“I want to know what you were like when you were a boy,” she said, in her pretty, enthusiastic way. “I want her to tell me so much.”
He kissed her fingers, in the well-made gloves, and looked at her with happy pride.
“Do you care for me really?” he asked. “Sometimes I can’t believe it. It seems too good to be true.”
Her eyes filled with tears.
“I feel so insignificant and so contemptible. I wish you knew how grateful I am to you for loving me.”
From the train they had a glimpse of the Thames glistening vaguely in the sunny mist. But they came soon to long rows of little grey houses, which displayed with callous effrontery the details of their poverty. In the grimy backyards clothes were hung out to dry on lines. Winnie, anxious to see only the more cheerful side of things, turned away to occupy herself entirely with Bertram’s dark comeliness.
On reaching Peckham she looked for a cab, but her lover, to whom the idea of such luxury did not occur, set out to walk; and she, remembering that in future she must resist extravagance, dutifully followed.
“It’s only about a mile and a bit,” he said, stepping out briskly.
At first glance Winnie was not displeased with the bustle of the street. There was a welcome freshness in the air. The pavements were thronged, the roadway noisy with the rumble of ‘buses and the clatter of tradesmen’s carts; the shops were gay with all their crowded wares. After the dull respectability of South Kensington, the vivacity and the busy, strenuous eagerness were very exhilarating. The girl felt herself more in touch with humanity, and the surrounding life made her blood tingle pleasantly. She felt a singular glow as she realized what a manifold excitement there was merely in living.
“I don’t think I should mind a house in the suburbs at all,” she said.
But at last, turning out of the main road, they came into a street which seemed interminable. There were little brick villas on either side in a long straight row; and each house, with its bow window, its prim door and slate roof, was exactly like its fellow. Each had a tiny plot of lawn in front of it, about four feet square. The sky was grey, for the fitful sun had vanished, and the wind blew bitterly. The street, empty and cheerless, seemed very dreary. Winnie shuddered a little, feeling a sudden strange enmity towards the inhabitants of these dull places. She soon grew tired, for she was unused to walking, and asked whether they had still far to go.
“It’s only just round the corner,” he said.
They turned, and another long row of little houses appeared, differing not at all from the first; and the likeness between each of these made her dizzy.
“It’s worse than Bayswater,” she murmured, with something like a groan of dismay.
The exhilaration which at first she had felt was fast vanishing under fatigue, and the east wind, and the dull solitariness. Finally they came to a tiny villa, cheek by jowl with its neighbours, that appeared primmer, more sordid and grossly matter-of-fact than them all. Yet the name, let into the fanlight above the door, in gold letters, was its only dissimilarity. It was called Balmoral. In the windows were cheap lace curtains.
“Here we are,” said Bertram, producing a latchkey.
He led her into a narrow passage, the floor of which was covered with malodorous linoleum, and then into the parlour. It was a very small room, formal, notwithstanding Bertram’s books neatly arranged on shelves. There was a close smell as though it were rarely used and the windows seldom opened. A table took up most of the floor; it was hidden by a large red cloth, stamped with a black pattern, but Winnie guessed at once that its top was of deal and the legs elaborately carved in imitation mahogany. Against the wall was a piano, and all round a set of chairs covered with red velvet. On each side of the fire-place were arm-chairs of the same sort. Winnie’s quick eye took in also the elaborate gilded clock with a shepherd kneeling to a shepherdess, under a glass case; and this was flanked by candlesticks to match similarly protected. The chimney-piece was swathed in pale green draperies. Opposite the looking-glass was a painting in oils of the brig Mary Ann, on which Thomas Railing had sailed many an adventurous journey; and next to this was a portrait of the seaman himself, no less wooden than the ship. He wore black broadcloth of a funereal type, and side-whiskers of great luxuriance.
“Mother,” cried Bertram, “mother!”
“Coming!”
It was a fat, good-natured voice, but even in that one word the cockney accent was aggressive and unmistakable. Mrs. Railing appeared, smoothing the sleeves of the Sunday dress which she had just put on. She was a short, stout woman, of an appearance politely termed comfortable; her red face, indistinct of feature, shone with good-humour and with soap, the odour of which proceeded from her with undue distinctness; her hair was excessively black. There was certainly nothing in her to remind one of Bertram’s sensitive, beautiful face. Smiling pleasantly, she shook hands with Winnie.
