The Romantic Adventures of Mr. Darby and of Sarah His Wife

by Martin Armstrong

  These practical reflections depressed Mr. Darby very much. For days he went to and fro through Newchester-on-Dole with the taste of ashes in his mouth. Still, for brief and unexpected moments—at the sight of an opulent shop-window, at the roar of a train in the Osbert Road cutting, or at the hidden impulse of that faith which, in despite of all reason, still lurked in his soul—happiness leapt irrepressibly in him; but he received these bright gifts now not as his natural right, but humbly and gratefully as balm to his sorrows. But his newly acquired wisdom did not allow him to succumb. It urged him to reflect, to plan, to scheme, to divide the impossibles from the possibles and to discard the former and to permute and combine the latter; and at last, after a careful sifting of pros and cons, Mr. Darby came to the practical decision that the only course open to him was to start a B Account, an Adventure Fund. It would be an awkward business, for Sarah knew all about his modest income. She had a very good head for business and it would be difficult to transfer to the Adventure Fund amounts however small without her knowledge. If only he had kept Uncle Tom Darby’s annual present dark from the beginning. What a nest-egg! If he had saved it merely during the last ten years the Adventure Fund would stand at a thousand pounds. Could he, perhaps, pocket the letter when it arrived this Christmas, before Sarah noticed it, and pretend it had not come? They had always agreed that it was not to be relied on, not to be regarded in any sense as income, since it might stop at any time. Well, why not adopt the simple fiction that it had stopped? Mr. Darby blushed slightly to himself, but he disregarded the blush and the feeling that provoked it, for the desperate man must not stick at trifles. Yes, that is what he would do, or try to do. And anyhow, if he failed this year, he would, when writing to thank Uncle Tom Darby, intimate a change of address,—a change to ‘care of Messrs. Lamb & Marston, 37 Ranger Street.’

  Having at last taken a practical step towards the realization of his dreams, Mr. Darby felt better. He could afford now to leave things to develop. But meanwhile he was not going to ignore the comforts and consolations of his present life. Pre-eminent among these stood that midday visit to The Schooner. He would repeat it. It would, in fact, be a good move to accustom Sarah to the idea that, say, once a week—every Friday, say—the office-work at Messrs. Lamb & Marston’s was apt to accumulate so formidably that he couldn’t be spared, simply had to snatch a quick lunch when and how he could. The opportunity to introduce this idea occurred almost immediately.

  • • • • • • • •

  Sarah Darby was a much closer and more solicitous observer of her husband than he supposed. She regarded him as a rather wilful child, a child that must be watched, and she did not fail to notice the change that had come over him since the evening of his birthday party. But she was far from guessing at the spiritual revolution which had produced this change. She put it down, in her unimaginative and uncompromising way, to stomach. But this did not mean that she thought it unimportant: quite the contrary. For she held that the first necessities to a perfectly ordered life are a good digestion and good food. Now obviously Mr. Darby was not at present in possession of the first of these. He was off his feed and he was melancholy. She had caught him more than once, during recent evenings, gazing reproachfully into the fire as though he had some grievance against it. His excesses at the party had evidently deranged his digestion: it was, in fact, this, all the time, which had provoked her disapproval. The fact that he had been somewhat tipsy she would have overlooked with an indulgent and slightly sardonic smile. Men,—strange, irresponsible creatures that they were—were always liable to meaningless pranks of this kind. But for a man to go and upset his stomach, to put himself at cross purposes with life for days was, in her eyes, a disgusting and immoral act. If you had tried to get her to take a more imaginative view, if you had put in a word for Mr. Darby’s soul and hinted at a spiritual revolution, she would have told you that the first duty a man owes to his soul is to look after his stomach and that the proper name for ‘spiritual revolution’ is ‘bilious attack.’ She had found, long since, that to question Mr. Darby or make remarks on his health was worse than useless: when she did so, he behaved as if she were regarding him with unwarrantable suspicions and took refuge in declaring that he was perfectly well. And so she did not question him now. Besides, this time no questions were necessary. She knew well enough what was the matter. Unknown to him, she dieted him for some days; but when this produced no effect and he remained as moody as ever, she began to feel anxious. Perhaps, for once, he would vouchsafe some information. ‘You’re not looking yourself, you know, Jim,’ she said during supper, regarding him searchingly with those keen grey eyes of hers. ‘And who can wonder?’ she found herself adding sternly.

