by Henry Green
“What is your name, then?” she said in a low voice.
“Charley Summers.” He spoke confidently.
“Never heard of it,” she answered right out, turning round. He saw this was the truth, yet there was something here he had never seen in Rose, that he hadn’t ever known of her, and it was shame. Then he realized she was now so angry as well that she could not stoop to a lie. “What?” she said, “You come along, you play some dirty trick to get in, pretending to faint?” and she stamped her foot, while keeping her arms rigid at her sides, “Then you bring his name up?” she said, in a voice breaking with rage and something else, “Him?” she cried, “Why you aren’t a man, a real man would never do a thing like that. And how did you ferret his name out?” she shouted. “What is he to me? What’ve I had in my life from him, from Mr Grant?” and she burst into tears, spreading a small handkerchief to cover as much as possible of her mouth and eyes.
“Rose,” he said, shocked, “you’ve forgotten yourself.”
She cried uglily. He did not dare go near. When she was a little recovered, she turned her back on him once again.
“Now look what you’ve done,” she stammered. “Won’t you be content? Now won’t you go?”
“Rose darling,” he said, “you’re not yourself.”
“I’m not your Rose,” she wailed, crying noisily once more, “and I never was, nor ever could be. Oh I rue the day that man had me, was my father,” she mumbled. “Didn’t give me his name,” she added, cried noisily, then began blowing her nose. Charley stood apart, absolutely flummoxed, yet a bit triumphant.
“But your mother, Mrs Grant,” he said, archly.
“That’s enough,” she shouted, “that’s enough. You don’t suppose I let you in here to talk over my affairs, do you?” She had taken him by the shoulders. She seemed beside herself. “Come on out of it.” Her face was terribly twisted. But she did not look at him. She hustled him out. The last thing he saw before she slammed the door shut was her cat, tail up, treading the carpet, treading the carpet.
He stumbled out in the street. He walked for hours. This time he did not look at the girls who passed.
He loved Rose desperately and despairingly now.
He gave the office a miss next day. He did not even ring them to say he would not be in. They were surprised. He had always been so careful in the few months he had been back. But they let him be.
He left the lodgings at his usual hour for going to work so that Mrs Frazier did not know; his bed, which had been an unquiet grave all night, disclosed nothing to the maid, Mary.
He fled Rose, yet every place he went she rose up before him; in florists’ windows; in a second-hand bookseller’s with a set of Miss Rhoda Broughton, where, as he was staring for her reflection in the window, his eyes read a title, “Cometh up as a flower” which twisted his guts; also in a seed merchant’s front that displayed a watering can, to the spout of which was fixed an attachment, labelled “Carter’s patent Rose.”
For she had denied him, and it was doing him in.
A woman behind said, “They’re like flies those bloody ’uns, and my goodness are they bein’ flitted.” Then he saw Rose as he had once seen her, naked, at sunset, James away, standing on the bed which was so soft it nearly tumbled her down, laughing and flitting mosquitoes on the ceiling above, and with her hair which, against the light, on the edges of it, shook and trembled in a flaming rose.
He rushed off so he should hear no more, and in trying to go fast he limped exaggeratedly. Rose that he’d loved, and who could not be explained.
“Lost ’is leg in the war I’ll bet,” another voice came, and he knew Rose as she had been one afternoon, a spider crawling across the palm of a hand, the hair hanging down over her nose, telling him how many legs they had, laughing that red spiders were lucky, dear, darling Rose.
He got so that he did not know what he was about.
When he came to once more, it was still the same day and he was gazing into a tailor’s, at a purple overcoat, worrying about his coupons. What had brought him back, sharp, was a song oozing out next door, from a wireless shop, a record through loud speakers of “Honeysuckle Rose.” He felt extreme guilt that he could have forgotten her again. Then, for the first time, that he must get hold of old Grant. Because why had that fiend out of hell sent him on the visit? They could not all be out of their minds in that family? So they had used him as a guinea pig once more? It was vivisection? And Rose must have good reason for acting as she did. Wasn’t for nothing that she’d sent him packing. It was Grant’s fault.