“Louie ‘asn’t come in yet, Bertie,” she said, and the lacking aspirate sent a blush to Winnie’s cheek. “Fine day, isn’t it?” she added, by way of beginning the conversation.
Winnie agreed that it was, and Bertram suggested that they should have tea at once.
“It’s all ready,” said his mother.
She looked somewhat uncertainly at the bell, as though not sure whether it would be discreet to ring, and gave her son a questioning glance. Then, making up her mind, she pulled it.
The shrill sound was heard easily in the parlour, and Mrs. Railing remarked complacently: “It ‘as rung.”
But there was no other answer than the sound of voices in the kitchen.
“Is any one here?” asked Bertram.
“Mrs. Cooper popped in to see me, and she’s been ‘elpin’ me get the tea ready.”
Bertram’s face darkened, and his mother turned to Winnie with an explanation.
“Bertie can’t abide Mrs. Cooper, somehow,” she said, in her voluble, good-tempered way. “You don’t know Mrs. Cooper, do you? She lives in Shepherd’s Bush. Such a nice woman, and a thorough lady!”
“Oh, yes,” said Winnie, politely.
“But Bertie can’t abide ‘er. I don’t deny that she does take a little drop more than’s good for ‘er; but she’s ‘ad a rare lot of trouble.”
Bertram said nothing, and in an awkward pause they waited for the tea.
“I think I’d better go an’ see if anything ‘as ‘appened,” said Mrs. Railing. “We don’t generally ‘ave tea in here, except when we ‘ave company. And that girl of mine can’t be trusted to do anything unless I’m watchin’ of her all the time.”
But Railing rang the bell again impatiently. After a further sound of voices raised in acrimonious dispute, the door was opened about six inches, and the dishevelled head of a frowsy girl was thrust in.
“D’you want anything?”
“Do I want anything!” cried Mrs. Railing, indignantly, “I suppose you think I ring the bell for me ‘ealth! I suppose I’ve got nothing better to do than to ring the bell all day long. Didn’t I tell you to bring the tea the moment that Bertie come in?”
“Well, I’m bringing it,” came from the head, crossly, and the door was closed with a bang.
“Oh, them girls!” said Mrs. Railing. “They’re more trouble than they’re worth, and that’s the truth. The number of girls I’ve ‘ad — well, I couldn’t count ’em. They eat you out of ‘ouse and ‘ome, and they’re always grumbling, and you ‘ave to pay ’em five shillings now — they won’t come for less — and they’re not worth it. I ‘ave to do all the work meself. And they’re that particular in their eating, I never see anything like it. They must ‘ave the best of everything, just the same as we ‘ave, if you please.”
Mrs. Railing’s red face grew redder still as she described the tribulations which attend the mistress of servants.
“She broke another plate to-day, Bertie,” she said. “I shall give ‘er notice this week. If she stays ‘ere much longer I shan’t ‘ave a plate in the ‘ouse.”
There was a knock at the door, with a clatter of cups, and Mrs. Railing opened it. A tall gaunt woman carefully brought in the tray with the tea things. She wore a bonnet and a shabby cloak, decorated with black beads.
“Oh, you’ve not brought it yourself, Mrs. Cooper!” cried Mrs. Railing, hastily taking the tray from her. “Why didn’t you let the girl bring it? What’s she here for? And I pay ‘er five shillings a week.”
“Oh, I thought she’d break something.”
Mrs. Cooper gave Winnie an inquisitive look and turned to go.
“Now you’re not going, Mrs. Cooper?”
“I know where I’m not wanted, Mrs. Railing,” replied the other, with a sour glance at Bertram.
“Now don’t say that, Mrs. Cooper. You don’t want ‘er to go, Bertie, do you?”
“I should be pleased if you’d stay and have tea, Mrs. Cooper,” said Bertram, driven into a corner.
“I’ve ‘ad ‘im in me arms many a time when ‘e was a baby,” said Mrs. Cooper, with a defiant glare at Bertram. “An’ I’ve bath’d ‘im.”
Mrs. Railing stirred the tea, put milk in each cup, and poured out.
