A Day Off

by Storm Jameson

  It was too much. She understood nothing, nothing. The effort of understanding was too severe. The very centre and core of her life was rotten—but it was too late to cure it or to alter anything. She was finished.

  She looked round her, at the grass, darkened by a passing cloud, at the trees. Her hat, which had apparently fainted, was lying near her on the grass; she seized it and with a despairing gesture began to pull and tweak the limp ribbon. And now what? she thought angrily. Now that I have snatched a dress, a few pairs of shoes, hats, I suppose I must give them up, go naked, starve, live in streets like a dog.

  Her anger restored her. She began to think soberly about her room. It was the last thing to which she clung. Without it, without its chairs, curtains, bed, the rug from which she stepped into bed and onto which again she stepped in the morning, she was lost. None of these things, except the looking-glass and a chair, belonged to her and yet she clung to them, as dying men to the light.

  She decided to be a servant. There were always cries in the newspapers for servants—wanted, working housekeeper for gentleman; wanted, strong daily woman; apply here, there, everywhere. Half London was gaping for servants. She would go out daily to work and come back to her own place at night. Thus she would be fed, keep her room, her freedom—and then (supposing George some day to repent) she would be where he would look for her.

  “It’s a gift,” she said out loud, red and sweating with pleasure. I shall want a letter or something—Mrs. Thingski recommends—sober, honest, good cook, reliable, what’s all that they write? A testimonial I mean that. I’ll get Lily to help me with it. Was in good houses before the War, she said, and got out of patience then with it. I had some good times then. It’s no use thinking about it, no use. I was young then and all those men, the streets and places full of them, everywhere you looked; say what you like it livened things. That girl I saw crying—she’d lost someone, I suppose : well, she’s not crying now, is she? Got over it by now. Tick, tock, wind up the clock, I’ll start the day over again. “ Tra-la, tra-la-la!”

  A little abashed by the shrill loudness of her voice, she began hurriedly to imagine her new life. At the first go off her mistress saw that it would be foolish to ask the usual questions; she hardly so much as looked at the letter. Instead she asked nervously whether what wages she was offering were enough. Yes—carelessly—for the time. She had her own room, the other servants came to her for their orders. Actually, she was a kind of superior housekeeper, since the woman—but a single gentleman would be easier, she thought swiftly : I could manage his house for him and then if he wanted anything, a woman’s love and guidance, I’ll give him that too. He’ll soon know what he has in me, and then—it’s not too late, I’m not old yet—I could be a good wife to some man. But what’s the use, she thought, with sudden passion. Men haven’t the gumption to marry a woman with my experience and go. I daresay they know enough to know that a woman like me sees through them—to their mean dirty bones I see.

  She felt an inexplicable joy and satisfaction—as though for a moment she had been folded in a familiar clasp. There was a knowledge she had forgotten, a body of which she was a member, a connection not yet broken between her and the grass she pressed, the clouds, big and tumbling, the moist earth. She felt this, but only in her blood, and when the momentary thrill faded she was more than ever aware of her thickened body and the pain of now.

  “Oh God,” she said quietly.

  She began to destroy the bracken in reach of her hand, pulling off the green curled ends. Her mind turned with the movement of water, drawn aside in an eddy under a stone. Soothed by the savagery of her hand it settled, lapsing into stillness, reflecting the grass, the maimed stems. She felt thirsty and began to think about tea. Emptying her purse, she fingered the money spread in her lap and tried to realise that it was every penny she possessed. The only end of her effort was to make her thirstier than ever. It won’t last long, why try to make it last longer? This thought had been so long at home in her mind that it convinced without trouble. Under one form or another it decided her lot and portion in life. Rooms only get dusty again, why dust them? Cloth wears, iron rusts, why mend, why polish? She tumbled the coins back into the bag and shook out her creased skirt.

