‘What’s the boss going to say when I tell him?’
‘Never mind what the boss will say. Haven’t you any romance in your system, Izzy? Look at those two sitting there with their heads together. Isn’t it worth a silver cup to have made them happy for life? They are on their honeymoon, Isadore. Tell the boss exactly how it happened, and say that I thought it was up to Geisenheimer’s to give them a wedding present.’
He clicked for a spell.
‘Ah!’ he said. ‘Ah! now you’ve done it! Now you’ve given yourself away! You did it on purpose. You mixed those tickets on purpose. I thought as much. Say, who do you think you are, doing this sort of thing? Don’t you know that professional dancers are three for ten cents? I could go out right now and whistle, and get a dozen girls for your job. The boss’ll sack you just one minute after I tell him.’
‘No, he won’t, Izzy, because I’m going to resign.’
‘You’d better!’
‘That’s what I think. I’m sick of this place, Izzy. I’m sick of dancing. I’m sick of New York. I’m sick of everything. I’m going back to the country. I thought I had got the pigs and chickens clear out of my system, but I hadn’t. I’ve suspected it for a long, long time, and tonight I know it. Tell the boss, with my love, that I’m sorry, but it had to be done. And if he wants to talk back, he must do it by letter: Mrs. John Tyson, Rodney, Maine, is the address.’
The Making of Mac’s
Mac’s Restaurant—nobody calls it MacFarland’s—is a mystery. It is off the beaten track. It is not smart. It does not advertise. It provides nothing nearer to an orchestra than a solitary piano, yet, with all these things against it, it is a success. In theatrical circles especially it holds a position which might turn the white lights of many a supper-palace green with envy.
This is mysterious. You do not expect Soho to compete with and even eclipse Piccadilly in this way. And when Soho does so compete, there is generally romance of some kind somewhere in the background.
Somebody happened to mention to me casually that Henry, the old waiter, had been at Mac’s since its foundation.
‘Me?’ said Henry, questioned during a slack spell in the afternoon. ‘Rather!’
‘Then can you tell me what it was that first gave the place the impetus which started it on its upward course? What causes should you say were responsible for its phenomenal prosperity? What—’
‘What gave it a leg-up? Is that what you’re trying to get at?’
‘Exactly. What gave it a leg-up? Can you tell me?’
‘Me?’ said Henry. ‘Rather!’
And he told me this chapter from the unwritten history of the London whose day begins when nature’s finishes.
Old Mr. MacFarland (said Henry) started the place fifteen years ago. He was a widower with one son and what you might call half a daughter. That’s to say, he had adopted her. Katie was her name, and she was the child of a dead friend of his. The son’s name was Andy. A little freckled nipper he was when I first knew him—one of those silent kids that don’t say much and have as much obstinacy in them as if they were mules. Many’s the time, in them days, I’ve clumped him on the head and told him to do something; and he didn’t run yelling to his pa, same as most kids would have done, but just said nothing and went on not doing whatever it was I had told him to do. That was the sort of disposition Andy had, and it grew on him. Why, when he came back from Oxford College the time the old man sent for him—what I’m going to tell you about soon—he had a jaw on him like the ram of a battleship. Katie was the kid for my money. I liked Katie. We all liked Katie.
Old MacFarland started out with two big advantages. One was Jules, and the other was me. Jules came from Paris, and he was the greatest cook you ever seen. And me—well, I was just come from ten years as waiter at the Guelph, and I won’t conceal it from you that I gave the place a tone. I gave Soho something to think about over its chop, believe me. It was a come-down in the world for me, maybe, after the Guelph, but what I said to myself was that, when you get a tip in Soho, it may be only tuppence, but you keep it; whereas at the Guelph about ninety-nine hundredths of it goes to helping to maintain some blooming head waiter in the style to which he has been accustomed. It was through my kind of harping on that fact that me and the Guelph parted company. The head waiter complained to the management the day I called him a fat-headed vampire.