There was a queue before the telephone booth, and, as he came up, the girl within was just coming out. He did not know what he was about but he went to the head, said to a man with white hair, who was the next customer, “Excuse me won’t you. A favour. Just back from Germany. Repatriated, wooden leg,” and went in. As he dialled the Redham number, he saw this man calm the others behind. He knew it because they were all looking down at his limb, yet he had no idea of what he had just done. Indeed his impression was that he had been standing his turn in the queue for hours.
However, when Mr Grant answered, Charley did not find himself so glib. It was rage cut him short. While the old man said “Hullo,” all Charley could get out was, “I say,” twice. At last he did manage, “Summers speaking.”
“Oh it’s you, my boy,” Mr Grant returned. He voiced this acidly. “Most unfortunate,” he said. “The fact is, mother’s not so well this morning. I’m expecting the doctor any minute. So you went to that address after all,” he continued. “I must say I did think you would respect my confidence.” At this Charley gaped into the receiver. “It’s the least I’m entitled to,” Mr Grant went on, “or that’s my opinion, and we’ve got a right to our opinions, you know, oh yes. Because I particularly asked you not to say where you got her address,” and Charley thought, you lying bastard, was even about to say it, but he listened instead. “Now, my boy,” Mr Grant was continuing, “that’s just what you did do, and the moment you got there. Look, this is the doctor. I must be about my business. But I must say – yes I’m coming – it was – oh well, good day to you.” And Mr Grant rang off.
“You bastard, you bastard, you bastard,” Charley began to shout down the dead line. Then someone tapped on the glass. It was the man with white hair, who just shook his white head.
The next thing Charley knew he was by a church. He found himself reading a poster stuck up on the notice board outside, which went, “Grant O Lord,” then said something about a faithful servant. The first word shook him. He cried again, “The bastard,” right out loud.
Then he connected Mrs Frazier with the house at Redham. It came to him that he must at once put this to her, that she was in league with Mr Grant. That it could only be white slave trading?
He looked about for a taxi, damn the expense for he had no time. He ran across traffic at a cab moving the other way, and, as he went, it was like a magpie with a broken wing, he flopped along, but the flag was down, the taxi taken. He straggled back to an island. He leant on one of the posts that bounded it, stabbed with a finger out of his closed fist at each cabby passing. A policeman began to watch.
But then he got one.
After he had given the address, he leant forward in case he should see Mrs Frazier shopping, although he was more than a mile outside her district. Because he could not wait.
It was only about the third time in his life he had taken a cab.
When he got back, Mary, the maid, thought she was out after the rations, and explained where to find the fruiterer’s Mrs Frazier had told her she was off to, the rumour today being that there had been a special delivery to Blundens. He limped towards this shop. He was beginning to look very untidy, very staring. Then he saw her, a thin dark monument, the landlady, halfway in the queue.
When he got up to her he had nothing to say that he could get out. He stood dumb. As usual, she talked first.
“Why, Mr Summers,” she exclaimed, “wh
at are you doing on a weekday? Don’t tell me one of those dreadful new bombs has brought your place of business down about your ears?” She spoke in mincing fashion, so as to impress the others in this queue. But every one of the women had her eyes fixed on the veg, watching for what she wanted to be gone, finished before it was her turn to be served, watching with eyes that seemed to pin down prizes in the shop’s open tea chests, pin them with long pointed pins of steel the length the eyes were from these cherished beans, or peas, or harico vers, or, more terribly, watching for what was not displayed, for what those already served were carrying off in covered shopping baskets. What that was not one of the others knew because no one had been told for sure, as they stood hoping for the extra special under the counter, a dwindling stock of something unknown to them which they sought after, with steel cupidity forged in their old eyes.