  A reluctance to move seized her. It was partly the serenity of the place fingering her senses and partly the knowledge, unrealised except as a pressure on her mind, that never again would she feel the impulse or courage to break a day off from the rest. After this she would go on, doing what seemed the easiest or next thing, but with a deepening disbelief. Her life would become too humiliating. It would wither her emotions, until a moment enclosed all she felt.

  The picnic party was hidden from her by a rise in the ground. At this moment the girl who had pitied her touched a knob and released the organist of a London cinema to the unastonished air—which was helpless to reject him.

  The prancing heavy-footed noise he made cheered her at once : she was so used to this kind of music (the only kind she knew) that it had its own way of sounding in her ears. She did not so much hear it as feel it, and with it the over-warm air of cafés and picture houses, the softness of plush seats, abundant company, and the relief of not needing to think. Something young and merry-hearted woke in her—no doubt the very same young mill-hardened female who walked all evening between the street-lamps. She beat time with her hands and swayed, nodding her head.

  She stopped abruptly. What a fool she must look, perched there, wagging her neck! Her hair was in a state. She tried to arrange it, but she had lost the comb from her bag and the result was doubtful.

  A stub of pencil had fallen out when she emptied the bag. As she put it back, she thought, Why not write to George? She had no address where to write—he had been careful never to give it to her. She did not know even the name of his firm. But the thought of writing pleased her. If she wrote the letter an address might turn up. She might see his name in a paper or meet someone who knew him. There was magic attaching to the written word : she almost believed the letter would make its own opportunity.

  In her pocket she found the sale bill for a pair of stockings. It would do to make a rough draft. She smoothed it over her knee and wrote “Dear George, why haven’t you been?” Stopped. Something less simple and straight-out seemed needed. She wanted to reproach him and at the same time to seem quite casual and light-hearted—but then to know. She must know. She must finish quickly with this torture of not knowing what he intended, or what was going to happen to her. Somehow the letter had to end all this and yet to sound as though she did not give a curse whether he came back or didn’t.

  There were no words in her head for what she felt. The very cruelty of her fears (when she thought that George might not come) flung them away—and to begin with they were so few and poor that they were no use. She made a terrible effort and wrote : “Am cut to the core by your treatment of me.” But that told him too much. She crossed out everything except “Dear George” and began with more assurance, as though the words had been given to her—as indeed they had. “Have you forgotten the one who has been all in all to you for five years? I never thought you were that kind, I thought you would be true as steel. I pity you from my heart for your cowardly crime against our love. It is you who will suffer worst not the woman, I have learned to laugh at knocks. Some day you will regret the loss of a woman’s love.” She sat still for a few minutes and then wrote with convulsive haste, “You’ve done me down proper I haven’t a bean—what are you going to do about it?”

  Her mouth worked. She read through what she had written, her mind jumping with the excitement of it. But she felt too cruelly to be satisfied. The letter was no good at all. In her mind the letter and her fear and anger were the same thing but the words she had written down—and no others came to her—were a world away from all she felt. When she thought of herself, penniless, left, her heart thumped, the walls of her mouth dried up, and she felt empty. But she had no words at hand to describe her state. So f
ar as she was concerned no words for it had ever existed.

  She tore the paper into small pieces and pushed them into the ground. For a moment she felt as though the earth moved under her hand.

  She was desperate for a cup of tea. Picking up her hat—which had only partly revived—she clapped it onto her head and got up. Now she could see the wireless, and the picnic party grouped round it. Two young girls, not more than seventeen, with their young men, three sitting and one lying on the short grass. Their car was not far off in the road, and they had cups, a thermos, and packets of food in white paper. The afternoon sun lay over them like a glaze, so that they blended into their blue and green background. She walked towards them, lurching from the stiffness of her knees and ankles, her hat fallen back, her face red. Just as she reached them she fell. Her toe caught in some unevenness of the ground and down she came, on both knees, with a groan.

  One of the girls jumped up to give her a hand. The young man holding the thermos called out : “I say, bad luck. Have some tea, won’t you?”

  She was about to thank him and take it when she saw that they were all struggling not to laugh. At once her manner altered.