Well, what with me and what with Jules, MacFarland’s—it wasn’t Mac’s in them days—began to get a move on. Old MacFarland, who knew a good man when he saw one and always treated me more like a brother than anything else, used to say to me, ‘Henry, if this keeps up, I’ll be able to send the boy to Oxford College’; until one day he changed it to, ‘Henry, I’m going to send the boy to Oxford College’; and next year, sure enough, off he went.
Katie was sixteen then, and she had just been given the cashier job, as a treat. She wanted to do something to help the old man, so he put her on a high chair behind a wire cage with a hole in it, and she gave the customers their change. And let me tell you, mister, that a man that wasn’t satisfied after he’d had me serve him a dinner cooked by Jules and then had a chat with Katie through the wire cage would have groused at paradise. For she was pretty, was Katie, and getting prettier every day. I spoke to the boss about it. I said it was putting temptation in the girl’s way to set her up there right in the public eye, as it were. And he told me to hop it. So I hopped it.
Katie was wild about dancing. Nobody knew it till later, but all this while, it turned out, she was attending regular one of them schools. That was where she went to in the afternoons, when we all thought she was visiting girlfriends. It all come out after, but she fooled us then. Girls are like monkeys when it comes to artfulness. She called me Uncle Bill, because she said the name Henry always reminded her of cold mutton. If it had been young Andy that had said it I’d have clumped him one; but he never said anything like that. Come to think of it, he never said anything much at all. He just thought a heap without opening his face.
So young Andy went off to college, and I said to him, ‘Now then, you young devil, you be a credit to us, or I’ll fetch you a clip when you come home.’ And Katie said, ‘Oh, Andy, I shall miss you.’ And Andy didn’t say nothing to me, and he didn’t say nothing to Katie, but he gave her a look, and later in the day I found her crying, and she said she’d got toothache, and I went round the corner to the chemist’s and brought her something for it.
It was in the middle of Andy’s second year at college that the old man had the stroke which put him out of business. He went down under it as if he’d been hit with an axe, and the doctor tells him he’ll never be able to leave his bed again.
So they sent for Andy, and he quit his college, and come back to London to look after the restaurant.
I was sorry for the kid. I told him so in a fatherly kind of way. And he just looked at me and says, ‘Thanks very much, Henry.’
‘What must be must be,’ I says. ‘Maybe, it’s all for the best. Maybe it’s better you’re here than in among all those young devils in your Oxford school what might be leading you astray.’
‘If you would think less of me and more of your work, Henry,’ he says, ‘perhaps that gentleman over there wouldn’t have to shout sixteen times for the waiter.’
Which, on looking into it, I found to be the case, and he went away without giving me no tip, which shows what you lose in a hard world by being sympathetic.
I’m bound to say that young Andy showed us all jolly quick that he hadn’t come home just to be an ornament about the place. There was exactly one boss in the restaurant, and it was him. It come a little hard at first to have to be respectful to a kid whose head you had spent many a happy hour clumping for his own good in the past; but he pretty soon showed me I could do it if I tried, and I done it. As for Jules and the two young fellers that had been taken on to help me owing to increase of business, they would
jump through hoops and roll over if he just looked at them. He was a boy who liked his own way, was Andy, and, believe me, at MacFarland’s Restaurant he got it.
And then, when things had settled down into a steady jog, Katie took the bit in her teeth.
She done it quite quiet and unexpected one afternoon when there was only me and her and Andy in the place. And I don’t think either of them knew I was there, for I was taking an easy on a chair at the back, reading an evening paper.
She said, kind of quiet, ‘Oh, Andy.’
‘Yes, darling,’ he said.
And that was the first I knew that there was anything between them.
‘Andy, I’ve something to tell you.’
‘What is it?’
She kind of hesitated.
‘Andy, dear, I shan’t be able to help any more in the restaurant.’
He looked at her, sort of surprised.
‘What do you mean?’
‘I’m—I’m going on the stage.’
I put down my paper. What do you mean? Did I listen? Of course I listened. What do you take me for?
