‘I’m not being kind, Miss – I mean Mrs – Drayton. I meant what I said: he’ll definitely do what he can for you, and,’ he added, ‘I shall too. Yes. Yes, I will. And, let me tell you, he’s not as odd as he appears. He’s a very sincere person, but he has a mania. We’ve all got manias, but his is books, books, books, books. He’ll go to a sale to get one book and that one book might have come from a household where there’s fifty, even five hundred, but he’ll take the lot. And he’s not so silly after all, because when you look through some of the rejected volumes you do come across a treasure here and there . . . so I can assure you, Mrs Drayton, he’ll give his time and attention to your book, because, who knows,’ he pulled a little face at her, ‘it might turn out to be a little treasure in its own right. We all have different tastes.’
‘Yes indeed’ – she nodded at him – ‘you’ve said it, we’ve all got different tastes. Well, goodbye, Mr Craventon.’
For a moment he seemed reluctant to let her go on that. He watched her walk down the three steps into the street and through the iron gate and on to the wet pavement, and he told himself that she wasn’t dressed very smartly, but she walked well; and there was something about her face. It was her eyes, he supposed; she had strange eyes, sad eyes. No, no! he checked himself; her eyes laughed. Yes, when she wanted to laugh. Oh, well. He drew in a deep breath, turned about, and closed the door behind him.
Chapter Two
The table was set for dinner, the first course of trimmed avocado already in place. Hannah gave a last glance at it, then left the room, closing the door behind her: Humphrey didn’t like kitchen smells pervading the dining room. The main course tonight was to be a variety of cold meats and salad followed by a treacle sponge. Humphrey did not care for cold desserts and he was very fond of treacle sponge.
In the kitchen, she put the final touches to the bowls of salad and set them on a tray. Following this, she went into the sitting room.
There, everything was as usual. In front of the fireplace was a large bowl of flowers and leaves arranged to hide the empty grate, and when she heard herself repeating, ‘Yes, everything’s as usual here,’ she bit on her lip and muttered, ‘Oh, dear me!’ Yesterday she wouldn’t have thought along that sarcastic line. Well, perhaps she would, but she wouldn’t have voiced it to herself; but something had happened today.
It had been a very strange day, right from the time she had taken the bus to Ealing, when the young boy had offered her his seat. Now that had been strange, hadn’t it? You could stand on a bus, she thought, for a hundred years if you were elderly or laden down with packages, and she had never yet seen anyone fold up his newspaper and offer a woman his seat. Then there had been that outpouring to Janie. That had been an act of desperation in order to erase this great gnawing want in her. The want had made her sit up in bed at night and start rubbing her arms from the shoulders downwards. Why she continued to do it she didn’t know, because it didn’t ease her at all. It was, she supposed, just something to do to turn her thoughts from the road of bitterness and condemnation which she was now walking most nights.
She had felt better after she’d left Janie’s, quite buoyant, but the feeling hadn’t lasted. By the time she had reached Jason Gardens she was her old self again. And look what had happened there. That had been a strange experience. She had expected to be shown into a publisher’s office; and what had she seen? Something akin to the city dump; but really, looking at it another way, a wonderful dump. Those books, thousands and thousands of them. And the people. That odd man and his lovely wife, and the other one. Yes, the other one. She’d thought a lot about him since leaving him at the door. He had an unusual face.
The sound of a key being turned brought her round from the fireplace. But tonight she didn’t hurry into the hall to receive the usual greeting, ‘Hello, my dear,’ then something along the lines of a sigh and, ‘Oh, how nice it is to be home,’ sometimes varied to, ‘Oh, what a day it’s been. Why does one have to work for one’s living, eh? I’m dying for my pick-me-up. Just let me get tidied.’
Not until she heard her name being called rather sharply, ‘Hannah! Hannah!’ did she leave the sitting room and walk into the hall.
‘Oh, there you are! Anything the matter?’ He came towards her and bent down to kiss her on the cheek.