  Mr. Darby understood the implication of the added phrase. It would be a long time, he knew, before Sarah forgave his recent indisposition.

  ‘Are you feeling all right?’ she asked, not unkindly.

  ‘M … yes!’ replied Mr. Darby in a qualified affirmative. ‘M … yes! Not too bad. A little overworked, that’s all.’

  ‘Overworked?’

  ‘Yes, we have rather an … ah … an accumulation of work at the office at present. In fact, I hardly thought I should get home for dinner this morning, though Fridays are generally the worst.’

  This was very diplomatic, for it not only prepared Sarah for possible delinquencies in the future, but it corroborated,—and, it might appear, quite unintentionally—the bonafides of his first failure to come home to dinner a few days ago. Neither of them had ever referred to this, and from the very fact that she had not referred to it Mr. Darby had gathered his wife’s resentment and scepticism. But a little touch such as the one he had just so skilfully brought off would, it was to be hoped, correct this attitude of Sarah’s. He glanced at her to judge of its effect. It had not been so complete as he had hoped: Sarah still appeared doubtful and reflective. ‘There’s never been any trouble of this sort before,’ she said. ‘Why should they start overworking you now?’

  ‘O, expanding business!’ said Mr. Darby airily. Then, turning his spectacles on her with the look of one uttering a philosophical observation, he added: ‘We must expect that, Sarah, you know! The business that stands still, goes back.’

  Sarah was not in the least impressed. ‘H …m! A funny sort of business that must be,’ she said with a sardonic chuckle.

  Mr. Darby left it at that. He had at least planted the idea: Sarah had not actually repudiated it: it seemed not unreasonable to hope that it would take root. He followed this up two days later (the day being Friday) by sending another telephone message from the office. He was again detained by an … ah … accumulation of business.

  This accomplished, his spirits rose: a delightful holiday mood took possession of him: he could hardly prevent himself singing at his work. Punctually at twelve thirty he issued forth. His step was brisk, his eye alert. It was no blind, instinctive flight this time: this gay, self-possessed, and prosperous little man obviously knew very well where he was going. And he was going, of course, as straight as he could go, to The Schooner. Already in anticipation he savoured the bracing smack of the Bass on his tongue and the rich flavour of those sandwiches through which came the pleasant sting of the mustard. His mouth watered. It was only his sense of his position as managing clerk of Messrs. Lamb & Marston and respectable citizen of New chester-on-Dole that prevented him from skipping down the declivity of Cliff Street. Arrived on the Quayside he did not pause to survey the enchanting scene. This was no moment to indulge the poetry of romance: it was the poetry of realism that possessed him now, urging him smartly towards the porch of The Schooner. Not that he closed his senses to the other; for, as he hurried along, his eyes took in the crowded scene on his right, darted in and out along decks, swarmed up masts, skipped to the piled, smoke-grimed roofs of Portshead and dived thence to the bright river below, while his nose drew in the smoky, watery, tarry air, detecting in it the salt of the Pacific, the fumes of Vesuvius, and the hot mephitic vapo
urs of the Jungle. All these things he took in and enjoyed on his course, as a miser might collect antique coins with a purely artistic zeal quite apart from his sordid passion for the currency.

  Without precaution and with no trace of trepidation Mr. Darby pushed boldly through the door of The Schooner. It was like returning home after a long absence. He did not even remember his old fear and distrust of public-houses. But why should he? For these feelings belonged to the old Darby, the Darby who had died a week ago. They were no part of the new Darby.

  Once more the place was somewhat crowded, but Mr. Darby worked his way politely but firmly to the bar, and there, once more, he found himself face to face with the lady of the bar who was pouring out a glass of stout. She was still magnificent but she was no longer shocking, and catching sight of Mr. Darby she smiled in the friendliest fashion and signed that she would attend to him in a moment. And in a moment she stood awaiting his order. Mr. Darby made a little bow.

  ‘Good-morning, Miss … ah …?’ he said gallantly under cover of the buzz of talk that surrounded them.

  ‘Sunningdale,’ said the barmaid.

  ‘Good-morning, Miss Sunningdale. And how are we this morning?’

