by Frank Wynne
Soon after the doorbell rang. He seemed scarcely to know the girl, although he had helped to undress her, squeeze her pimples and all, in a manner not to be gainsaid, once or twice a week for the past year.
“Well, my dear, I am very glad that you are going to help me,” he said.
“I’ve come because the mistress sent me,” said the girl.
“I want you to tidy up the drawing-room for me,” he said. “There were anglers here last night, and my wife is away. May I offer you a glass of whisky?”
“I’m not in the habit of drinking with married men,” said the girl.
“I quite understand,” he said. “My wife is an abstainer, too. She only drinks water.”
“So do I,” said the girl.
“So do the blessed cows. And it’s good for them,” said the cashier.
“At the outside I drink with my boy-friend, so that he won’t drink with other girls,” she said.
“So he’s like that, is he, the scamp!”
“Of course,” said the girl. “Aren’t you all like that? What else can one do? One hates it, but it’s the only way.”
“May I offer you a cigarette, then?” said Grassdale.
“Yes, if you want me to be sick,” said the girl. “Please, where’s the soap?”
“Maybe a boiled sweet or two?”
“What damned Sodom and Gomorra are you trying to lead me into? Where’s the pail? And the scrubber?”
“I’m old enough to be your father, my dear,” said Grassdale.
“Old men … yes, aren’t they perhaps the worst? I’ve always heard so. What are boys, stupid and with no stomach, beside them? You can be on your guard against a boy, but never an old man. The only time I’ve been so mad with a man that I could have killed him, it was an old one. Luckily he’s in another house.”
“Love at a distance,” remarked Grassdale.
“I insist on a decent floor-cloth that deserves the name, I say!” cried the girl.
“But my dear, there was never any question of washing all the floors,” said the master of the house. “I only want the drawing-room tidied up a bit before my wife comes home; the furniture dusted, and so forth. That’s all. In the meanwhile I’m going to play a little.”
He showed her into the drawing-room without mentioning the hooks, sat down at the harmonium, and began to sing. But he had not uttered more than a few notes when the door was flung open and the girl stood before him, flabbergasted.
“Who brought those bugs and monsters into the house? Or do they live here? Do the damned things fly, or are they some sort of lice? No one is going to get me to lay a finger on poisonous reptiles!”
“I’ll handle the reptiles, if you’ll deal with the rest,” said the master.
The girl returned to the room, where her eyes now fell upon the hooks. She appeared again in the doorway.
“What have I done to be dragged from the house where I live and am happy, just as we were going to have chicken with wine, and made a fool of in a strange place?” she exclaimed. “What have I done to deserve it?”
“My dear young lady,” he replied, “if these can’t be removed, what do you suppose my wife is going to say when she comes home?”
“I don’t care a damn what your wife says. I haven’t been to bed with you,” said the girl.
“I’ll do my best to help as much as I can,” said Grassdale. “What’s the best thing to do?”
“Remove the plush and take out the hooks from the inside,” said the girl.
He patted her lightly on the behind, like a horse, and strange though it may seem, the girl appeared to calm down a little at this. He tried to demonstrate to her that the venomous reptiles were man-made, and though she believed him no more than was proper, he being a man, she sniffed as an indication that she was no longer angry. However, the hooks continued to be as unextractable from the inside as from the outside of the plush. Of course it would have been possible to cut it all up and rip it off. But what would his wife have said when she came? The furniture had been her contribution to the home; part of her marriage portion. Many of the hooks were triple-barbed and had been inserted with loving care. After two hours’ work they had only managed to remove six. By now the girl was hot and red in the face.
“When is your wife coming home?” she asked.
Grassdale said in two days.
Then the girl began to cry. She sobbed, “Dear God, why did I have to get mixed up in this?”
“Don’t cry, darling,” said Grassdale, and he stroked the girl’s hair. “Don’t despair. Maybe we’ll think of something.”
“Don’t talk to me,” said the girl, and she continued to cry. “I’d never want to be married to you.”
“We have worked hard and long, and it’s getting late,” he said. “How would it be to have a little refreshment before carrying on? I’ve offered you whisky, a cigarette, and boiled sweets. What do you say to a slice of smoked leg of lamb?”
The girl replied, “Never has a man treated a girl like this before. A married fellow, to hang by his nose at the skylight each night, all the year round, when a respectable girl is going to bed, and then in the end to offer her smoked leg of lamb. I’m off!”
She swept out, slamming three doors behind her: drawing-room, hall, and front door.
And the hooks stayed in the furniture.
What was to be done now? Not only had the girl failed in the role for which she had been cast, but she had made a point of insulting a man old enough to be her father, beside being a branch cashier and maybe destined to higher things in the not-too-distant future. She had humiliated this man without provocation in a most sensitive spot. Was it likely that he would be able to do anything? It occurred to him that for many the only resort in an emergency was to drink their wits away; but what would his wife say about that, on top of everything else?
