“ Look here,” she said when she had made her way across the room to the table in the corner which I had engaged for our meal. “ Look here—do you always pick up your female friends like that? ”
“ This is the first time,” I told her seriously.
‘ It had better be the last. To be honest I don’t know why I’ve come. I made up my mind I wouldn’t.”
“ I’m glad you changed it.”
“ Who are you, anyhow? ” she inquired, sitting down and taking off her gloves.
I told her who I was and where I came from and what I was doing in London. In return she told me that her name was Teddy Freer.
“ You can call me Teddy,” she said. “ Everyone does. But before we go any further I’m twenty-eight—old enough to be your mother—and I’m engaged to a gunner who’s been fighting in Korea.”
“ You needn’t be so fierce,” I said, laughing. “ I want a friend, that’s all. I thought you looked nice so I asked you to supper.”
“ I’m paying for myself.”
“ But I asked you——”
“ I’m paying for myself, David.”
“ No—please——”
“ All right,” she said, smiling. “ You can pay for my supper and I shall thank you nicely—and never come again.”
“ You can pay for yourself,” I told her.
“ Good,” she said. “ We understand each other.”
We understood each other remarkably well—not only that night but at all our other meetings. She was lively and intelligent and interested in all the things that interested me. It was wonderful to have a real friend in London; somebody to go about with, somebody to talk to about things. Best of all Teddy liked getting out of town and we made a habit of taking a bus on Sunday afternoons and having a walk in the country.
Teddy had dark curly hair and brown eyes; she was a little like Freda to look at and perhaps that was what had attracted me to her at first but when I got to know her I found she was entirely different and I liked her for herself. She was such a dear, easy and kind and generous, nobody could have helped liking her. Sometimes I wondered what had got into me that morning at the market and made me so bold … and to tell the truth I wondered what had made Teddy accept my invitation to supper.
“ I was bored,” said Teddy when I plucked up courage to ask her. “ I was bored with everything—and I thought you looked harmless. You looked about sixteen years old, standing on that box and writing sums on the blackboard.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
There was a much better feeling at the office after Mother’s visit and, although I was aware that the friendliness of my fellow clerks was founded upon a false premise, I was quite pleased about it. It was not my fault that they had not believed the sober truth.
One evening Dick Ullenwood invited me to dinner at “ Kim’s ”; he had won some money on a horse and wanted to celebrate the occasion. I had no idea what the entertainment would be like but I accepted the invitation. Ullenwood explained that he had asked two girls and warned me in advance that Kitty was to be my partner for most of the evening.
“ Don’t make it too obvious, of course,” said Ullenwood anxiously. “ But if you could manage to leave Clarice to me … if you see what I mean.”
I saw exactly what he meant and promised to carry out his instructions to the best of my ability.
“ Kim’s ” was a very large restaurant; it was brilliantly lighted and full of little tables with red-and-white-checked table-cloths. They gave you a good plain meal and you could sit there and watch a series of music-hall turns and dramatic sketches. The place was full (all sorts of people went to “ Kim’s ”); there were painters and art-students with long hair and flowing ties; there were glossy Jews and casually attired undergraduates and there were a good many foreigners as well. It was cheap but clean and well-run and there was an air of natural gaiety about it.
Ullenwood had booked a table in an alcove and we settled down and prepared to enjoy ourselves. Luckily I liked Kitty much better than Clarice; she was not exactly good-looking but she was pleasant and amusing and we got on very well together.
The only untoward incident occurred about halfway through the evening. There was an interval between two of the dramatic sketches and we were discussing the performance when I became aware that somebody was standing beside me. It was Ned Mottram.
“ Hallo, David! ” he said. “ Fancy seeing you here! ” He looked at Dick Ullenwood and the two girls as he spoke and I saw he wanted me to introduce him … but I was determined not to do so. I rose and shook hands with Ned and asked him how he was getting on.
“ Oh, all right,” he replied vaguely. “ I left that job at the motor show-room—the boss was an absolute stinker—but I’ve got another job. I’ll tell you about it later. Look here, we’ve got a table over near the stage and we want you and your friends to join us. The more the merrier, you know.” He pointed as he spoke but the room was so crowded that I could not see his companions.
“ I don’t think so——” I began.
“ Come on, be a sport,” said Ned. “ We’ve got a much better table. It will be fun if you join us—there’s Beryl and Zilla and good old Harry; you know them all, don’t you? ”
I knew them only too well. “ I can’t, Ned,” I told him. “ It’s not my party.”
“ You could suggest it to them.”
“ No, I don’t think so, Ned.”
“ But Beryl sent me to ask you! Look, there she is, waving.”
I saw them now. Beryl was wearing the famous red dress and a large red bow in her hair; she was waving frantically—so was Zilla. Fortunately their unconstrained behaviour did not excite any interest here; “ Kim’s ” was an unconventional place. All the same …
“ I’m sorry, Ned,” I said firmly. “ You must tell Beryl that I can’t do anything about it. As a matter of fact we don’t want to join up with anybody. Our party is complete.”