  ‘Oh not so bad, thanks, for the time of the year,’ said Miss Sunningdale. She raised her golden eyebrows. ‘Same as last time?’ she asked, confidentially amiable.

  ‘The same as last time, if you please!’ said Mr. Darby.

  But how extraordinary that she should remember what he had had last time. Most extraordinary. Really a very pleasant and friendly young person. She drew his Bass and poured it out, not disdainfully this time but with the air of an accomplished conjuror performing a trick; then raising the glass bell of the sandwich dish she took two off the piles, placed them on the plate and set them before him. ‘Mustard?’ she said, musically as before, and then left him to attend to other orders.

  Mr. Darby ate and drank with gusto: the sandwiches were as excellent as before, the Bass had the same stimulating tang. Miss Sunningdale flitted to and fro, distributing beers, stouts, ports, whiskies, affable smiles and lofty disdain in accordance with the needs and deserts of the customers. Then she turned to the shelves behind her. ‘A smart figure!’ mused Mr. Darby as she stood with arms raised reaching for a couple of bottles. As she turned with the bottles in her hands his eyes met hers and he opened his mouth to speak. But the words stuck in his throat, for a very disagreeable thing occurred. Framed in the space left by the two bottles he had detected a round, pink, spectacled face crowned by a bowler hat. The face itself was familiar enough: it was its expression, an expression at once timid, ingratiating and distressingly fatuous, that had frozen his speech. For a moment he felt himself embarrassed, horribly ashamed. But next minute he had pulled himself together, averted his eyes from the lamentable image, cleared his throat, and remarked: ‘We keep you busy here, Miss Sunningdale.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘it’s pretty crowded most days from half past eleven to about two. Still, it doesn’t worry me. It’s a matter of knack, you know: keeping your head and not getting fussed. I’m an old hand, you see. Been at it ten years now.’

  ‘Ten years! Is it possible?’ said Mr. Darby gallantly, looking up from his plate over the tops of his spectacles.

  She smiled an arch, lustrous smile. ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘sad but true. Do you come from these parts yourself?’

  ‘Yes,’ replied Mr. Darby, ‘I live in Savershill.’

  ‘Dear me now. My first job was at The Punchbowl in Savershill Road. You know it, I suppose?’

  ‘I know the … ah … the exterior,’ said Mr. Darby. He was saved from confessing that he had never been inside—and he would have been ashamed to have to confess it to Miss Sunningdale—by her being called to the other end of the bar. Except to ask for another Bass and another sandwich he had no further opportunity for conversation.

  Already the crowd at the bar was thinning. Mr. Darby, having despatched his second helping, dusted the crumbs from his coat, raised his hat and smiled at Miss Sunningdale who smiled graciously from the far end of the bar, and went out.

  • • • • • • • •

  No sooner had Mr. Darby left The Schooner than the door swung open and admitted a tall, rather massive woman, who stood for a moment to take in the scene, and then advanced towards the bar. Miss Sunningdale regarded her with surprise: for Miss Sunningdale had considerable experience of the women who frequent pubs and she saw at once that this was not one of them. It was obvious that she was a very superior person, a person of considerable dignity and perfect self-possession. Her clothes, Miss Sunningdale noted, were quiet but good. She chose a part of the bar which was away from the small group of drinkers that still remained and Miss Sunningdale went to her at once, for this was a person, she felt, who deserved politeness. She liked the square, stern, handsome face.

  ‘Excuse me troubling you,’ said the lady in an undertone, ‘but did you particularly notice the gentleman who went out just now?’

  ‘Small, clean-shaven, spectacles, blue eyes?’ asked Miss Sunningdale.

  ‘That’s him,’ said the lady. ‘He’s my husband, and I’d be much obliged if you could tell me what he had.’

  Miss Sunningdale hesitated. She did not quite feel that she ought to tell tales about the absurd little man. He was pleasant and chatty and perfectly harmless. She liked him. At the same time she liked this large, dignified, straightforward woman: she liked her manner of speaking and the direct, unsecretive way she had asked her question. She decided to tell.

  ‘He began with a Bass and a ham and a beef sandwich, and then he had another Bass and another ham sandwich,’ she said.

