Deliverance

by L. A. G. Strong

  “I got a head, though,” the lady retorted. “Much more to the point, when you’re around.”

  “A head, yes, indeed. No one would deny that. An uncommon pretty head, too. You agree with me, Bagshawe?”

  “Leave the boy alone and go on with your tea.”

  Mr Caunter winked, Miss Etherington smiled, and Georgie felt better. Unused to their way of talking, he saw that they were kind. It was an impersonal kindness: neither cared twopence for him: but they wished him well, and, as long as it wasn’t too much trouble, they would do their careless best to see that he was happy.

  A fresh pang went through Georgie, the pang of not belonging: the dread of a world where nothing was fixed on sure foundations. His heart was already beginning to open out towards Miss Etherington, who was pretty and kind: yet she was leaving, now, in a few minutes, leaving him with Mr Caunter, who, as she had said, didn’t care who came or went (though Georgie could scarcely believe that. He must care, about anyone so pretty and lovely as Miss Etherington); and with Mr Manchester, who didn’t appear to notice anything except his food. Georgie glanced at him. He was chewing mechanically, his pale eyes looking far away, into the future and, to judge from their lack of life, seeing precious little in it.

  Following the example of Mr Caunter, Georgie put his empty plate on a side table and helped to place before Miss Etherington what Mr Caunter termed “the afters.” This consisted of a watery rice pudding, a plate of thin hard biscuits, and some yellow cheese. Georgie had had enough of rice at the Orphanage: he waited his turn for the cheese.

  “Goat,” Mr Caunter said, pushing it towards him.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Goat It’s goat’s cheese.”

  “Does—does that matter?”

  They both laughed. Georgie flushed, but saw, somehow, that they were beginning to like him.

  “Depends how you look on it,” Mr Caunter said. “It won’t hurt you, if that’s what you mean.”

  “Thank you.”

  Georgie tried it, and decided that it was, if anything, better than the hard, soapy cheese they were sometimes given at the Orphanage. Mr Manchester was eating his with the same disregard he had shown for the mutton and the vegetables: so, his mind confused, troubled by the introduction of a novel idea and the picture of the only goat he knew personally, an enigmatic beast with eyes like malevolent lozenges, which reared up on its hind legs and bucked towards anyone who came near it, Georgie persevered with the cheese and biscuits, and was glad of the help of a cup of strong tea, poured for him by Miss Etherington, to get the dry mass down.

  When they had quite finished, Mr Caunter uplifted his voice in a shout, and the little sniffling girl scuttled in and started to take the things away. To his own surprise, Georgie asked a question.

  “What about the lady downstairs? The one in the sort of cage?”

  “Cage? Oh, you mean the cash desk.” He laughed, turning to Miss Etherington. “For one glorious moment, I thought he was referring to her stays.”

  “You keep a civil tongue in your head, Frank Caunter,” Miss Etherington replied, by no means displeased.

  Mr Caunter turned back to Georgie. “Well, what about her?”

  “Doesn’t she have any tea?”

  “She’d be flattered by your concern—wouldn’t she, Fanny? No,” he went on goodnaturedly, seeing the colour once more rising in Georgie’s face. “She goes home. She lives near by. She only came in for a day or two, to oblige. She can’t add, anyhow. Not that it matters.”

  Georgie slept that night in a room to himself. There was a second bed in it, skeletal and forbidding, its thin coverlet concealing metal slats covered with old newspapers.

  Georgie did not care for solitude, but he found himself glad not to be sharing a room with Mr Manchester, whose air of glazed misery distressed him. Mr Caunter had continued to be kind, in his offhand way. After tea he had offered, as soon as he had seen Miss Etherington off, to show Georgie the sights; but, as these apparently were only to be seen in pubs, Georgie pleaded fatigue, took a brief turn in the gaunt and unattractive streets, locating the main shops, the post office, and anything else he thought he might need, and returned to his room. He was glad Mr Caunter did not share it, since so elegantly dressed a young man would surely have night attire of equal splendour, and look down on the voluminous coarse shirt provided by the Orphanage.