“Now if you had gumption you’d pass to the head with that war injury, and do my buying for me,” Mrs Frazier said, arch. “If I was to tell you were my nephew, back from Germany with what you’ve got, I dare say they’d let it go, just the once,” she said.
“I never,” he brought out. He had forgotten the phone booth.
“Why, Mr Summers,” she warned him in a low voice. “Why you’re not quite yourself. And look at you,” she added.
“Look,” he said, averting anguished eyes. Why, she thought, he’s like a dumb animal. “Most important,” he stammered. “Rose’s …, Rose’s …,” and he could get no farther. He kept swallowing.
“Roses,” she half whispered, when he could not go on, afraid the queue might take notice. “What about them? You won’t find many now, and the price. They grow those under glass. The shrapnel’s got the most of that, Mr Summers.”
“No,” he said, “it’s Mr Grant …,” and he could not finish.
By now she was afeared, almost.
“Look Mr Summers, not in the street,” she said. “I can’t discuss private affairs while I’m in the middle of my business, thank you.”
“I’ve got to ask this,” he said, quite clear. His brown eyes were on her now. She thought no, they’re black. “Did he lose his daughter?” he managed, in a sort of gasp.
“I’m sure I wouldn’t have any idea. Now why don’t you let Mary fetch you a nice cup of tea, at home, till I’m ready. It’s the strain,” she said in a louder voice, perhaps for the others. “I get like it sometimes.”
“No now,” he said.
“What? With me only four from the shop?”
“I must,” he said. He was whining.
“Why you’ll have a treat tomorrow when you take the cover off the dish. I don’t know I’m sure, only Mrs England passed the word there was a special in at Blundens. Mr Blunden is always good to me.”
“Most important,” he said, quite clear. “About the daughter. How d’you know she died?” His voice was rising. One by one, those nearest began to click those yards long hatpins back inside chameleon eyes. They turned from what might be in the shop, from what was unseen, onto what might be in this young man, click click they went at him, and Mrs Frazier noticed.
“I can’t have this,” she said firm, “not possibly. I’m a respectable married woman I’d have you know. And I couldn’t say what became of his daughter. How would I? We were never related,” she said. “But if you don’t think to ask him, there’s Mr Middlewitch,” she said to rid herself of Charley Summers. It did the trick.
“Middlewitch,” he stammered, with renewed dread. And made off fast.
When he got to the next call box, he rang this man at the C.E.G.S. But he was out. Then Charley walked a great distance unseeing. Until he found himself by a park. He awkwardly sat under a tree. He collapsed at once into deep sleep. And, when he woke some hours later, he was a little recovered, but so sad and excited he could hardly bear it.
It was the last good sleep he was to have for some time.
He went back to the office next morning. He had only been gone a day. Watching himself in a mirror in the lavatory, because he always washed face and hands the moment he arrived, he could see no change. It was a shock that he did not look different.
“Oh there you are,” Miss Pitter said. She was made harsh by the relief she unexpectedly felt at the sight of him.
“Yes,” he said.
“I thought perhaps you’d gone off to Birmingham, then when I looked in your engagements, there was nothing,” she went on, still sharp. “And yesterday we had that special batch of reminders.”
He did not reply. He was pawing through his mail.
“Oh, and Purdews phoned,” she said with relish. “They’ve had the Admiralty down. Those trays are put right back. Their Mr Ricketts is very sorry but they’ve had to sign an undertaking. Number something priority, he said, way in front of ours.”
He passed no comment.
“I explained you weren’t here,” she went on to get some reason out of Charley, “I told him you’d had to go to Birmingham. And then I tried to get any kind of a promise, I mean about when we could expect the trays, or racks, or whatever you call them,” she interpreted herself, quite unnecessarily, “and d’you know what? He just laughed. Quite the comedian.”
She was leaning now on one of the card indexes, gazing at the top of his head. He went on handling the post. She lowered a forearm down along the green steel front, perhaps so he could notice. But he didn’t.