  ‘Hm!’ said the lady grimly. ‘That explains it.’ She glanced at Miss Sunningdale. She was inclined to be critical of women of flamboyant appearance, but in the case of Miss Sunningdale she saw through the flamboyancy to a kindred spirit. Yes, she was the right sort, a sensible woman at bottom, a woman who would understand. ‘The fact is,’ she said confidentially, ‘he wants watching. Not in the matter of drink, I don’t mean,’ she hastened to explain: ‘he’s always been thoroughly steady. But he’s got to have proper meals. Now he’s been thoroughly out of sorts lately, and I’ve been wondering why: but now I know. He generally comes home, you see, and has a good hot dinner, and for a man accustomed to a hot dinner three sandwiches isn’t enough. But if I were to ask him what sort of a dinner he had had in town, do you think he’d tell me? “Sarah made a face indicating the hopelessness of the undertaking. ‘No, you’ve got to manage him artfully,’ she said. ‘He’s just like a child!’

  ‘Most of them are,’ said Miss Sunningdale. ‘Won’t you take something, madam?’

  Sarah shook her head.

  ‘I’ve got some quite decent sherry,’ said Miss Sunningdale raising her golden eyebrows in friendly persuasion.

  Sarah smiled. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘if you’ll have one too.’

  Miss Sunningdale went and filled two glasses. She was unable to prevent Sarah from paying for them. ‘Yes,’ she said, resuming the theme they had started, ‘most of them are little better than kids. Of course in places like this you see all sorts and kinds, but they’re all much the same in the end. If you was to come in here, or into any public for that matter, and watch them for an hour or two, well, I assure you, you’d be surprised. Of course there’s some, like your husband, who just come in for a lunch and go when they’ve had it: but most of them comes in twos and threes and plants themselves here talking and drinking, drinking and talking—small Scotch and Splash Miss! Another Bass, Miss!—and so on, one after another till you’d think they’d be sick. And it’s not as if they were thirsty: thirst’s got nothing to do with it. It’s just a … well, a kind of formality, as you might say. And the talk! You never heard! And all of them as serious and important as they can be; and the more they drink the more important they get. You’d think every one of them was the Prime Minister himself. And yet if you listen for a minute, it’s all just nonsens
e.’

  Sarah laughed with grim amusement. ‘O, don’t I know it,’ she said. ‘They love to hear themselves talking. For instance, there’s nothing my husband likes better then getting hold of a big word. If only he can get hold of a nice big word he thinks he’s said something worth saying. And the things he says sometimes! Now only the other evening—we were speaking of his job—he said to me, as serious as can be, if you please: “The business that stands still,” he said, “goes back.” He hadn’t an idea, you know, that he was talking nonsense.’

  Sarah finished her sherry. ‘Well, I’m very much obliged to you,’ she said. ‘Now I shall know what to do. He’ll have to have a hot supper when he doesn’t come home to dinner, that’s all.’ She held out her hand to Miss Sunningdale and they smiled at one another.

  ‘Good afternoon,’ said Sarah.

  ‘Good afternoon, madam,’ said Miss Sunningdale, and she watched the large, stately figure till the door swung-to behind it.

  • • • • • • • •

  Meanwhile Mr. Darby, bland, important, and sublimely unconscious that his existence was being ordered by anyone but Providence and himself, had made his customary inspection of the shipping, given a few passing thoughts to Vesuvius, the Equator, and the Jungle, and pursued his way up Cliff Street towards the office. He was contented and happy, but, even while enjoying this state, he knew that it was merely a temporary condition due to his visit to The Schooner and that his new disillusionment was lurking in the background, waiting a convenient moment to lay hold of him again. That was not a pleasant thought, but neither was it an unbearable thought, for he was no longer without hope, not the old baseless hope in which he had formerly reposed so blindly, but a practical and reasonable hope based on a B Account which, if luck favoured him at Christmastime, would soon be a tangible reality. With this in mind and with his Friday contentment upon him, Mr. Darby passed the Cathedral with all his old portly alertness, pausing before the window of Brown & Philipson to consider a display of electric light fittings, and, further down the street, before that of Harrington & Co., to inspect, and then in imagination to order, a cedar-wood cigar cabinet filled with an attractive selection of cigars. ‘Enter it to my account, please,’ he said as he turned along the railings of St. John’s Churchyard. A minute later the third step of Number Thirty Seven Ranger Street registered his return to the office.