From where I sat I could see young Andy’s face, and I didn’t need any more to tell me there was going to be trouble. That jaw of his was right out. I forgot to tell you that the old man had died, poor old feller, maybe six months before, so that now Andy was the real boss instead of just acting boss; and what’s more, in the nature of things, he was, in a manner of speaking, Katie’s guardian, with power to tell her what she could do and what she couldn’t. And I felt that Katie wasn’t going to have any smooth passage with this stage business which she was giving him. Andy didn’t hold with the stage—not with any girl he was fond of being on it anyway. And when Andy didn’t like a thing he said so.
He said so now.
‘You aren’t going to do anything of the sort.’
‘Don’t be horrid about it, Andy dear. I’ve got a big chance. Why should you be horrid about it?’
‘I’m not going to argue about it. You don’t go.’
‘But it’s such a big chance. And I’ve been working for it for years.’
‘How do you mean working for it?’
And then it came out about this dancing school she’d been attending regular.
When she’d finished telling him about it, he just shoved out his jaw another inch.
‘You aren’t going on the stage.’
‘But it’s such a chance. I saw Mr. Mandelbaum yesterday, and he saw me dance, and he was very pleased, and said he would give me a solo dance to do in this new piece he’s putting on.’
‘You aren’t going on the stage.’
What I always say is, you can’t beat tact. If you’re smooth and tactful you can get folks to do anything you want; but if you just shove your jaw out at them, and order them about, why, then they get their backs up and sauce you. I knew Katie well enough to know that she would do anything for Andy, if he asked her properly; but she wasn’t going to stand this sort of thing. But you couldn’t drive that into the head of a feller like young Andy with a steam-hammer.
She flared up, quick, as if she couldn’t hold herself in no longer.
‘I certainly am,’ she said.
‘You know what it means?’
‘What does it mean?’
‘The end of—everything.’
She kind of blinked as if he’d hit her, then she chucks her chin up.
‘Very well,’ she says. ‘Goodbye.’
‘Goodbye,’ says Andy, the pig-headed young mule; and she walks out one way and he walks out another.
I don’t follow the drama much as a general rule, but seeing that it was now, so to speak, in the family, I did keep an eye open for the newspaper notices of ‘The Rose Girl,’ which was the name of the piece which Mr. Mandelbaum was letting Katie do a solo dance in; and while some of them cussed the play considerable, they all gave Katie a nice word. One feller said that she was like cold water on the morning after, which is high praise coming from a newspaper man.
There wasn’t a doubt about it. She was a success. You see, she was something new, and London always sits up and takes notice when you give it that.
There were pictures of her in the papers, and one evening paper had a piece about ‘How I Preserve My Youth’ signed by her. I cut it out and showed it to Andy.
He gave it a look. Then he gave me a look, and I didn’t like his eye.
‘Well?’ he says.
‘Pardon,’ I says.
‘What about it?’ he says.
‘I don’t know,’ I says.
‘Get back to your work,’ he says.
So I got back.
It was that same night that the queer thing happened.
We didn’t do much in the supper line at MacFarland’s as a rule in them days, but we kept open, of course, in case Soho should take it into its head to treat itself to a welsh rabbit before going to bed; so all hands was on deck, ready for the call if it should come, at half past eleven that night; but we weren’t what you might term sanguine.
Well, just on the half-hour, up drives a taxicab, and in comes a party of four. There was a nut, another nut, a girl, and another girl. And the second girl was Katie.
‘Hallo, Uncle Bill!’ she says.
‘Good evening, madam,’ I says dignified, being on duty.
‘Oh, stop it, Uncle Bill,’ she says. ‘Say “Hallo!” to a pal, and smile prettily, or I’ll tell them about the time you went to the White City.’
Well, there’s some bygones that are best left bygones, and the night at the White City what she was alluding to was one of them. I still maintain, as I always shall maintain, that the constable had no right to—but, there, it’s a story that wouldn’t interest you. And, anyway, I was glad to see Katie again, so I give her a smile.
‘Not so much of it,’ I says. ‘Not so much of it. I’m glad to see you, Katie.’
‘Three cheers! Jimmy, I want to introduce you to my friend, Uncle Bill. Ted, this is Uncle Bill. Violet, this is Uncle Bill.’