  “Here,” she said aggressively, “what d’you mean by planting yourselves just where people can fall over you? Who d’y’think you are. The Prince of Wales?”

  “You didn’t fall over us,” one of the young men began.

  A girl interrupted. “Don’t take any notice of her.”

  She set her arms. “So—that’s it, is it?” she said with bitter slowness. “I’m to be knocked down—a nice business—and then you’ll take no notice. You—dressed-up young—monkeys!”

  The boy tried quelling her. “Clear off now,” he said in a loud authoritative voice. She had begun to enjoy the scene, and rocking from side to side she told them what she thought of them. For this she had words enough.

  They had turned very red but they ignored her. One of them, altering a knob, increased the volume of organ music until it all but drowned her voice. She raised her voice against it but she was defeated : she had to go. She made a twitching movement with her hands. The sun fell across the back of her neck like a whip and a quiver ran through her. Dropping her head suddenly, she went.

  I’m going to have a cup of good strong tea, she thought. Lurching along the road, she thought of nothing else. A cup of good strong tea, and a cake (she swallowed, thinking of mouthfuls of cake and the sweetened tea soaking into them, washing them down, gently)—what d’you call those cakes they sell at that shop?—maids of honour. Oh but the shop’s at the pit bottom of the hill, she groaned. I can’t walk that far, my feet are like burning fiery furnaces.

  But she walked on, since there was nothing else to do. By the time she reached the gate her feet were hurting so cruelly that she was forced to sit down and rest them. She sat on the grass, just inside the Park. Some large dock leaves were growing near and remembering from her childhood that docks were good for nettle-stings she drew off her shoes, wrapped a leaf round each foot and laid another in the bottom of the shoe. When she stood up again she walked easier, but that may have been faith.

  She was sorely tempted to go into a café on the hill, but had set her heart on an Original Maid of Honour. The shop where they were sold was as she remembered, at the bottom of the hill. She went in and stood blinking until she noticed the stairs, then dragged herself up. At first sight she thought there was no room anywhere, and then she made out a table for two. One of its chairs was occupied by an elderly lady who looked up and smiled at her when she put her hand on the second chair. She had not expected to be smiled at and the deliberate rudeness of her glance was wasted. She felt annoyed. She put her bag down in the middle of the tea things, to assert herself and to give as much trouble as possible to the other woman. Again she was disappointed. The lady moved her belongings with a cheerful friendly air. Old fool, she thought angrily. When the waitress came she told her to bring tea and maids of honour and look sharp with them.

  The girl was only too delighted to be able to say: “There aren’t any maids of honour left.”

  “Ho, aren’t there! “she exclaimed. She meant to give it to her straight for speaking like that but the disappointment was too much for her. After I came all this way. She felt fit to cry.

  The elderly lady smiled at them both. “But I have two here I don’t want,” she said. “Do have them.”

  Raised so quickly from the depths, she could scarcely speak. The lady held out to her the plate with the maids of honour: she took one hurriedly and mumbled : “I’m sure I’m obliged.”

  “But the pleasure is mine,” the lady said.

  Looking at her more attentively she saw a round wrinkled face and a hat covered with ribbons of varied colours, red, green, yellow, blue, a blue dress with yellow lace and a red and green scarf over it. The only dark thing about her was her bag, of black leather with a thick heavy gold clasp. She had never seen so many colours on one woman in all her born days.

  “I don’t see my glasses and I can only just make out your face,” the lady said. “I’m very short-sighted.”

  “Here they are,” she said. They were behind the jug she had pushed out of its place. The lady thanked her, but for some reason—perhaps because she forgot—did not wear them. Instead she opened her bag, took out a little roll of pound notes, and laid the glasses at the bottom of it. She threw the notes in after them, with her handkerchief and a bottle of coffee mints. An envelope with a foreign stamp fell out of the handkerchief. “Where is it? Oh thank you. But you’ve finished your maid of honour. You must have the other now. They don’t bring your tea, do they?”