He looked somewhat crestfallen. “ Oh well——” he said doubtfully. “ But perhaps we could have a talk later on—just you and I. Listen, David, you could come over and join us later on. How would that do? ”
This was the last thing I wanted and I realised that I should have to be firm. It had always been difficult for me to be firm where Ned was concerned because I was sorry for him. I found I was drifting into the old habit of being sorry for Ned … and then I looked across the room and saw Harry and Zilla and Beryl and I hardened my heart. I explained to Ned that I was a guest and it would be impossible to desert my friends.
“ I shouldn’t have thought that would have bothered you,” declared Ned with bitter emphasis, and he went away.
“ Who was that? ” asked Ullenwood when I sat down.
“ A fellow called Mottram,” I replied. “ He’s rather a bore; that’s why I didn’t introduce him. He wanted us to go over and join his party, but I told him we were quite happy by ourselves.”
The others laughed and agreed that we were.
It was odd meeting Ned again and I wished that he and his friends had chosen some other night to come to “ Kim’s.” Although I was sitting with my back towards their table I was conscious of their presence and I was sure they were talking about me and saying nothing to my advantage. It was silly to mind what they said or thought about me, but all the same it made me uncomfortable.
Soon after that the tables were moved to the sides of the hall and a space was cleared for dancing. It was a free and easy sort of entertainment. We danced and returned to our table and drank light ale and chatted and then danced again. Ned and his party must have gone home early—or perhaps they had gone on somewhere else—for although I looked for them I saw them no more.
We went to “ Kim’s ” several times in the next few weeks. Sometimes Wrigson came too and brought another girl, and on one occasion Ullenwood provided his sister, instead of Kitty, for my benefit. After the first party, which was Ullenwood’s affair, we all paid for ourselves and the place was so
cheap that my share came to very little. I enjoyed these outings; it was good to have some fun and to see life occasionally—besides I found good copy at “ Kim’s.” I wrote a description of the place and made some amusing sketches.
There was great excitement in the office when Mr. Penman began to arrange the holidays. Of course I had intended to go home and had been looking forward to it eagerly but when I came to make my plans I realised I had not enough money for my fare. I hated borrowing—being in debt was an absolute nightmare—the advance from Mr. Heatley had worried me considerably until I had managed to pay it off. And it was not only the fare to Haines; there would be other expenses as well. It is impossible to enjoy a holiday if one has to count every penny.
When I told Mr. Coe I had decided not to go home he immediately offered to lend me five pounds, but I thanked him and refused. I told him I had made up my mind quite definitely to stay in the flat for my fortnight’s holiday. It would be quite pleasant to stay in the flat. I could write as much as I pleased and browse contentedly in Mr. Coe’s book-shop and I could go out with Teddy on Saturday afternoons and Sundays.
“ That girl,” said Mr. Coe, looking at me doubtfully. “ You’re not getting yourself mixed up with that girl, are you? ”
“ She’s good for me,” I replied, smiling. “ We’re good for each other. We keep each other out of mischief. Teddy has taught me a lot about girls—and about other things too.”
“ You look out,” warned Mr. Coe. “ It’s the quiet ones are the worst. You think you’re just pally with that girl, but mark my words you’ll wake up one morning and find you’ve promised to marry her. I know girls.”
“ You don’t know Teddy,” I told him.
“ I don’t want to,” he said gruffly. “ I’ve no use for girls.”
The conversation seemed at an end and I turned to go upstairs, but Mr. Coe called to me to come back.
“ David,” he said. “ I was wondering … you wouldn’t consider taking on the shop would you? ”
“ Taking on the shop? ”
He nodded. “ That’s right. I want to get away to the sea for a bit of a holiday. My sister lives at Margate and I always go to Margate every year—can’t do without a sight of the sea. It’s in my blood, I suppose. I’ve been looking for a chap to run the shop but I can’t find anyone suitable. Of course I could shut it up like I did last year.”
“ Why don’t you? ” I asked.
“ It’s not satisfactory, that’s why. I lost several customers last year—lost them for good and all. They’re queer, customers are. They don’t think anyone should have a holiday except themselves. They come along to get a book and they’re fed up when they find the place shut—and off they go somewhere else.”
“ But I couldn’t run the shop! ”
“ You could. You’re the very man. Six pounds a week is what I’m offering.”
This seemed very generous, but Mr. Coe laughed when I said so.
“ Nonsense! ” he exclaimed. “ You’d get twice as much for carrying crates at the market.”
“ That would be work,” I said. “ Looking after the shop is easy.”
“ Well, it’s up to you, David. I’ll be pleased if you take it on. I’ll enjoy my holiday better if I know you’re looking after the place.”
“ I’ll do it,” I said.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
July is a quiet month in London and Mr. Coe’s customers were few. Most of them knew the shop well and did not want much attention; they preferred to come in and poke about and find what they wanted for themselves. I had plenty of time on my hands and I amused myself by writing more articles and touching up some sketches. Teddy was getting her holiday later. Her job at the hotel was no sinecure; she did all the catering, looked after the linen and arranged the flowers. Usually she got off in the afternoons, and one afternoon she looked in to see me at the shop. I had not invited her before—partly because Mr. Coe was so peculiar about women and partly because I was not sure whether she would want to come—but now that she had come of her own accord I asked her to stay to tea.
