It Pays to Be Good

by Noel Streatfeild

  “You ’aven’t the right to say what Floss’ll do. She’s different from you an’ me. ’Tisn’t only her face: she seems to ’ave the right to better things. Seems like the terrible time I ’ad when she was born was meant, it was a showin’ from ’eaven that she was somethin’ special. Sometimes I think that she ain’t ours.”

  “Not ours? Well, we knows she’s yours. Not mine, you mean?” He spoke the words without his brain behind them, and then paused while they sunk in. He turned an odd grey colour, “Fan, you ain’t tryin’ to tell me Floss ain’t mine? There weren’t no other man?”

  Fanny was pulled out of her hysteria.

  “How can you talk so silly?”

  “It’s what you said.”

  “I didn’t then. I said she was different from the other children, and ’as a right to ’ave things nice, we can’t give ’em her, then let her get them for ’erself. As an actress she can. Just think, no washin’ nor sewin’ nor scrubbin’, no baby to look after same time as gettin’ the work done, she’ll have servants to do things for her, and a motor-car to ride in, no trams for her, and a nurse for her children, and lovely clothes, and no livin’ in places like this, shell live where things is beautiful—”

  George stopped her by laying his hand on hers; his voice was stern.

  “What you’re sayin’ isn’t so much wrong as rank foolishness. Where you got all this silly talk from I don’t know, it’s me bein’ at the war, you never would have acted so if I’d been home. Do you suppose God would have sent us Floss without knowin’ what He was doin’? He put her down just where He meant her to stay—” Fanny opened her mouth, he raised a finger at her, “let me say what I have to say and don’t you interrupt. And ’avin’ put ’er down right here in the Fordham Road, He expected you and me to see she grew up a nice sensible wife to some man in that station of life to which He had called ’er. Cars, servants, nurses indeed, they may be all right for some people, but folk like us don’t want such things, we’re able to look after our own homes. If there was less tryin’ to better yourself in this world, there’d be a deal less un’appiness if you ask me. There’s a hymn which says ‘The rich man in his castle, the poor man at ’is gate, God made them ’igh and lowly and ordered their estate,’ an’ you couldn’t want nicer words.” He pushed back his cup and saucer. “Now, Fan, my girl, we don’t want a lot of hard words spoilin’ things my first day ’ome, so I’ll say no more, but there’s an end to all this foolishness. Floss’ll go to the school up the road same as she always done, and she’ll start the day after to-morrow.” He patted her hand. “To-morrow I planned a little treat—how would you like a day in the country? There, don’t cry, I got a little present for you. Like to see what it is?”

  George had gone down to have a glass of beer at the ‘Cock and Hen’ when Flossie came in. Fanny was sitting in the armchair, her eyes red with crying.

  “What’s up, Mum? You do look a sight.”

  Fanny got up and went to the mirror on the wall, and tried to improve her appearance.

  “I’ve been upset. Your dad’s home. He asked where you were almost as soon as he was inside the door. I had to tell him. I wasn’t expecting him so soon, and hadn’t thought what to say. He’s taken it bad. He says you’ve got to give it all up.”

  “Does he? Get my tea, I’m tired, I’ve told you a dozen times to have it ready.” Flossie sprawled into the chair Fanny had just left. “You made a muddle of it, I suppose? I might have known you would. What’s he want to come sneaking home for anyway? Couldn’t send a p.c. to say he was coming, I suppose.”

  “He meant to surprise us.”

  “And he has.” She saw the cushion-cover George had given Fanny lying on the dresser; she got up and fetched it. “My God!”

  “Don’t take the Lord’s name like that,” Fanny said sharply, “I don’t know what your dad would say if he heard you.”

  Flossie giggled.

  “Have you seen it, the King’s head and all those flags? Isn’t it terrible?”

  “Put it down.” Fanny went over and took it from her, and folded it, and put it in a drawer. “He worked it all himself. There’s nothing to laugh at; if you want to have a laugh I’ll give you something. He says you’re to go back to the Fordham Road Girls’.”