  “Lazy. That’s what these English girls are,” she said carelessly. She took the second cake onto her plate. The foreign envelope had put into her head to pretend that she was a visiting foreigner. Then she thought that perhaps the other woman was a foreigner—she looked queer enough—and it might turn out very awkwardly if she said she was a Frenchwoman and the old lady was French and began talking to her in the language. She asked cautiously : “Perhaps you’re a stranger yourself?”

  “Not exactly a stranger. But how odd that you should ask me,” the other cried. “I was a German until I married and then of course I became English, since my husband was an Englishman.” She said this with a sort of timid bravado, opening her eyes, which were pale and weak-looking, to their widest.

  “How interesting,” she answered languidly. “My husband was a German, a Mr. Groener. He was a very wealthy business man. Hotels he owned. He died not long ago. I expect I shall travel, but at present I’m resting.”

  The elderly lady blushed up to her hat. “I felt certain you were unusual,” she said excitedly. “I felt it when you came in. Do you know, my dear, something always happens to me when I come out alone.” The words got in each other’s way to be out first. “I with I say live with my sister-in-law and her girls. I lived withed them during the War, though it wasn’t pleasant for either of us, then when my husband was killed my money wasn’t coming, from Berlin you understand and I stayed on. But they watched me. Have you ever been the one watched? I was then a watched.” Her face changed, and became startlingly vindictive and unpleasant. “They were eyeing me when the German aeroplanes came and one evening my sister-in-law said—no doubt she meant me to hear her—‘She won’t signal to them to drop bombs on the street she’s living in.’ As if I wasn’t to be trusted—they not to trust, with my little boy was buried in an English churchyard and my husband fighting. He never came home. I missed him very much and at night much. You won’t mind my saying it—the minute you sat down I knew at once you were not like other women.”

  She had scarcely listened to these confidences. She was too busy pouring her tea, sweetening it, and enjoying the first heartening mouthfuls to trouble with all that. A few flakes from the second maid of honour had fallen on the cloth. She pressed a finger on one and put it absently in her mouth. I could do with another of them, she thought. Then remembering who she w
as she leaned back, washed the tea round in her cup, and said in a careful voice :

  “My husband was going to take me to Germany this year. I haven’t met his relatives yet, but I suppose I shall have to.”

  “Forgive me—but did your dear husband leave you his money?”

  “Of course he did. Who else could he leave it to? “she said tartly. “He never looked at another woman. He simply relied on me at every turn.”

  “Then keep away from them,” the other woman said slyly. “They are almost certain to have lost everything in the troubles.”

  “Indeed!”

  The other did not see that she was being put in her place. “I lost nearly all mine,” she sighed, “and what little I still have my sister-in-law takes from me the day it comes. I owe it to her for the miserable home she gives me. I know they’re waiting for me to die, but I’ve been too much for them. I’ve left the money away from her.”

  There was nothing unusual about her, apart from her parrot clothes, and they—their terrible colours—would be accounted for by her short sight. Her wrinkles, pale eyes, and thin stooping figure, were all commonplace. Yet she made her listener uneasy. She looked round for the waitress.

  “I got to go now,” she said loudly.

  The elderly lady blinked as though she had been slapped. Her face crumpled up with disappointment. Even the look in her eyes altered and a film of moisture welled over them. “But we’re just getting to know each other,” she pleaded. “And I’m so happy to-day. Do you know—for the first time since the end of the War I have some little money of my own? The cheque was for eight pounds more than ever before. I didn’t tell her, I drew the money and handed her what I always hand her, with no word about the eight pounds. And now—” she stroked the sides of the bag, as though it were alive—“I can buy myself some little things without asking her. ‘Why d’ you want to buy stockings? Here, I’ll darn up a pair of Ella’s for you.’ Oh my dear, to put on new stockings again—the price of a concert—I came here now to plan it all. I’ve spent only a few shillings—and now you must let me pay for your tea. I insist. You’ve given me so much pleasure. It’s many years since I had a friend.”