It wasn’t my place to fetch her one on the side of the head, but I’d of liked to have; for she was acting like she’d never used to act when I knew her—all tough and bold. Then it come to me that she was nervous. And natural, too, seeing young Andy might pop out any moment.
And sure enough out he popped from the back room at that very instant. Katie looked at him, and he looked at Katie, and I seen his face get kind of hard; but he didn’t say a word. And presently he went out again.
I heard Katie breathe sort of deep.
‘He’s looking well, Uncle Bill, ain’t he?’ she says to me, very soft.
‘Pretty fair,’ I says. ‘Well, kid, I been reading the pieces in the papers. You’ve knocked ’em.’
‘Ah, don’t Bill,’ she says, as if I’d hurt her. And me meaning only to say the civil thing. Girls are rum.
When the party had paid their bill and give me a tip which made me think I was back at the Guelph again—only there weren’t any Dick Turpin of a head waiter standing by for his share—they hopped it. But Katie hung back and had a word with me.
‘He was looking well, wasn’t he, Uncle Bill?’
‘Rather!’
‘Does—does he ever speak of me?’
‘I ain’t heard him.’
‘I suppose he’s still pretty angry with me, isn’t he, Uncle Bill? You’re sure you’ve never heard him speak of me?’
So, to cheer her up, I tells her about the piece in the paper I showed him; but it didn’t seem to cheer her up any. And she goes out.
The very next night in she come again for supper, but with different nuts and different girls. There was six of them this time, counting her. And they’d hardly sat down at their table, when in come the fellers she had called Jimmy and Ted with two girls. And they sat eating of their supp
ers and chaffing one another across the floor, all as pleasant and sociable as you please.
‘I say, Katie,’ I heard one of the nuts say, ‘you were right. He’s worth the price of admission.’
I don’t know who they meant, but they all laughed. And every now and again I’d hear them praising the food, which I don’t wonder at, for Jules had certainly done himself proud. All artistic temperament, these Frenchmen are. The moment I told him we had company, so to speak, he blossomed like a flower does when you put it in water.
‘Ah, see, at last!’ he says, trying to grab me and kiss me. ‘Our fame has gone abroad in the world which amuses himself, ain’t it? For a good supper connection I have always prayed, and he has arrived.’
Well, it did begin to look as if he was right. Ten high-class supper-folk in an evening was pretty hot stuff for MacFarland’s. I’m bound to say I got excited myself. I can’t deny that I missed the Guelph at times.
On the fifth night, when the place was fairly packed and looked for all the world like Oddy’s or Romano’s, and me and the two young fellers helping me was working double tides, I suddenly understood, and I went up to Katie and, bending over her very respectful with a bottle, I whispers, ‘Hot stuff, kid. This is a jolly fine boom you’re working for the old place.’ And by the way she smiled back at me, I seen I had guessed right.
Andy was hanging round, keeping an eye on things, as he always done, and I says to him, when I was passing, ‘She’s doing us proud, bucking up the old place, ain’t she?’ And he says, ‘Get on with your work.’ And I got on.
Katie hung back at the door, when she was on her way out, and had a word with me.
‘Has he said anything about me, Uncle Bill?’
‘Not a word,’ I says.
And she goes out.
You’ve probably noticed about London, mister, that a flock of sheep isn’t in it with the nuts, the way they all troop on each other’s heels to supper-places. One month they’re all going to one place, next month to another. Someone in the push starts the cry that he’s found a new place, and off they all go to try it. The trouble with most of the places is that once they’ve got the custom they think it’s going to keep on coming and all they’ve got to do is to lean back and watch it come. Popularity comes in at the door, and good food and good service flies out at the window. We wasn’t going to have any of that at MacFarland’s. Even if it hadn’t been that Andy would have come down like half a ton of bricks on the first sign of slackness, Jules and me both of us had our professional reputations to keep up. I didn’t give myself no airs when I seen things coming our way. I worked all the harder, and I seen to it that the four young fellers under me—there was four now—didn’t lose no time fetching of the orders.
The Man With Two Left Feet Page 13
