Two in a Train

by Warwick Deeping

  But John would not sit down. He was youth—incensed and reckless.

  “I don’t care a damn.”

  “Sir!”

  “I knew this—before our dear sister routed it out. Miss Garrison——”

  Mr. Bland senior was getting very red.

  “Sit down. Do you mean to say you have been associating with this—woman?”

  John shoved his chair against the table.

  “Yes—I have, and I am going on associating with her. I——”

  “You will do nothing of the sort.”

  Young Bland stared for a moment at his father.

  “Reasons, please.”

  Mr. Matthew grew even more red.

  “Reasons? You ask me—for a reason—in a case like this, when any decent person——”

  “What if I prefer to be indecent?”

  “You’ll go out of the business, young man.”

  “Righto. You people make me sick. You can keep your cold mutton, Sarah. This isn’t the Old Testament. Cheerio.”

  He walked out—furious and unfed—leaving shocked faces and a sense of the wrath to come.

  “Well—really!”

  Sarah began to weep.

  “To be spoken to like that—by my own brother—just because I was trying to open his eyes—— Yes, they’ve been meeting—down by the river. I knew at once what sort of girl she was. Trying to entangle John——”

  Mr. Bland sliced angrily at his mutton.

  “Don’t let’s have any more emotion. I’ll deal with Master John. I’ll get that young woman sacked.”

  Brother Luke was more cautious.

  “Better not have a scandal. John’s not an utter fool. He’ll soon see sense.”

  But the Bland family was to have its scandal whether it desired it or not, nor was the scandal to develop in the way that might have been anticipated. Mr. John Bland walked straight out of the house and went to see a good comrade—young Fred Garron who was the active partner in the firm of Garron & Garron, motor salesmen and garage proprietors. The Garrons were successful people, almost as successful as the Blands.

  “Take me on, Fred, in your show.”

  “Take you on?”

  “Yes, as garage hand or whatever you like. You can put me on to one of your lorries. I’m up to the job.”

  “What on earth’s the matter?”

  “Oh—I’ve just chucked our show. I’ll teach ’em a thing or two. Oh, yes, I’ll tell you all about it later. I don’t mind washing, or oiling and greasing. I’m a trained mechanic too, you know.”

  Mr. Fred Garron offered his friend a cigarette.

  “Cool off, Jack. You’re not serious.”

  “Dead serious, my lad. What about it?”

  “Oh, well, if it’s like that. Yes, I can find you a job, but it’s not quite a Bland job.”

  “Make it dirty, old lad. I’m fed up with being Bland.”

  That Mr. John Bland should dissociate himself from the Bland business and become a worker in the Garrons’ garage was for Medstone only a minor sensation, but there was more to come. The rebel meant to do the thing thoroughly. If the infinitely respectable establishment of the Blands was to cast stones of scorn and self-righteousness at the cake shop across the way, and the battle was to be Biblical, he—John—would emulate all the bad boys in the Bible. He would play Ishmael and Cain with respectability. He would set up the image of Baal. He would—— He confided in friend Fred.

  “I’m going to shock ’em, old lad. You wait and see.”

  His father came to visit him in the Garrons’ garage, and found his son lying under the back axle of a car.

  “Get up—you young fool, and come back to business.”

  John waved a greasy hand at his father.

  “Sorry, sir, but I’m attending to business. Don’t you worry about me. I shan’t starve on husks.”

  Mr. Bland made his way to the office and fell upon Mr. Garron.

  “What do you mean by taking the young fool into your shop?”

  “What young fool?”

  “You know perfectly well. Unless you send him back to me at the end of the week—I’ll cut all my custom.”

  Young Garron did not like Mr. Bland.

  “Well, that won’t kill us. Jack’s old enough to know his own mind. Besides—he’s quite a first-class mechanic.”

  Mr. Bland walked out of the garage. The parable of the prodigal son did not seem to apply.

  Mr. John had gone into lodgings in River Lane. At the end of the day’s work he washed and changed and made his way to St. Giles’ Fields. He sat with Miss Garrison by the river. He was quite frank with her. He said: “I’m going to let off fireworks under my people’s pious noses. If you should hear a few squibs—don’t think I’m in danger of blowing up. It’s just a demonstration.”