Although it was summer, he put on a black overcoat, and was about to go out in the hope of meeting a saviour in some form in the street.
The next marvel entered the house by the back door to replace the hope that had sailed out by the front fifteen minutes earlier: a young lady of fashion clad in the latest hobble style on stiletto heels came mincing in across the floor. Lambkin Grassdale removed his coat without a word and gazed in astonishment at this apparition.
She was so swelling with vitality that the bounds of the flesh seemed on the point of bursting away from the soul—with a mountain of up-combed hair so golden that it could have been assisted by chemistry; eyes blue as a colour-photograph; a freshness of cheek beyond nature; a toothbrush smile of the kind that radiates through windscreens in advertisements for the latest car models: the revelation that makes a man turn about in his life and never find his way home again. The dream-woman of the magazine—fairy of modern folklore—she entered the kitchen as if she had always lived there and had just slipped out into the garden to feed the sparrows.
She offered him an oblation on a dish covered with a white cloth. This gift she laid on the low table before the sofa in the hall. She stretched out a strong, well-manicured hand with bronze nails to him, and drew the man into the large, divine triumphal chariot of her soul.
“The maid misunderstood the position, and so I came,” said the visitor. “I must make it clear that it was Mama who sent me. We heard you had nothing but smoked leg of lamb. But first of all I want to thank you for all your kindness—when I was little.”
“Say nothing of it,” he replied. “Please sit down.”
“I know you know me,” she said. “Oh, can’t we drop formality? I’ve known you, and more than that, from when I slept in a pram out here in the garden. But I’ve been away for a long time. I’ve been educating myself, enjoying myself, and working for myself. Now I’ve returned home I see everything much more clearly than I did before, when it was actually happening. While I was abroad I got to know my old neighbours better in memory than when I saw them every day. That’s why at long last I want to thank you for being so good to us
girls when we still hadn’t much sense, if any. In our eyes you were the man of the world. Papa was often drunk when he was at home.”
“Yes, I should say I know the captain’s children, who used to put their dolls to sleep on the steps at the back there, while I had no little girl; also those small brothers of yours who, I’m told, are now managers whereas I’m still only a cashier. But it’s no wonder you children did well: the captain being such a heroic character; your mother such a fine, strong woman.”
“Don’t you think Mama is a little too stout?” said the young lady. “And those massive shoulders—but then I’m probably on the way to becoming the same myself!”
“Your mother is a true lady, in both appearance and deed,” said the master of the house.
“It’s kind of you to say so, but I’m really worried about the ruggedness of her features. Bless me if Mama hasn’t turned into a trollwife. It’s the truth!”
“She’s a woman whom perhaps her neighbour never knew to speak to. But he flees to her in his hour of need. That’s why I telephoned this morning.”
“We were quite bowled over! We were just about to celebrate her thirtieth wedding anniversary with a chicken, when you, the man of the world, rang in the nick of time! We had been on the point of inviting you over, but didn’t like to because Papa was at sea and your wife away in the south. But when we heard about the smoked leg of lamb it was too much for us. It was I who had the idea of bringing you this little something on a dish, and thanking you for this venerable house that has stood behind us, silent and civilizing.”
“Whoever knows the silence of my house need fear no other or greater silence,” said the master, smiling. “My wife’s committees would sometimes sit, yawning like sylphs, here in the antechamber, of an evening. They were improving the world for both living and dead—instead of putting naughty children to bed. Our drawing-room was too good for committees. The sun stood still in our drawing-room all the summer through. So the years went by.”
“There were a few things you didn’t know about,” said the young lady; and when he just smiled dully, she continued: “for instance, could it have been the hat-raising of our neighbour, the man of the world, that made me begin to suppose I was something? You can just imagine how bright one was in those days! I blush at the thought. Fortunately one learns later that there is only the one sex—and it’s just sex.”
“As it happens, my wife is away!” he said.
“She’s a remarkable woman,” replied the girl. “It was quite admirable, the way she looked after this big house: never a speck of dust inside or out, the curtains starched white, pansies and marigolds in the back garden—but for whom? Nobody saw the flowers, apart from us at the captain’s. And we could do with them; there was nothing but swedes and potatoes there, and the mud was carried into the house by us children.”
“Here there was only one child, young lady: I myself, the child of my wife,” said the cashier.
“That’s why we were so flabbergasted yesterday morning when we saw her going off with her suitcase,” said the young lady. “What happened?”
“One fine day the wife goes away,” said the man. “No explanation. Maybe she met someone last year. If so, she may be back in three days. Maybe she met no one and has just vanished into the blue; in which case there’s not much likelihood of her returning. The night after she left, the house is in ruins. What has happened can’t even be described. I’ll consider myself lucky if I survive another night. And as for the third—better not think so far ahead.”
She had sat down on the sofa, knees thrust forward and bosom escaping above her neckline. Lifting the cloth from the gift, what should she reveal but a chicken with brown, well-roasted wings, and legs outspread on the dish.