‘No; nothing.’
‘Oh.’ He stood back from her and she wouldn’t have been surprised if he had said, Then why weren’t you in the hall to greet me? What he did say was, ‘It’s been a very testing day.’ Another man might have used the word ‘stinking’, but not Humphrey; he rarely used slang. ‘I’ll be glad of that drink,’ he continued. ‘Just let me get cleaned up.’ He turned now and glanced to where his briefcase leant against the hat stand.
When he turned to her again there could have been the slightest reprimand in his glance: usually she was there to take his case and put it in its place.
She now did just that and when she turned round he was still standing staring at her, ‘You all right, dear?’ he said.
‘Yes. Yes, I’m fine.’
‘Anything happened?’ His head was bent slightly to the side, adding to the enquiry, and she answered almost frivolously, ‘Lots. Oh, lots and lots.’
‘Well, well! I must hear about the lots and lots. Just let me sort myself out and have my life-saver.’
As he made his way towards the bathroom Hannah went into the kitchen and, lifting the tray with the salad bowls, took it into the dining room and placed the bowls on the side table. The meats she would bring in when they had finished their avocado.
She stared down at the table; but she wasn’t seeing it, she was back in that mountain of books looking at the man across the desk reading her children’s story. All of a sudden she lifted her head and said almost aloud, Shall I tell him?
Yes, and louder now in her mind, Yes! and if he’s quiet and smiles at me and gives that little shake of his head I’ll say something. Yes, yes, I will; I’ll definitely say what I think.
‘Hannah? Where are you?’
The dining-room door opened and he stood there for a moment before he said, ‘What is it, Hannah? Is something troubling you?’
She actually laughed now, saying, ‘No. No, nothing’s troubling me, but something happened today and . . . well . . . I mean to tell you about it.’
‘Yes. Yes, of course’ – his head was bobbing – ‘after I’ve had my drink and five or ten minutes’ respite in the sitting room.’
‘Of course. Of course.’
He approached her now but didn’t touch her, yet his look was full of concern.
A few minutes later they were seated one each side of the flower-banked hearth, a glass of whisky and soda in his hand and one of sherry in hers; he took several sips from his drink before he said, ‘Well, now! Fire away.’
Fire away, he had said. It wasn’t exactly slang, but it wasn’t his usual way of questioning.
She took a drink from her glass, not just a sip; then she placed it on a small side table before laying her hands palm upwards on her lap. She had felt inclined to press them between her knees as she always did when she was excited or troubled, but now her mien appeared quietly assured as she said, ‘I took my book to a publisher today.’
‘Your book?’ He had been about to sip from his glass again, but he looked over its rim and said, ‘The book? That book!’
‘Yes, Humphrey.’ Her voice had an unusually stiff note to it. She was surprised then to hear herself say almost tartly, ‘The one that you condemned by your silence and a shake of your head.’
‘Hannah, my dear. I did no such thing; but I couldn’t say they were of any value when they were so childish.’
‘Well, they were for childish children, five year olds. I told you at the time.’
‘Have you altered them since?’
‘Not reall
y; only arranged them differently.’
‘Arranged them differently?’ He pronounced each word distinctly.
‘Yes, that’s what I said.’
‘And it’s been accepted; I mean, the book?’
‘Well, he read it and liked it and he’s going to consider publishing it.’
‘He thinks it’ll sell?’
‘I suppose he must do, otherwise he wouldn’t be considering it.’
He put down his glass on the little table that stood to the side of his chair, then he asked, ‘Who is the publisher . . . ’ and he paused, then added, ‘Who’s looking at it?’
‘A Mr Gillyman.’
‘Gillyman?’ He brought himself to the edge of his seat. ‘Martin Gillyman?’
She didn’t confirm this by saying yes, but just sat looking at him, for his face had suddenly become bright with interest.
‘Gillyman, the collector of rare books?’
She now said, ‘Yes, the same.’