  She was equally frank with him.

  “Do you think it is worth while?”

  “Well—I’m sorry, but I do.”

  “And what if I shouldn’t approve?”

  “Oh, well, you’ll have to rescue me from the abyss, reform the young sinner. That’s all.”

  In a very short time Medstone was given to understand that young John Bland was going to the dogs. He drank, he betted, he was seen parading the Medstone High Street on Saturday nights with companions who had the appearance of being undesirable. He was always in and out of the “Royal George” bar. He behaved loudly and riotously in this cathedral city. He became very flashy in his dress.

  On a particular Saturday afternoon he appeared in the lingerie department of Messrs. Bland & Boutwoods. He was very merry, if not drunk. He addressed himself to the young ladies behind the counter.

  “Pyjamas forward—please. Purple—with green spots on ’em. Nothing like a bit of colour.”

  The shop was full, and this dreadful young man was very friendly. He even addressed himself to the wife of a cathedral dignitary.

  “What’s your choice, old dear? Have a glass of sherry.”

  Brother Luke was sent for, and Brother Luke, looking shocked and pale, got John by the elbow.

  “ ’Ssh, ’ssh—perfectly disgraceful. You can’t behave like this.”

  John put an arm round his brother’s neck.

  “Oh, can’t I—Eric—dear? Come across to the ‘George’ and have a wet with me.”

  “Be quiet. You’re drunk.”

  “Drunk—me—drunk! I’m not drunk. I’m—I’m as sober as the bishop. It’s you—who’s drunk. Madam, ’scuse me, but my brother’s drunk. Apologize.”

  Brother Luke looked hot and helpless. What did one do on such occasions? Send for the police? But your own brother! He tried more persuasion.

  “Now, come along, Johnnie, come and sit down in the office.”

  Mr. John mounted his dignity.

  “Nothing doing. Been insulted. Going outside. Good afternoon, madam, good afternoon—everybody.”

  He took off his hat to the whole shop in the manner of Charlie Chaplin, and walking rather circuitously towards the door, he disappeared.

  What a scandal! When Mr. Matthew Bland heard of the affair he rushed off to see his solicitor, but Mr. Parsons was playing golf. Mr. Bland deplored the world’s inattention to business, and passed on to visit the inspector of the police. The inspector was a man of the world and a humanist, and he did not like Mr. Bland, who was a very officious member of the Medstone Watch Committee.

  “If you can’t manage your son, sir, we can’t do it for you. Besides, a young chap may be a bit wild——”

  The inspector happened to be behind the scenes, and was rather enjoying Johnnie’s stagecraft.

  Mr. Bland was disgusted.

  “Wild—wild! You are responsible, inspector, for the amenities and the morals——”

  “No, sir—I’m not God.”

  “That’s blaspheming.”

  “No, it’s common sense, sir.”

  Mr. Matthew Bland was getting very little change out of Medstone, and the burlesque continue
d. Son John and a few more bright lads were hauled before the local Bench for breaking street lamps on Saturday night. Mr. John was the chief offender, and he was fined. A full account of the affair appeared in the local paper.

  Again Mr. Bland called upon his lawyer, and Mr. Parsons was polite and sardonic.

  “Might I suggest that Medstone is—perhaps—a little too tame for such a swashbuckler?”

  “Tame? Why, the boy’s not responsible. He ought to see a doctor.”

  “Do you think so? I have always thought John a very sound young man.”

  Almost, Mr. Bland shouted.

  “This has got to stop. It’s a scandal.”

  “Have you interviewed John?”

  “It’s his duty to come to me. Wine and women, sir. It’s perfectly—incredible. My other sons——”

  Mr. Parsons nodded.

  “Yes, most steady men. Look here, Mr. Bland, why don’t you give John a chance to make good elsewhere? You’re a warm man. Put down a thousand and put him into business somewhere else.”

  Mr. Bland was scandalized.