  Flossie’s eyes narrowed, she looked at her mother witheringly.

  “You let him say that? You have made a mess of it. Fordham Road Girls’? Funny, isn’t he? I see Flora Elk, the child star, at Fordham Road Girls’.”

  “He means it, dear.” Fanny went to her kettle which was boiling. “Can you do with a cup of tea just now, I’m running out to get something tasty. Mum’s been so upset, or it would ’ave been ready.”

  “The sooner you get out the better, and don’t be too quick coming back. You leave Dad to me. Don’t want you round snivelling, you’ve made enough trouble as it is.”

  Fanny filled the teapot with eyes misted with tears.

  “Don’t blame Mum, dear, she did try, honest she did.”

  When George came in Flossie was sitting at the table drinking her tea; she had the embroidered cushion beside her plate. She saw him and jumped up, and threw her arms round his neck.

  “My darling Daddy.”

  He was warmed through by her greeting, and hugged her and stroked her hair.

  “Glad to see your old Dad?”

  She nodded and wriggled out of his arms, and picked up the cushion cover, she looked at him with eyes rounded with surprise.

  “Did you do all this?”

  “Yes,” he fumbled in his pocket, “and something else too.” He handed her the purse.

  Flossie gazed at the red, white, and blue beads and fought an inclination to giggle, then she raised her eyes brimming with gratitude.

  “It’s lovely, I never did have anything so pretty before. You are clever.”

  He gave her a slight affectionate push.

  “Go on and have your tea.”

  She went back to the table.

  “Do you mind if I have another cup?” she sighed. “I’m a little tired.”

  “What’s all this silliness your Mum’s been telling me about?” He sat in the armchair and lit his pipe. Flossie studied him out of the corner of her eye. She took a sip of tea, then put down her cup and ran over and perched on the arm of his chair.

  “Do you think it’s silliness?”

  “It’s worse, Floss, my girl. You aren’t to blame, you knew no better; it’s a sin, that’s what it is, playacting, and making a show of yourself; they’re Satan’s ways.”

  She nodded gravely.

  “I thought perhaps you would say that, I told Mum I thought we ought to ask you first. But you know, Dad, I think God will understand. You see you didn’t make much money being a soldier and Mum used to cry. Then one day in a shop, I met a little girl and she told me that she made lots of money to help her mother, so I asked Mum if I might help her, and I went and learnt to dance, and then when I was bigger, I went on the stage.” She raised her eyes pleadingly, “I have helped, really truly I have.”

  George was moved.

  “I’m sure you have,” he said huskily, “and it’s certain God will understand what was in your heart. But you see, dear, your mother,” he fumbled for words, “well, she’s got silly notions, she wants you to go on with it.”

  “And you don’t want me to?”

  “’Tisn’t a case of ‘I don’t want,’ it’s a case of ‘I won’t have.’”

  Flossie never moved her eyes off his face, not by the quiver of a muscle did she show what she felt.

  “Dear Dad,” she said softly.

  He stroked her hair.

  “You’ve got to forget all about it, Floss, and go back to school, and work hard at cooking, and sewing and that, like a sensible girl, and then come Christmas year, when you’re old enough to leave, you’ll be a
ble to be home and help your Mum about the house. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

  Flossie ran her finger up and down her father’s sleeve, playing for time, then slipped her fingers between his.

  “I don’t want to go back to Fordham Road Girls’.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t think Miss Elder liked me. You see I liked things the other girls didn’t, she wanted us to be very good at gymnasium, and I don’t see what girls want with it, do you?”

  He smiled at her.

  “Where d’you want to go then?”

  “I like it where I go now.”

  She felt his arm stiffen.

  “Where you learn to dance?”

  She laughed and rubbed her face against his sleeve.

  “Silly Dad, that’s somewhere quite different. I mean where I do lessons of course.”

  “What do they teach you there?”

  “Everything: scripture and sewing, and how to wash clothes, and cooking—we do a lot of cooking.”