‘And he’s taken your . . . your children’s book?’
She rose sharply to her feet, saying, ‘Yes; I’ve told you, he’s taken my children’s book, and what’s more he seemed to find it interesting.’
‘All right, all right. I . . . I was just surprised by the name, and Martin Gillyman is quite a name, you know. He’s a very rich man.’
She checked herself from saying, Of course, you wouldn’t have known him by name unless he was a rich man, would you? But then that is the work of brokers, isn’t it, to know rich people? They never talk about anyone who hasn’t money.
‘He’s known as a character. He buys books by the hundred or thousand and just stacks them away. And . . . and you spoke to him?’
She didn’t move, but she turned her head to the side as she said, ‘I’ve told you—’
‘All right. All right, my dear. I’m being perverse, I know I am, but’ – he stood up and came to her side – ‘the name was, well . . . so familiar. You see, we tried to do business with him at one time but we found his manner rather odd. What I mean is, he chooses the strangest people to see to his business. He owns a lot of property in the city, you know. His people used to be in shipping and mines. Well, you name it.’
She was looking fully at him now as she said, ‘He doesn’t use your firm as his brokers, then?’
She watched his mouth go into a small pout, then his lips move one over the other before he said, ‘No. No. Unfortunately, no. He has three brothers, I understand, and they run different sides of the business for him. He’s the eldest, and although’ – he now bounced his head at her – ‘he may be odd in some ways about books, he’s no fool where money’s concerned.’
They were walking to the dining room when she was stopped by the question he put to her: ‘Did he ask you to sit down?’
She did not answer him, just stared at him until he said, now rather tersely, ‘I’m only asking you how he received you.’
She took a deep breath before she said, ‘He received me as any gentleman would, and he arranged that I have coffee with his wife in their beautiful house above his rather cluttered office.’ She watched his long face stretch even further. His eyes were wide and his lips were forming a round O.
‘Well, well!’ he said.
They were in the dining room now and seated at the table when he said in a playful manner, ‘Dare I ask you how you found his wife?’
‘I found her, since you ask, to be a very beautiful woman and the room that I was in reflected her taste.’
‘Oh! well, when you’ve got pots of money you can produce taste.’
‘I don’t agree with you there, Humphrey.’
His spoon was in the avocado. He left it there as he stared at her. What had come over her? His little blond pussycat, as he had at one time called her, had seemingly developed into a very large tabby, and all because of her visit to a publisher. Yes; but what a publisher! It was odd, when he came to think about it, that she of all people should form an association with a man like him, and with his wife. And all through her silly little book; and it was a silly little book, although he had never put it into plain words. To his mind it was the effort of someone who was almost illiterate, for there was hardly a word of more than two syllables in it. Yet she had gained an audience through it, whereas his company had been snubbed time and again. He had never got to the bottom of it, but he understood it was something to do with Mr Manstein, the mysterious chief whom they saw only once a year, and then only if their section was invited abroad for one of the four-day conferences. He himself had been twice, once to Germany and once to Greece, but their office had never been invited on to the yacht as some of the others had. But apparently it was their chief that Gillyman would have no truck with. Why, nobody seemed able to find out.
He spooned up the avocado, chewed for a moment, then changed the subject entirely by saying, ‘One of the fellows was selling tickets for a Mozart concert today, and I bought two. It’s some charity affair. Then I noticed they were for tonight, and it being Thursday . . . well, it’s a pity, otherwise we could have gone.’
She looked at him hard before she answered briefly, ‘Yes; yes, of course it’s Thursday.’
He was kind in so many ways, was Humphrey, but quite thoughtless in others. It never struck him to give up his Thursday nights at the club and his bridge session. The only times he had missed a Thursday night with his friends had been during the first two years of their marriage, when, in the first year, they had taken a fortnight’s holiday in Worthing so he could be near his aunt and uncle, and in the second year when they went as far as Torquay. During the last two years he had spent two weeks of his month’s holiday escorting his aunt and uncle to Torquay while she in preference had willingly spent her time with Janie and the family. The other fortnight of his leave he now took in odd days tacked on to weekends, and these he spent in Worthing, too. She had long since stopped enquiring what he did with the old couple during these long weekends – but there again he didn’t look upon them as an old couple, more as parents, for they had brought him up from the age of four after his parents had drowned.