  “What, subsidize immorality, make blackguardism a paying proposition? I’m sorry, Mr. Parsons, grieved. You don t seem to understand what kind of man I am.”

  Mr. Parsons smiled vaguely.

  “Well, think it over, Mr. Bland, think it over.”

  There were not a few people in Medstone who were wise as to the secret significance of Mr. John Bland’s outburst. However soused he might appear on Saturday night, he was supremely sober and sane on Sunday morning when he entered a Blue Line bus with Miss Garrison. It was to be understood that the one chastening influence in Mr. John Bland’s life was Miss Garrison. Quite a number of sympathizers watched the comedy, and the faces of the Bland family. The Blands were not popular. They were too smug, too self-sufficient.

  But the climax arrived when John was arrested for being drunk and disorderly and for resisting the police. His resistance had been playful. Brought before his friend Inspector Twite, he had been interviewed by the inspector in private.

  “I shall have to charge you, Mr. Bland.”

  “Go ahead, inspector. It’s quite in order.”

  “You are carrying this a little too far, my lad. With your recent record it’s quite likely that you will be put away for a fortnight.”

  “I hope so, inspector.”

  The Bench was not in the conspiracy. This dissipated young man was beginning to make himself a nuisance in Medstone, and the Bench sentenced Mr. John Bland to fourteen days in the second division. Medstone almost expected Messrs. Bland & Boutwood to put up their shutters and go into mourning. It was a most deplorable and disgraceful business.

  Brother Mark, the potential mayor, was furious. He expressed himself forcibly to his father.

  “The only thing to do is to ship the young fool off somewhere. Send him to Canada.”

  “And waste money.”

  “Well—this sort of thing is not going to do our business any good.”

  Mr. Matthew agreed. But why Canada? He went once more and interviewed Mr. Parsons, who had been expecting Mr. Bland to call on him again.

  “About this boy of mine. This sort of thing can’t go on. I have been reflecting upon the suggestion you made.”

  Mr. Parsons was most helpful.

  “Well, why not adopt it? My impression is that John, if he is removed from Medstone and given responsibilities of his own, will make good. Try him.”

  “I shall warn the young fool that it’s his last chance.”

  “Quite so.”

  But in his heart of hearts Mr. Bland senior was not feeling so bitter against son Jack as were his brothers. This Benjamin! By George, young Jack had some stuff in him. He had set the town alight, and Mr. Matthew could remember that in his own young days—oh, well, he had been a bit of a dog, but Medstone knew nothing of that.

  When John returned to civil life old Bland went round to the Garron garage and sought out his son.

  “Look here, Jack, I want a few words with you.”

  Old Bland had dropped his pomposity. There was something like a twinkle in his eye.

  “Let’s go round to the ‘George’ and talk things over.”

  Young John put down a spanner. The “George”! His father suggesting a confabulation at the “George”!

  “All right, dad. But I don’t want any Sarah, or brother Mark or Luke.”

  “That’s all right, my boy. Just—us two.”

  In a private room at the “King George” Mr. Bland ordered two glasses of sherry.

  He said, looking at the golden liquid: “Dangerous stuff, Jack,” and then he sipped it. “Look here, I’ve been young myself. If I give you a thousand down and put you in business somewhere——?”

  Mr. John smiled at his father.

  “That’s awfully sporting of you, dad. I’ve made rather a mess of things here. I think I could make good—if I could get a particular woman to take me in hand.”

  Mr. Bland gave a queer little smirk, and swallowed the rest of the sherry.

  “And will she?”

  “I’m going to ask her.”

  Said his father, “I haven’t had a glass of sherry for years. I could manage another.”

  And he got up and rang the bell.

  FAME

  Marie Starneck was staying in Innsbruck at the Hotel Tyrol.

  It was June, and once in three years she could allow herself a holiday such as this—second-class travel and a top floor bedroom in a comfortable hotel. For a woman of forty who had to scratch a living in London as a semi-amateur journalist, a seller of symposia and perfunctory short stories, such a holiday was an experience to be dreamed of and enjoyed to the last shilling and the final minute.