“It must be eaten while it’s fresh,” said the girl.
The man stared in amazement at this marvel. True enough, he had not tasted food for the past day. On waking that morning his body had ached all over. Now mental suffering had cured him of aching bones, queasy stomach, nausea, headache, hunger, and much else besides. His house, that terrible house, had in fact been razed to the ground and its fall had not only dulled him with sickness, but also robbed him of the presence of mind to praise God in face of a gift from heaven. He expressed himself as follows:
“Up to now nothing has ever happened to me. This is the first time. I am unworthy of it. I don’t understand. I have no words; no feelings. Can it be true? Young lady, may I kiss you?”
She stood up and kissed him without hesitation. He continued to stare at the chicken and said, as if talking in his sleep, “A chicken like this has not been served to a man since the priestesses in the Egyptian paintings offered sacrifice to Pharaoh in ancient times. I could follow you to the world’s end this very instant.”
“My childhood love,’ said the girl, and she kissed him again. “Do you suppose it’s too good for you? Unzip the back of my dress.”
“Unfortunately it is not as simple as all that,” he said. “Something terrible has happened. Either my wife has killed herself, or she will kill me when she comes home. Let me show you the drawing-room.”
He opened the door and showed the young lady. At first glance there was nothing to see. It was just like any other dreary, sexless provincial reception-room where never a guest is entertained and the abandoned sun continues to fade the colours of the plush all through the long summer day, year in year out.
“Do you see?” he said.
“What?” she asked.
“The flies!”
“What are they for?” she asked.
“Or rather, the hooks. Just look!” he said.
She asked, “Who put them there?”
He answered, “That’s my secret. If I told you I would lose my position as cashier. Then all hope of advancement in life would be gone. However, I have calculated that, from the time spent by two in removing six hooks, it would take a full sixty working days to remove them all.”
“I’ve forgotten the rule of three,” said the girl.
She glanced at the watch on her wrist and remembered that she had to go; she was expected in town. She said goodbye and walked out by the front door.
The chicken lay on its dish. The master of the house stared in anguish at this well-roasted monstrosity. It was the last straw. Nowhere, either indoors or out, was there a safe refuge from this bird of ill omen. Nothing served with a corpse like this but to bury it; bury it; bury it high up on the mountainside in the middle of the night when all was pitch dark and the town fast asleep. And still the hooks would remain fixed in the furniture.
In the grey twilight of the still evening this worthy man walked into the town. He went to the furniture shop and asked them whether they would buy secondhand furniture. They said they sold new stuff; they didn’t buy old. He asked for the head of the establishment and explained that he had to sell his furniture and have it moved away that day, because his wife was bringing home new the next. The proprietor declared that even if the furniture were given him, he would have no room for it in his small shop. On the other hand he said that a young couple living on the corner opposite needed furniture.
The man crossed the street and called on the young couple, who wanted to buy ultra-modern furniture, but had no money.
“Of course mine is classical,” said Lambkin Grassdale, though the couple did not understand the word—“still, it’s cheap.”
“What colour is the covering?” asked the woman.
“Perhaps it needs a new covering,” he said.
“Is it worn and ugly?” asked the woman.
Grassdale: “No, it’s as good as new. It has hardly ever been sat on. I venture to assure you that this is the most expensive and the highest quality furniture in the town. If you can collect it this evening it is yours. But there are one or two hooks that have got fixed in it.”
“No thank you,” said the couple, “we’re sorry.”
After strolling about the town for quite a while in a dignified way, h
e slipped furtively into the airways office and said that a man had asked him to find out about flights to America.
“When does he want to go?”
“Tonight,” he said.
“Has the man a visa?”
But the man had not even a passport. They said that a passport could be obtained in the morning, but a visa was only to be had in the capital, and it could take a week. He said he was sorry but it was out of the question unless it was possible to leave straight away and be in America the following morning.
He wandered out of the town and along the shore, until he came to an ancient jetty where once whales had been flensed and bigger and better guts exposed than anywhere else. This jetty was now used chiefly by people intending to drown themselves. He walked out along the jetty under the wings of the seabirds that circle there with loud cries, night and day, and his every footstep was instinct with a weight of responsibility and moral sense, together with the notion of that norm of Christian conduct that is the keystone in the arch of society. Then the clouds parted, and the sun shone over young men who rowed their boats across the calm water, singing.
He hurried home a little before eleven that evening. It was getting dark. From old habit he crept up to the attic and raised the skylight cautiously from its frame.
The house at the back was dark and silent, except in the maid’s attic room, where there was a light as usual. But now, for the first time in twenty-five years, a curtain had been drawn across the window. Misfortunes never come singly. He slunk back down his own attic stairs, an outcast and a ruined man.
The chicken lay on its dish.
I’m quite sure I shan’t sleep a wink all night, said the man to himself.