“I ‘ope you won’t mind if it’s not very grand,” said she to Winnie, apologetically.
“Not the Queen of England could make a better cup of tea than you, Mrs. Railing,” replied Mrs. Cooper, sitting down with a certain aggressiveness.
“Well, I ‘ave got a silver tea-pot,” said Mrs. Railing, smiling proudly. “Bertie and Louie gave it me only last week for me birthday.”
Mrs. Cooper sniffed and pursed her lips.
“I don’t know why you call it silver, when it’s not ‘all-marked, Mrs. Railing,” she said.
“And I know it’s not that because I’ve looked.”
“It’s electro-plate, but we call it silver by courtesy,” laughed Bertram.
“I’m a woman as calls a spade a spade,” answered Mrs. Cooper, with sombre dignity.
The bread was cut with the best intentions, but it was thick and plastered with slabs of butter. The tea, by way of showing hospitality, was so strong that no amount of sugar could remove the bitterness.
“I say, what a beautiful cake!” cried Bertram.
“I made it with my own ‘ands,” said Mrs. Railing, much gratified.
“There’s no one like mother for making cakes,” said Bertram, regaining his spirits, which had been damped by the appearance of Mrs. Cooper.
But this remark was taken by that lady as a deliberate slight to herself.
“You’ve got no cause to say that, Bertie,” she remarked, bitterly. “Many’s the cake you’ve eaten of my making in my ‘ouse at Shepherd’s Bush. And they was quite good enough for you then.”
“You make excellent cakes too, Mrs. Cooper,” he answered.
But she was not to be so easily appeased.
“I take it very ‘ard that you should treat me like this, Bertie,” she added, in a lachrymose way. “And you wouldn’t ‘ave been alive to-day if it ‘adn’t been for me.”
“No, that you wouldn’t, Bertie!” acknowledged his mother.
“I’ll tell you ‘ow it was,” said Mrs. Cooper, turning to Winnie. “I just popped in ‘ere to ‘ave a little chat with Mrs. Railing, and there was Bertie in such a state — I never see anything like it. He ‘ad convulsions and he was blue all over, and stiff. Oh, he was a sight, I can tell you. Well, ‘e was only four months old and Mrs. Railing was in a rare state. You see, ‘e was ‘er first and she didn’t know what to do no more than a cat would. And I said: ‘It’s no good sending for the doctor, Mrs. Railing,’ I said, ‘he’ll be dead before the doctor comes. You put ‘im in a ‘ot bath,’ I said, ‘with a pinch of mustard in it.’ And it saved ‘is little life.”
“I will say that for you, Mrs. Cooper, you do know what to do with babies,” said Mrs. Railing.
“And I take it very ‘ard that ‘e should call me a drunken old woman,” added Mrs. Cooper, putting a handkerchief to her eyes. “I’ve known you for thirty years, Mrs. Railing, and I ask you, ‘ave you ever seen me with more than I can carry?”
“That I ‘aven’t, Mrs. Cooper, and you mustn’t mind what Bertie says. He didn’t mean to speak sharply to you.”
“I beg your pardon, Mrs. Railing, and I never thought I should live to ‘ear Bertie say such things to me. Last time I come ‘ere, he said: ‘Don’t you come to my ‘ouse again, Mrs. Cooper. You’re a drunken old woman.’”
The tears coursed down her cheeks and she blew her nose loudly.
“And I’ve ‘ad ‘im to stay in my ‘ouse at Shepherd’s Bush over and over again. And I used to wash ‘im meself, and comb his ‘air, and I made a rare lot of ‘im. I take it very ‘ard that he should say I’m not to pop in and ‘ave a chat with an old friend when I’m in the neighbourhood.”
Bertram looked at her anxiously, afraid to speak in case there was a scene. But this apparently was just what Mrs. Cooper wanted.
“I’ve ‘ad a very ‘ard life,” she said, with maudlin tears, “I’ve ‘ad a lot of trouble with my ‘usband, and I’ve brought up seven children — and brought them all up to earn their own living. And if I do take a little drop now and then it’s because I want it. And I don’t take gin like some people do.”
This was obviously a home thrust, for Mrs. Railing, with a gasp, drew herself together like a war-horse panting for the fray.