  Relaxation. Snow still on the mountains, the upland hay a coloured carpet, the trees and grass in the Hofgarten richly green. The Hofgarten was her favourite refuge. She liked to take her tea at one of the green tables under the trees, listen to the band, and watch the life of these quiet, pleasant people, gentle people who loved children and birds.

  There were days when she took motor-bus rides into the mountains; days when she walked; but this old, shady garden gave her more satisfaction and solace than any other place. It was like green water, still and deep and peaceful.

  She first saw the man one afternoon when she was sitting under the trees by the little square building that was sometimes used as a bandstand. The wind was northerly. It had the tang of the snow in it, and the man was wearing a black cloak, the kind of cloak that a chic man-about-town might wear at the opera. He was very tall, with white hair, but his face looked much younger than his hair, and in him she divined an air of whimsical and gentle sadness.

  He sat down on a seat near her, produced a paper bag, and began to feed the birds. The Hofgarten swarmed with chaffinches. Five or six of the birds, bolder than the rest, perched on the man’s knees, his hands, his hat.

  Marie Starneck was delighted. She bore within her—as so many women do—an unquenchable flame of romanticism, a kind of vivid childishness. She might be a disillusioned little woman who each spring gathered a few new illusions and a few of them survived, even though they might be a little tashed and blown about. Life could be very brutal, a hedge of thorns, full of little greeds and treacheries, but somehow the sacred flame remained with her.

  She thought, “How delightful! Growing old and sitting in this green place—feeding the birds. I wonder what he was and is? Some war-ruined aristocrat—or an artist? Not much money. No, not much worldly success.”

  Her romanticism was always painting a picture or setting a stage. She could imagine the Man of the Cloak standing in the Goldenes Dachl and looking down on the crowd, his crowd. A Duke of the Tyrol.

  Forty she might be, but she was still a vivid little person, rather impetuous, a passionate partisan. She could still enthuse about things, even to the stony-eyed, horse-faced Englishwoman who sat at the next table in the Hotel Tyrol dining-room, and with whom she sometim
es conversed.

  Marie would say, “Have you noticed how tame the birds are here? To me it’s the most significant sign of the gentleness of these people.”

  The lady at the next table had been a schoolmistress, and was always improving the occasion.

  “It’s just the same at Munich.”

  “Is it?”

  “Yes—and at Merano. Have you been to Munich?”

  “No.”

  “You ought to go to Munich.”

  Miss Burr was always suggesting with cold superiority that someone’s education had been neglected. She came to the Tyrol or to Bavaria each year. She was an authority upon things and places. She was like a concrete building reinforced with dates and historical details, and the contents of museums. She corrected your pronunciation or reformed your taste. The hotel staff loathed her. She paid her ten per cent. and gave no tips.

  Crossing the Inn by a footbridge one morning, and taking a steep and winding track up the hill-side, Marie Starneck happened to meet the Man of the Cloak descending. It was a very warm morning, and he wore no cloak, and he was carrying his hat in his hand. Their eyes met, and almost he smiled upon Marie as though he approved of her, and saw her as a flower-like little person. His white hair was wavy and brushed well away from his forehead.

  She thought, “What a striking looking person he is. Perhaps he lives up here. Yes, in one of these houses clinging to the hill-side among all these flowers. Yes, and in appearance he is so typically Austrian.”

  The very next day in the Hofgarten he came and sat down on the seat she had chosen. She was reading a book of Mallison’s, a volume of essays, and as she glanced up from the book and recognized him he raised his hat as though both saluting her and excusing himself for sharing the seat. It was no more than a courteous and formal gesture, but she thought, “How pleasant, how Austrian!” She was flattered. She had given him the faintest of smiles, only to take instant refuge in her book. Mr. Mallison was being very witty in this book. There were passages that excoriated New Grub Street. His wit annoyed her, for in her small way she belonged to New Grub Street.

  She read attentively, diligently, and yet she was conscious of being observed. He had been attracted by her face, and being a maker of phrases he was searching for a phrase with which to express her face. It arrived. “A white flower with blue peacock eyes.”