‘Would you like the tickets? You could phone Janie. Perhaps she’d like a night out – a different kind of night out from what she’s used to with that fellow; and it’s not all that far away, Bailey Hall, just off Oxford Street. You could pop back here and have a bite, then send her home by taxi. I . . . I’ll see to it.’
This was one of Humphrey’s little kindnesses: he’d send Janie home by taxi. She smiled at him as she said, ‘I couldn’t see her sitting through a Mozart concert, Humphrey.’
‘Oh, it’s not all Mozart. Look, the tickets are in the form of programmes. There’re several composers, but it begins with two Mozart sonatas.’
‘All right; I’ll ask her. But if she doesn’t want to come, and I doubt very much if she will, I can always go by myself – I don’t mind – and I’ll take your offer of a taxi both ways.’ She was smiling widely at him now, and he, smiling back, said, ‘Yes, do that, and I won’t ask for any change.’
‘Well, if it’s two journeys, one there, one back, you won’t get much change out of a fiver. And I like to tip well.’
He laughed outright now, then said, ‘Well, will a tenner fix it?’
‘Oh’ – she lifted her shoulders – ‘just about.’
A tenner. He was kind. He’d hardly finished the sponge pudding before he said, ‘I’ll help you with the dishes, then I must get ready to go. I’m running a bit late.’ He glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece, and at this she said, ‘Don’t be silly! I’ll see to the dishes.’
He had reached the dining-room door when he turned and said, ‘Well, you’ll have to get a move on too, if you intend to do that concert. It starts at seven-thirty.’
He was in the hall when she called after him, ‘Well, don�
�t go without leaving the tickets!’
His laughing reply came from the bathroom, although she couldn’t make out what he was saying . . .
Fifteen minutes later she had not only cleared the table but set it for the morning’s breakfast and put the last washed plate away; then, after spreading a check cloth over the kitchen table, she glanced round the room before hurrying out, and was crossing the hall towards her bedroom when Humphrey emerged from his.
He was wearing a light dove-coloured coat over a grey suit, and in his hand were the two tickets, which he held out to her, saying, ‘There you are, then! Hurry up, or you’ll be late. Have you phoned Janie?’
‘No . . . ’
‘Well, it’s probably too late now. If you don’t mind going on your own, I wouldn’t ring her. You’d only miss half the concert. Anyway, I hope you enjoy it.’ He paused, then added softly, ‘I’m sorry it’s Thursday; I’d have loved to come with you.’
‘That’s all right.’
He leant towards her and his lips touched her cheek as he said playfully, ‘Be a good girl now.’ Then he was gone.
In her bedroom she stood for a moment before the cheval mirror and, nodding to it, said, ‘Be a good girl.’ He was sweet and kind; but, oh, dear me! If only . . . if only . . .
‘Get changed, woman!’ The order came from somewhere deep inside her, as was wont to happen these days. She turned smartly, opened the wardrobe door, took a summer dress and a jacket from a hanger, and within seconds she had changed into them. Then, moving to the dressing table, she bent down and looked into the swing mirror. She rarely used much make-up, a blusher and lipstick being about as far as she went. She had resorted to the blusher only this last year or two because at times her skin looked so pale, even transparent. She drew a comb through her hair, then took a clasp from a drawer in order to pin it up. More often than not she would let it drop over her shoulders, but she deemed it to be smarter when it was pinned up. She was crossing the hall towards the front door when the phone rang. She did not stop to think who it might be phoning at this time; she knew it would be someone from Worthing.
The Thursday Friend Page 4