“Is anything wrong?” she asked.
He looked at her. There was something dreadful in his eyes. She saw that. She wondered the more.
“No,” he said. “Why?”
“I only asked,” she said. “So I told him you’d be bound to ring back when you got in, when you did come, I mean. I know I shouldn’t, but I do get worried,” she lied, because she must find out what was up.
He lowered his eyes again to the mail. There was a pause. She powdered her nose.
“Because I’m not fretting to be left alone with this lot,” she said, and gave the card indexes a sour look, “with you away ill or unable, not little Dot, thanks all the same,” she said.
She did not know him well enough to ask such questions, but she couldn’t leave things where they were. He had been so dependable. It had come as a shock not knowing where he was yesterday, and now doubly so on account of his eyes. Yet she told herself it was only she would not be left alone with those cards if she could help.
“What were you doing yesterday? Did you go out with a girl, and celebrate, or what?” she said.
He gave her a frightful look, which she misinterpreted on purpose.
“Is that what a hangover is, then?” she trilled. “You know I’ve never had one of those. Of course I’ve been a trifle dizzy now and again, but not enough for mum to spot when I came in. And what mum doesn’t notice where I’m concerned is nobody’s business.”
He sat on. She could see he was not pretending.
“Just two glasses of port,” she said, “and something went through my nose right up to my head, I suppose it was the fumes rose …” she said, then fell silent as she saw the spasm pass across his face.
“Are you all right?” she enquired.
“A bit faint,” he said.
“Put your head between your knees, then, while I get you a glass of water.” He sat hunched there. When she came back she said,
“Well, all I can say is, after seeing the effect it’s had on you, that I’ll pass it up,” she lied, referring to the hangover she pretended to suspect.
“Thanks,” he said. He did not drink the water. She was silent for a bit.
Before she could begin again the telephone bell rang. He picked up the receiver, put it to his ear and waited.
“That you Dot?” asked Corker’s secretary.
“Yes,” he said.
“Oh Mr Summers. Good morning Mr Summers. Mr Mead says can you spare him a moment.”
“When?” he said. “Now?”
“Yes please. Thank you,” she said, and hung up. Mr Corker Mead was the boss.
“Corker,” he told Miss Pitter in explanation as he walked out.
“Gosh,” she said, and meant it.
Mr Mead waited. He had expected Summers to be several days absent. Every morning a little list of those who were away was put on his desk, first thing. It surprised him to find that young Summers was back. For he thought it likely these young men coming home from the war might be a bit wild for a period, it would only be natural. He had considered the matter, foreseen that. He had even had a little talk prepared for Charley, who was the first to return. And now Corker was ready to deliver, even though the lad had only taken a day. For Corker was mustard.
“Good morning,” he said. “Sit down. Well how’s everything? Cigarette?”
“We’re late with the first plant,” Charley said, hopelessly. “We’re nine weeks overdue.”
“That’s nothing these days,” Corker said. “We can stand it. No, I meant in yourself?”
“I’m O.K.” Charley said.
“That’s fine,” Corker agreed. “Bit difficult, I shouldn’t wonder, for you young fellows, after what you’ve been through?”
Charley did not answer. He was looking at the photo of Mrs Mead on his chief’s desk. She had a goitre.
“Though, mind you, the war’s not been a surprise in this. The civilians have had their share, this time,” Mr Mead went on, keeping strictly to what he had thought out. “Yes, we’ve had our shares” he said.
There was no reply.
“Would you fancy a few days off?” he enquired, with no trace of sarcasm. “Takes time to settle down I shouldn’t wonder.”
“No thanks, Mr Mead.”
“Sure? Because you’d be welcome. Well don’t worry your head too much over that contract. You’re doing quite nicely, Summers. That’s all. But give us a ring next time.”
Again Charley said nothing, left without another word. That was one point Mr Mead did not like about the little talk. The other was, that he had not called him sir.
Miss Pitter nervously waited back in their room.