  “What school is it?”

  “It belongs to someone called Madame Elise—she’s French, you know—it’s a sort of private school. I’m happy there, Dad; may I stay?”

  George looked proudly at her eager face.

  “I suppose so, if you’re happy, and your Mum says it’s all right, but no dancing, mind, I won’t have it.” The gate clicked. “That’ll be your Mum back with the supper, I could do with a bite.”

  Fanny came in, and after one anxious look at them both, crossed to the dresser, and unwrapped a haddock. Flossie danced over to her.

  “Can I help you, Mum? Dad says I’m to leave the stage, it’s not good for me, but he says I can go on going to school at Madame Elise’s. I told him how well I learn to cook there. You did say I cooked nicely, didn’t you?” She gave Fanny a sharp kick on the ankle.

  Part II

  CHAPTER VIII

  “Is that 2210? Can I speak to Miss Margaret Shane, please?”

  “Speaking. My God! What an hour to ring up.”

  “Mr. Leon Low wants to speak to you.”

  “Mr. Leon Low? Put him through.”

  There was a pause and then a man’s voice.

  “Good morning, Mouse.”

  “Hullo, L.L. You’re damned early.”

  “Sorry, did I wake you? Is it true you are thinking of letting your flat?”

  “Yes.”

  “What’s the trouble? Money?”

  “Need you ask. The wolf’s gnawed his way right through the door and is having a meal off the hall carpet.”

  “I’ve got an idea that might help. Would you like to lunch?”

  Mouse giggled.

  “Darling, were you thinking of keeping me?”

  He laughed.

  “Savoy Grill, one o’clock?”

  “Right.”

  Mouse put down the receiver and yelled “Mrs. Hodge,” then wriggled down into her pillows.

  Mrs. Hodge was a sack of a woman held tightly in the middle by her apron strings, and bulging, above and below them, like the two halves of a cottage loaf. The bulge below was of such a size that had she not looked past the age for such things, she must have been taken for one expecting a baby in the immediate future. She was conscious that her figure was not what it had been, but she knew the reason. “It was on account of me goin’ to the ’ospital to have my Georgie, they never pressed me out after, like the nurse always done at ’ome.” If her age had been judged solely on appearance, she was an old woman, a husband whose alcohol-befuddled nights had been brought to an end by pneumonia, and the rearing of eight children on a minute income and much courage, had taken the colour from her hair, and caused most of her teeth to fall out, but she had a verve and gaiety which belied these things. “Oh, I ’ave ’ad a lovely time since my po’r Alfie was took,” she would say. “Even Georgie, my baby, is workin’ now, that’s how I can ‘do’ for people.” She had ‘done’ for several people before she had come to Mouse, and had found a certain excitement with them all, but now she felt in a world such as she saw on the pictures, a world in which anything might happen. “Of course, doin’ for people the way I do, life can’t help but be int’restin’, seems like w’ot ’appens to them, ’appens to you, but Miss Shane! She’s a scream! We do see life!”

  In answer to Mouse’s yell, she opened the bedroom door, and looked at her inquiringly.

  “Was you wantin’ breakfast or your Bromo Seltzer?”

  “Coffee, and see it’s hot and strong; the stuff you made yesterday was foul.”

  “Well, dear, that wasn’t the coffee, that was the way you was feelin’. I put in the same number of spoonfuls I always done.”

  “Go on, you old fool. It’s half-past ten, and I’ve got to go out to lunch.”

  As the door closed, Mouse picked up the telephone again, and dialled a City number. In answer to the impersonal Cockney voice at the other end of the line, she asked if Lord Menton was in. The Cockney voice said monotonously: “Who’s speaking?” And hearing her name, put her through without further questions.

  “Hullo, Jim.”

  “Hullo, Sweet.”

  “I can’t meet you for lunch.”

  “Why not?”

  “I’m lunching with Leon Low.”

  “Whatever for?”