  All the same, Georgie was so little used to sleeping alone that the empty room added to his depression. It took him back to an early memory. On one visit to the seaside he and Aunt Butters actually stayed for five days in a house which was being taken care of by one of Aunt Butters’ oldest friends. Lonely there, she got leave from her employer to have a friend for company.

  The first day was marvellous, with its prospect of days instead of hours on the shore, exploring the rock pools and finding, perhaps, new shells like those miraculous ones Aunt Butters had. But, when bedtime came, Georgie was put to sleep alone in a fourposter bed. It was the caretaker’s pride, given him as a special treat: but it was far too big a bed for a small boy used to sleeping in a dormitory with a dozen others.

  For a while Georgie kept fears at a distance by going on voyages of exploration beneath the clothes, sticking his head out every now and then from between the loosely laid bedclothes and noting with gratification how the objects in the room lay on their sides or floated upside down when seen from these novel points of vantage. But the bedclothes were heavy, a real effort was needed to force his head between them, and on one voyage he got lost, and burrowed in growing alarm and dread of suffocation until he found the pillow and the cool blessed air.

  The relief did not last long. He lay, a small still figure in a vast cool expanse. The gloom with all its possibilities crowded round him, strange sounds were heard outside, as of monsters sighing in some age-long grief, and a mysterious light every now and then leaped on the wall, sat palely there, and was wiped off by grinning darkness.

  For a long time he lay there, quaking and sweating, before exhaustion took him off to sleep: and the morning, though it brought explanations of a distant lighthouse and the waves breaking on the beach, did not fully balance the long ache of fear, or wholly drive it away on the nights that followed.

  So, what with one thing and another, Georgie would have liked company, had reasonable company been at hand. But the only person of about his own age, the lack-lustre youth he had seen putting up the shutters, had made no appearance since. Probably he too lived in the town.

  For what seemed a long time Georgie lay awake, watching the light of a street lamp on the ceiling, and hearing the voices of passers-by in the street, with their tune that was something like the Devon tune he was accustomed to, yet higher, more sing-song. There were occasional bouts of raucous singing, which he judged came from outside the nearest pub, as patrons thought fit to go home. Georgie said his prayers a second time, and fell asleep at last in the hope that things would look better in the morning.

  What bothered him most of all, worse even than homesickness, was his complete lack of understanding of the position he had come to fill. So far, it did not seem to make sense. There was nothing he could take hold of, nothing he could relate to life as he understood it, nothing for which his previous knowledge seemed to equip or prepare him. Oh well: it would all come clear once he saw the books. He said a special, extempore prayer to meet the circumstances, and fell asleep.

  It was bright morning when he awoke. Washing arrangements were simple and primitive, in a small, dark room at the end of a passage. This, with its faint suggestion of the Orphanage, helped to reassure Georgie, and he faced breakfast in a state of mind at once passive and resolute: ready to accept what the day might bring, and determined to do his best with it.

  Breakfast, as a meal, was much like tea, though the absence of Miss Etherington greatly impoverished it. Georgie found himself regretting her, and responded eagerly when Mr Caunter remarked on her departure. The remark, addressed to Mr Manchester, elicit
ed only a series of blinks and an uneasy movement of the shoulders, as he roused from his dream and geared his faculties to what was going on: so that Georgie’s answer, hesitant but heartfelt, arrived by itself.

  Mr Caunter nodded once or twice, and smiled.

  “Yes. We miss our dear Fanny.” He raised his voice, and leaned forward. “Don’t we, old boy?”

  Mr Manchester, thus challenged, looked around the room as if to discover for himself that Miss Etherington was no longer there, cleared his throat, and made an indeterminate sound of assent.

  “Deeply devoted to her, our friend was,” Mr Caunter said, winking at Georgie. “I think for your sake,” he went on to Mr Manchester, “it’s as well she’s gone. Our young friend Bagshawe here had started to cut you out.”

  Georgie all but choked. He looked anxiously at Mr Manchester, to disclaim any such ambitions: then gaped in surprise. Mr Manchester suddenly raised his head like a bird, put down his knife and fork, and looked directly at Mr Caunter. A pink spot appeared on each of his cheeks. His beard seemed to wake up too. Instead of depending dejectedly from his chin, it jutted out in a small scrubby peak.

