miss Bland was smiling an acrid little smile, and her brother, also glancing behind him, discovered his good sister. He was annoyed, considerably annoyed. Sarah had always been a sneak.

  He nodded casually at Sarah.

  “Hallo, Sis. I’d like to introduce you to Miss Garrison.”

  He got up, but Miss Sarah Bland, with a significant glance at the young woman, deliberately walked on.

  Mr. Bland ruffled up angry hair.

  “Well—I’m damned! I say—I’m——”

  Miss Garrison took it quite calmly.

  “Possibly—your sister—is a good woman. You know, my dear, we all of us get found out. I suppose—if I stay long enough in this pious city—I shall be found out.”

  Young Bland, after staring at the retreating figure of his sister, sat down again on the grass.

  “It wouldn’t make any difference to me. You’ve told me the truth, anyway, and that takes some doing—on occasions.”

  She looked at him with sudden kindness, and her eyes said: “You’re rather a lamb. I wouldn’t hurt you—for worlds, but I’m not going to take you seriously. It wouldn’t be fair.”

  In fact, before they parted on that summer afternoon she did say these things to young Bland, and he—more in love with her than ever—and feeling more justified in loving her, protested against the verdict.

  “Well, you wait and see. I suppose I’ll have to show you that I am in earnest.”

  Miss Garrison, having confessed that life found you out, might have gone on to say that Miss Bland herself was a case of the most bitter exposure, an unhappy sadist whose sourness had to spill itself over the more fortunate frocks. Miss Bland—as a type—was becoming less prevalent, but Medstone still produced a number of such sour apples, Medstone Crabs. Incidentally, it was Miss Bland who was directly responsible for Miss Garrison’s exposure. It happened that Messrs. Bland & Boutwood had engaged a new saleswoman, a red-haired girl from London named Elsie Sharp. Miss Sharp was placed in the coat and cloak department under the eye of Miss Bland.

  On the very first day, Miss Sharp, exploring the life of Medstone from a first floor window, discovered Collard’s shop and Miss Garrison in the act of leaning forward to take a cake from a glass shelf. Elsie Sharp was greatly excited. A fellow-assistant had been standing behind her, and Elsie exclaimed:

  “Gosh, if that isn’t Eve Garrison!”

  She was answered by Miss Bland, a Miss Bland who had substituted herself for the other young woman.

  “Miss Sharp, please understand—that even when the department is without customers—assistants do not display themselves at windows.”

  Miss Sharp shook her red head.

  “Sorry, Miss Bland—but——”

  “So you know the young woman in Col
lard’s shop?”

  “Rather!”

  Miss Sharp giggled, and behind that giggle were sundry implications.

  “I was in the same establishment. Oh, yes, I oughtn’t to gossip, but of course—we all knew.”

  Miss Bland saw her opportunity waiting to be seized, nor was Miss Sharp’s reticence of a very high order. Miss Bland soon had the truth out of Elsie. So, Miss Garrison was that sort of girl! Miss Bland had suspected as much.

  Few of us can resist the temptation to create an impression, and so to plan the dénouement that the splash shall be as dramatic as possible. Sarah Bland kept her sensation for the family dinner table. She announced her news while she was carving a leg of lamb. Sarah always did the carving; she could make a joint go further than could any of the men.

  “I’m not a narrow-minded woman, but I felt rather sure about that young person over the way. Yes, the girl in the cake shop.”

  Brother John was on her left, and she was careful not to look at him, but neither father Matthew nor brother Luke had become aware of Miss Garrison’s existence, and they did not rise to the occasion.

  Miss Sarah arranged two slices of mutton on a plate, and continued.

  “Very curious, but our new employee—Miss Sharp—recognized the girl at once. They had been in the same shop together in London, and——”

  But Sarah was interrupted—and very abruptly interrupted—by the brother on her left.

  “Well, you’ll never be tempted in that way, Sis, so cut it out. Some people are always cold mutton.”

  That was the beginning of a fine family row. Sarah asserted that she would not be spoken to in that way by a brother, and that if John liked to associate with a girl who was—well—a Rahab—— John pushed his plate away and stood up. He said—and while he was saying it his father ordered him to sit down. Brother Luke was looking pained, and it pleased his refined spirit to feel pained. Young John was getting too cocky, and if the old man suppressed him, well—he—Luke had succumbed to suppression.