Sometimes I wondered why I was not in love with Teddy. I liked her so much, I admired her and we got on splendidly, but quite definitely I was not in love with her. It was just as well I was not, for Teddy had given me her friendship and nothing more. She had told me at the very beginning that she was engaged to be married and she did not let me forget it. Paul Derring was a major in the Gunners; they had known each other all their lives. He was still in Korea; they wrote to each other constantly and at length and their plan was to be married as soon as he got leave. I knew all this and a good deal more about Paul; I had even been shown his photograph … and although I was slightly prejudiced against the man (having heard too much about him) I was obliged to admit that he had a pleasant face.
The day Teddy came to tea she was tired and dispirited—Paul’s letter was overdue and all sorts of silly little things had gone wrong at the hotel—but when I took her into Mr. Coe’s sitting-room and made tea she cheered up and became more like herself.
“ You are a dear,” she said. “ I’m sorry I was so wet; but you know how it is, David. Some days everything seems to go wrong, you’re scared of shadows and you daren’t look at the future.”
“ Fears shall be in the way,” I told her. “ The grasshopper shall be a burden and desire shall fail.”
“ That describes it exactly,” declared Teddy in a tone of surprise. “ I suppose I ought to know the quotation? ”
“ You would know it if you’d been properly brought up.”
“ Which means it’s in the Bible! Remember, David, I hadn’t the advantage of being brought up in a manse. You must make allowances for me.”
“ I do that all the time,” I said, chuckling.
“ This is very good tea,” said Teddy, sipping appreciatively. “ I didn’t know you were so domesticated.” She looked round the queer crowded little room as she spoke.
“ This isn’t my place,” I said hastily. “ This is Mr. Coe’s sanctum—and as a matter of fact he’d have a fit if he could see you sitting there so comfortably in his own particular chair. Mr. Coe is terrified of women; he says he’s been running away from them all his life.”
“ Is he as attractive as all that? I do think you might have asked me to meet him.”
“ Paul wouldn’t like it,” I said.
“ But David—seriously—is it true he dislikes women? And if so why are we having tea here? ”
“ It’s perfectly true—and we’re having tea here because I’ve got to listen for the shop-bell. My flat is five flights up; I told you it was in the attic, didn’t I? If you can wait till closing time I’ll take you up and show it to you.”
“ Not to-day—I’ve got to go back to that wretched hotel—but I’ll come some other time if I’m asked.”
“ You’ll like it, Teddy,” I said. “ It’s so quiet and peaceful. Mother thought it was awfully nice when she stayed with me.”
Teddy was looking at me thoughtfully. “ You talk about your mother a lot.”
“ Only to you,” I replied. “ Mother is rather—special.”
“ Would I like her, David? ”
I thought about that quite seriously. “ Yes,” I said. “ You’d like her and she’d like you. I’ll show you a photograph of her when you come to my flat, but it isn’t very good. No photograph could give you any idea of Mother. Once, long ago, an old woman said ‘ It makes your heart glad to look at her ’ so I went home and looked at her and I saw it was true.”
“ That’s—lovely,” said Teddy, in a low voice.
We were silent for a little and then the shop-bell tinkled and I had to go. I looked about for something to amuse Teddy while I was busy and my eye fell upon a piece of manuscript; it was a short article about the Pool of London which I had just completed that afternoon.
“ Here’s something to look at,” I said, dumping it into her lap. “ I shan’t be longer than I can help.”
Teddy was still reading it when I returned. “ David! ” she exclaimed. “ This is frightfully good! I’ve read it twice and I liked it even better the second time. I had no idea you could write like this.”
“ You knew I wrote things.”
“ But not like this! ” She looked at me and added. “ Isn’t it funny? ”
“ Funny? ”
“ I thought you knew quite well,” explained Teddy.
I saw what she meant of course.
“ Have you written other things like this? ” Teddy inquired.
“ Dozens of them,” I told her, smiling. “ When I’ve finished one I start another. I shove them into the cupboard. There’s a great untidy pile of manuscripts and sketches which nobody will ever read.”
“ But this is good! Why on earth don’t you send them to a magazine and have them published? People would like to read them and you’d get money for them.”
“ It sounds easy,” I admitted. “ But somehow it doesn’t work. I tried writing articles for the papers but they all came back like a flock of homing pigeons and I found it so depressing that I gave it up. The fact is I can only write about things that interest me; the moment I begin to write with a view to selling it to a paper it all goes flat and there’s no sparkle.”
“ But of course! ” she cried. “ The answer is to write what interests you and then sell it. I like this Pool of London thing immensely.”
“ You like it because you like me—at least I hope you do.”
“ A bit,” she replied teasingly. “ Just a little tiny bit, David … but I’m beginning to see what you mean. There’s a lot of you in it.”
“ There always is,” I told her. “ It’s the only way I can write. My own personality flavours everything and who wants to read David Kirke’s ideas about the Pool of London? The answer is, nobody who doesn’t know David Kirke.”
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