  “That is no way to speak, Caunter, no way at all. It is loose, improper, and quite uncalled for. I beg that you will say nothing more on the subject.”

  He turned his head and gave Georgie a severe glance, including him in the reproof, picked up his knife and fork, and went on chipping at the rasher on his plate.

  Georgie looked appealingly at Mr Caunter. Far from being dashed, the young man was delighted by Mr Manchester’s reaction to his chaff. He grinned, and gave Georgie a happy wink.

  Georgie had no idea what to do. He lowered his eyes, filled his mouth with food, and prayed silently for the subject to be changed. Mr Caunter hummed a few bars of the waltz from The Count of Luxemburg, and the rest of the meal was eaten in a silence disturbed only by the persistent clicking of Mr Manchester’s false teeth.

  It was a relief to get down into the shop. The adenoidal boy shuffled through the gloom to open the shutters, giving Georgie a lack-lustre glance as he went by. Georgie climbed into the cage, which he understood was to be his domain, and began searching for the books. There was no sign of them. The one drawer was locked.

  He sat irresolute, feeling foolish, as the boy returned and began apathetically to push a damp mop around the floor in front of the counters. Then a dark young woman with the beginnings of a moustache came in from the door at the other end, looked about her, and went out again. The boy followed. Georgie was alone.

  The shop door was open. At any moment customers might come pouring in, and find no one to serve them. Justly indignant, they would catch sight of Georgie, and demand his help: and he would have no idea how to deal with them.

  The thought was so alarming that Georgie began to sweat. He got up, took a few steps towards the stairs, and stopped short. It would never do to leave the shop empty. Suppose thieves came in and made off with some of the undefended goods!

  As he stood undecided, a step sounded outside, and a shadow filled the doorway to the street. Pulling himself together to go forward and greet the customer, Georgie recognized with relief the woman he had seen in the cage the evening before. So great was his relief that he advanced, smiling.

  “Good morning. I’m Bagshawe, the new bo—the new assistant. I have to keep the books.”

  The woman stared at him with very little expression. “Oh yes,” she said, after a pause.

  “Can you tell me where the books are? I can’t find them.”

  “I haven’t got them. Ask him.” She nodded towards the stair.

  “Mr Caunter?”

  “That’s right.”

  She gave him a nod, indicating that the interview was over, and moved off towards the far door, which led, Georgie supposed, to the part of the house where the ladies lived. Seeing himself about to be left once more, he called after her.

  “What am I to do if anyone comes in? To buy anything?”

  She half turned her head. “Serve ‘em, o’ course,” she replied, and disappeared through the door.

  In a ferment of uneasiness Georgie returned to his post. What made the position even worse was that none of the goods had a price tag. He had not the least notion how much to ask for a hat or a bonnet, let alone one of the ready-made suits. Well: if he made a mistake, they would have only themselves to blame.

  This was small comfort. Georgie might have little experience of the world, but he knew well that, when things go wrong, people will blame anyone sooner than themselves.

  He was just reaching a degree of agitation which, in younger days, would have resulted in one of his states, when Mr Caunter came down the stairs with a bag in his hand, and wearing a hat. Breathlessly Georgie accosted him.

  “The books.”

  “Eh?”

  “The—the lady said to ask you. The one who was here last night.”

  “Oh, ah, yes. Miss Treglown. Yes, well, don’t worry. They’re locked away. I can’t be bothered to go and get them now.” He went to the back of one of the counters and opened a drawer. “Here you are. Enter up the purchases in this.”

  And he handed Georgie a foolscap cash book.

  “There are plenty of pages left, aren’t there? Yes. Enough for today, anyway. Ah.”

  He looked past Georgie, who turned, and saw Miss Treglown coming into the shop from the far door, followed by the dark young woman with the moustache.

  “Miss Treglown. Miss Smale. This is Mr Bagshawe, our new colleague.”

  The ladies acknowledged the introduction. Georgie bowed politely, but his quick attempt at composure was shattered by Mr Caunter’s next remark.