“I don’t know what you mean by that, Mrs. Cooper. But no one can call me a drunken old woman.”
“I know all about you, Mrs. Railing. And I know a great deal more than Bertie does, and if he wants to know I’ll tell him.”
Mrs. Railing turned so purple that it was quite alarming.
“Oh, you’re a wicked woman, Mrs. Cooper, and what your ‘usband said to me only the week before last is quite true. Your ‘usband ‘ad something to put up with, I lay, and ‘e’s told me over and over again what sort of a lady you are.”
“Now then, mother, for Heaven’s sake don’t quarrel with her now,” cried Bertram.
“And what did my ‘usband say to you, Mrs. Railing?”
“Never you mind, Mrs. Cooper; I’m not one to go and repeat what’s been said to me privately.”
Winnie had watched them with increasing alarm, and now, growing terrified, as there seemed every prospect of a battle royal, stood up.
“Bertram, it’s time for me to go away.”
“I’ll take you to the station,” he said, pale with anger.
Winnie shook hands with Bertram’s mother, ruffled and hot; but pointedly ignored Mrs. Cooper. She walked past her as though no one was in the way.
When they were in the street Bertram turned to her with pleading eyes.
“I’m so sorry this has happened, darling. I had no idea that awful person would be here. My mother’s the best creature in the world, but she’s had a very hard time, and, like many women of that age, is inclined sometimes to drink a little more than is good for her. My sister and I are trying to get her to become a teetotaller. And Mrs. Cooper leads her on. I’ve told her never to come to the house, but my mother doesn’t like to hurt her feelings. She made that horrible scene just to spite me, because you were here.”
“It doesn’t much matter, does it?” said Winnie, very wearily. “I’m not going to marry your relations.”
“You’re not angry with me, dearest?”
“Not at all,” said Winnie, forcing a smile to her lips. “Please get me a cab; I’ll drive home.”
“It’s too far, dearest; you must go by train. A cab would cost you a fortune.”
“Well, what does it matter?” she answered, irritably. “I can afford to pay for it.”
“I’m afraid there won’t be one here. You see, it’s so out of the world.”
“Must I walk all the way along those dreary roads to the station?”
“It’s not far.”
They went in silence, both of them very unhappy, and Winnie angry as well, angry with herself and with all the worl
d.
And when at length they came again to the High Street, the scene in Winnie’s eye had changed its hue. The din of the traffic was insufferable to her ears, and the press of people, making it difficult to thread one’s way, irritated her insanely. In their faces she saw now only a stupid mediocrity; and the petty cares which occupied them stamped their features with commonness. The gay shops were become sordid and mean. Jewellers showed silver bangles and silver brooches, low-priced and tawdry, red and green glass which masqueraded impudently under the beautiful names of emerald and ruby. Milliners offered the purchaser hats and bonnets in loud colours, imitating inexpensively what they thought the fashion of Paris. Other shops exposed the hideous details of commonplace existence, pots and pans, mangles, crockery, brushes and brooms. All things which artists had touched with their fashioning fingers, carpets, and furniture, pictures and statuettes, were cheaply parodied. Nowhere could be found restraint or modesty, but everything was flaunting and pretentious, gaudy, cheap and vulgar.
Winnie bit her lip to prevent herself from speaking, but what she wished to say was this:
“How can you talk of ideals with these people who only want to make a show, whose needs are so ignoble and paltry? Their very faces tell you how little they care for beauty, and grace, and virtue.”
At the station Bertram asked uncertainly whether she would not like him to accompany her to South Kensington.
“Please not!” she answered. “I can get home quite well alone. Will you excess my ticket?”
They had come third class, but now she wished to be in a carriage by herself. He put her in when the train came, and wistfully leaned forward.
“Won’t you kiss me, dearest?”
Listlessly, with unsmiling mouth, she offered her lips. He kissed them, with eyes painfully yearning; but she, for the moment the train still lingered, kept hers averted.
“I’m so dreadfully tired,” she said by way of excuse.
Quickly the guard whistled, and the train steamed away. Winnie, thankful at last to be alone, huddled into the corner as though to hide herself. She burst out weeping, passionately, hopelessly.
Delphi Collected Works of W. Somerset Maugham (Illustrated) Page 99