  “I’ve no idea. He heard I had to let my flat, and said he’d got an idea.”

  “I like his nerve. If you must let your flat, I’ll let it for you. There’s no need for him to come butting in.”

  “Don’t be silly, Sweet, he may have got an idea. There’s no harm in hearing it. Something’s got to be done, you know, or I shall be entertaining the bums and Mrs. Hodge wouldn’t like that, it isn’t what she’s used to.”

  “I do wish you’d see reason, Mouse, I hate to think of you worried like this; why won’t you let me help?”

  “Now don’t let’s go all over that again——”

  “But——”

  “There aren’t any ‘buts.’ Come in for a drink about five, and I’ll tell you the dirt.”

  Mouse stared round the restaurant, and felt conscious that she looked her best, and that their table was the subject of gossip at most of the others. She took out her mirror. There was no vanity in the long scrutiny she gave her face, she had been looking at it for nearly forty years, and had watched it achieve almost perfection, and as well, had watched that perfection decline. She did not know exactly when the deterioration had started, but she knew all the landmarks that marked the road downhill. The touch of colour where her hair was losing its auburn, the hollows drawn from her nostrils to the corner of her mouth, the wrinkles round her eyes, the sag in the skin under her chin. Nevertheless, she was quite satisfied as she put away her glass, years could not alter the way her bones were made, all her days, the outline of beauty would be hers. She saw L.L. had been watching her, and nodded at him as she closed her bag.

  “Old ladies like me have to watch their faces.”

  “You’ve never had to worry.”

  “I haven’t done much with it, have I?”

  “You’ve done what you wanted, I suppose? If you couldn’t, no one could.”

  “Yes, I’ve done what I wanted as far as limitations allowed.”

  “Limitations?” He looked at her with raised eyebrows. “Does that mean you are always going to waste your time on that man of yours?”

  “Jim?” She smiled. “I don’t find it a waste.”

  “But it can’t lead anywhere. What about his wife?”

  “Jasmine? Oh, she and I understand each other.” Her tone was a definite dismissal of the subject. There was a slight pause. “We didn’t come here to discuss my goings on, did we? What about my flat? Had you thought I could keep the wolf at bay by a return to the stage to play my well-known part of lady guest with one line
to say?”

  The waiter brought the sweet. L.L. waited till he had gone.

  “It’s rather a long story. I had an audition last week for girls for the Follies at the Windsor. I sat for hours, usual business, forty-nine out of every fifty a dud. Then a kid came on—” he broke off, and looked thoughtfully at Mouse—“the first time I ever saw you, and that’s——”

  “Go on, ducky, no need to start counting how long ago it was.”

  “She’s a little like you were then. Something the same effect, but quite a different type. She’s small, well-made, hair so fair that it’s almost white, but something of your forehead and your nose, and that width here.” With his fingers he spanned the place between his eyes.

  “And you got up in the stalls and said, ‘Gi’me, gi’me, gi’me.’”

  “No. I just engaged her, and someone took her name and address.”

  “She’s going into the Follies?”

  “She was, but two days later she sent back the contract and said she couldn’t do it. I’d been thinking quite a bit about her in the meantime, so I sent a letter asking her to come and see me.”

  “That’s new for you. I thought girls stood in queues on the chance of working for you.”

  “You’ve not seen her. I tell you she’s the find of a generation or my flair’s gone.”

  “Did she come?”

  “Yes. And told her story. She’s had a rough time. As a small kid her father went to the war, just as a private, he had to give up his job, and of course that meant there was very little money at home, and they had no servant. The child didn’t like to see her mother slaving all day, and managed to get taken on at a school of dancing, and through that, as soon as she was old enough, got some work, and as far as I could gather, practically kept, the home going. When the father came back from the front, instead of being grateful, he knocked the kid about, and made her stop working and come home to be a household drudge.”

  Mouse sniffed.

  “I do hope you’ve got a spare handkerchief, darling, this story always has made me cry, but she should have been a clergyman’s daughter.”