  “Look after him, and see that he doesn’t get into mischief.”

  The moustached lady, Miss Smale, gave a faint perfunctory simper. Miss Treglown’s broad mottled face remained a blank.

  “Oh.” Mr Caunter turned in the doorway. “Jenkins may come in to-day from St. Austell. Get him to leave the money with you—if he’s got any.”

  Miss Treglown uttered a short, hard sound between a snort and a chuckle, indicating violent scorn: but the expression of her face did not change. If he had not remembered her furrows of perplexity as she sat in the cage the evening before, muttering over the figures, Georgie would not have thought her face capable of any expression at all.

  Caunter hurried out, with a cheerful wave of his bag. Miss Treglown and Miss Smale, after standing for a moment, turned their backs on him and set about dispiritedly dusting the counters. Feeling as if he had been snubbed, Georgie went back to his cage, settled himself, and opened the book which Mr Caunter had given him.

  He stared. Roughly two-thirds of the pages had been torn out: the remainder were blank. Oh well. All the less to do.

  A red pen, the paint chewed off for half its length, and the end fuzzed like a brush, lay in the well of the desk. Gingerly Georgie picked it up. The end was damp, suggesting a recent chewer. Miss Treglown?

  The thought gave Georgie a curious feeling of distaste, both for the physical evidence of Miss Treglown and the thought that he was somehow intruding on her privacy. Furtively, but with decision, he took out of his pocket the penknife given him as a leaving present by Mr Entiknapp, and cut the damp chewed portion of the penholder cleanly off.

  The result was rather stumpy, but he could use it. He dipped the nib in the inkpot, and prepared to enter the date at the head of the first page. A dark uneven scratch resulted. Frowning, Georgie looked at the nib, and found it covered with a black treacly substance, compounded of ink and dust.

  This wouldn’t do. He must be ready to enter up the first purchase. He looked at the two women. They were at the far end of the shop, flapping their dusters. As he looked, Miss Smale’s duster caught a straw bonnet and flipped it on to the floor. She laughed, and said something he couldn’t hear, but made no move to pick it up. It rolled and came helplessly to rest, upside down, its mouth agape to the ceiling as if in protests against such callous usage.<
br />
  Georgie had half a mind to come out of his cage and pick it up, but he decided that he might be snubbed and told to mind his own business. But—what business had he to mind?

  Miss Smale left the shop, vanishing through the far door. Miss Treglown was out of sight round a corner. To all intents and purposes Georgie was alone. At least, however, he would not have to cope with customers. By the time he had sat in his cage for half an hour, he felt as though he had been a prisoner there for always. Ten minutes had been enough to memorize the cracks in the greasy wood of the sill in front of him. By the time he had slid the drawer of the till out and in three times, he knew all about it, and all about its contents: a torn slip of paper with a pencilled addition sum made to total five pounds seven and eightpence, which his eye quickly corrected to five pounds eight and four: a stump of pencil so short that one could only pick it up between finger and thumb: and a twisted hairpin. He had also discovered that the floor of the cage was uneven, or that one of the back legs of his chair was short, so that, unless he leaned forward, elbows on the sill, it ricketed to and fro. If he closed his eyes, he found that he already knew the layout of the shop, the sparse collections of suits and hats, the heap of bonnets, and their lone abused fellow on the floor.

  As the minutes dragged along, Georgie’s boredom sharpened into the uneasiness he always felt when things did not go as he expected. To be idle, on his first morning in his first job, was so unthinkable, so repugnant to all his ambitions and ideals, that his conscience began to struggle and shout within him. Sweat started out at the back of his neck; he sat forward, grasping the edge of the sill with both hands, and besought himself to be calm. Here he was, with pencil sharpened, ready and willing to do whatever should be asked of him. If there was nothing, if no one asked anything of him… Where had Mr Caunter gone? Why hadn’t he set him work to do?

  He started and looked up as Miss Smale came in at the far door. He had forgotten all about Miss Treglown. Only when Miss Smale returned did he realize he had not heard her moving about for some time. Now she appeared, folding a paper-backed novelette, and went out through the same door.