“Certainly it isn’t,” said James, rubbing his hands: a sign that he was rarely excited and pleased.
“And you’ll just retire, and live quietly,” said Miss Pinnegar.
“I shall see,” said James. And with those fatal words he wafted away to find Mr. May.
James was now nearly seventy years old. Yet he nipped about like a leaf in the wind. Only, it was a frail leaf.
“Father’s got something going,” said Alvina, in a warning voice.
“I believe he has,” said Miss Pinnegar pensively. “I wonder what it is, now.”
“I can’t imagine,” laughed Alvina. “But I’ll bet it’s something awful — else he’d have told us.”
“Yes,” said Miss Pinnegar slowly. “Most likely he would. I wonder what it can be.”
“I haven’t an idea,” said Alvina.
Both women were so retired, they had heard nothing of James’s little trips down to Lumley. So they watched like cats for their man’s return, at dinner-time.
Miss Pinnegar saw him coming along talking excitedly to Mr. May, who, all in grey, with his chest perkily stuck out like a robin, was looking rather pinker than usual. Having come to an agreement, he had ventured on whiskey and soda in honour, and James had actually taken a glass of port.
“Alvina!” Miss Pinnegar called discreetly down the shop. “Alvina! Quick!”
Alvina flew down to peep round the corner of the shop window. There stood the two men, Mr. May like a perky, pink-faced grey bird standing cocking his head in attention to James Houghton, and occasionally catching James by the lapel of his coat, in a vain desire to get a word in, whilst James’s head nodded and his face simply wagged with excited speech, as he skipped from foot to foot, and shifted round his listener.
“Who ever can that common-looking man be?” said Miss Pinnegar, her heart going down to her boots.
“I can’t imagine,” said Alvina, laughing at the comic sight. “Don’t you think he’s dreadful?” said the poor elderly woman. “Perfectly impossible. Did ever you see such a pink face?”
“And the braid binding!” said Miss Pinnegar in indignation. “Father might almost have sold him the suit,” said Alvina.
“Let us hope he hasn’t sold your father, that’s all,” said Miss Pinnegar.
The two men had moved a few steps further towards home, and the women prepared to flee indoors. Of course it was frightfully wrong to be standing peeping in the high street at all. But who could consider the proprieties now?
“They’ve stopped again,” said Miss Pinnegar, recalling Alvina.
The two men were having a few more excited words, their voices just audible.
“I do wonder who he can be,” murmured Miss Pinnegar miserably. “In the theatrical line, I’m sure,” declared Alvina.
“Do you think so?” said Miss Pinnegar. “Can’t be! Can’t be!”
“He couldn’t be anything else, don’t you think?”
“Oh I _can’t_ believe it, I can’t.”
But now Mr. May had laid his detaining hand on James’s arm. And now he was shaking his employer by the hand. And now James, in his cheap little cap, was smiling a formal farewell. And Mr. May, with a graceful wave of his grey-suede-gloved hand, was turning back to the Moon and Stars, strutting, whilst James was running home on tip-toe, in his natural hurry.
Alvina hastily retreated, but Miss Pinnegar stood it out. James started as he nipped into the shop entrance, and found her confronting him. “Oh — Miss Pinnegar!” he said, and made to slip by her.
“Who was that man?” she asked sharply, as if James were a child whom she could endure no more.
“Eh? I beg your pardon?” said James, starting back.
“Who was that man?”
“Eh? Which man?”
James was a little deaf, and a little husky.
“The man — ” Miss Pinnegar turned to the door. “There! That man!”
James also came to the door, and peered out as if he expected to see a sight. The sight of Mr. May’s tight and perky back, the jaunty little hat and the grey suede hands retreating quite surprised him. He was angry at being introduced to the sight.
“Oh,” he said. “That’s my manager.” And he turned hastily down the shop, asking for his dinner.
Miss Pinnegar stood for some moments in pure oblivion in the shop entrance. Her consciousness left her. When she recovered, she felt she was on the brink of hysteria and collapse. But she hardened herself once more, though the effort cost her a year of her life. She had never collapsed, she had never fallen into hysteria.
She gathered herself together, though bent a little as from a blow, and, closing the shop door, followed James to the living room, like the inevitable. He was eating his dinner, and seemed oblivious of her entry. There was a smell of Irish stew.
“What manager?” said Pinnegar, short, silent, and inevitable in the doorway.
But James was in one of his abstractions, his trances.
“What manager?” persisted Miss Pinnegar.
But he still bent unknowing over his plate and gobbled his Irish stew.
“Mr. Houghton!” said Miss Pinnegar, in a sudden changed voice. She had gone a livid yellow colour. And she gave a queer, sharp little rap on the table with her hand.
James started. He looked up bewildered, as one startled out of sleep.
“Eh?” he said, gaping. “Eh?”
“Answer me,” said Miss Pinnegar. “What manager?”
“Manager? Eh? Manager? What manager?”
She advanced a little nearer, menacing in her black dress. James shrank.
“What manager?” he re-echoed. “My manager. The manager of my cinema.”
Miss Pinnegar looked at him, and looked at him, and did not speak. In that moment all the anger which was due to him from all womanhood was silently discharged at him, like a black bolt of silent electricity. But Miss Pinnegar, the engine of wrath, felt she would burst.
“Cinema! Cinema! Do you mean to tell me — ” but she was really suffocated, the vessels of her heart and breast were bursting. She had to lean her hand on the table.
It was a terrible moment. She looked ghastly and terrible, with her mask-like face and her stony eyes and her bluish lips. Some fearful thunderbolt seemed to fall. James withered, and was still. There was silence for minutes, a suspension.
And in those minutes, she finished with him. She finished with him for ever. When she had sufficiently recovered, she went to her chair, and sat down before her plate. And in a while she began to eat, as if she were alone.
Poor Alvina, for whom this had been a dreadful and uncalled-for moment, had looked from one to another, and had also dropped her head to her plate. James too, with bent head, had forgotten to eat. Miss Pinnegar ate very slowly, alone.
“Don’t you want your dinner, Alvina?” she said at length. “Not as much as I did,” said Alvina.
“Why not?” said Miss Pinnegar. She sounded short, almost like Miss Frost. Oddly like Miss Frost.
Alvina took up her fork and began to eat automatically.
“I always think,” said Miss Pinnegar, “Irish stew is more tasty with a bit of Swede” in it.”
“So do I, really,” said Alvina. “But Swedes aren’t come yet.”
“Oh! Didn’t we have some on Tuesday?”
“No, they were yellow turnips — but they weren’t Swedes.”
“Well then, yellow turnip. I like a little yellow turnip,” said Miss Pinnegar.
“I might have put some in, if I’d known,” said Alvina.
“Yes. We will another time,” said Miss Pinnegar.
Not another word about the cinema: not another breath. As soon as James had eaten his plum tart, he ran away.
“What can he have been doing?” said Alvina when he had gone. “Buying a cinema show — and that man we saw is his manager. It’s quite simple.”
“But what are we going to do with a cinema show?” said Alvina.
“It’s what is he
going to do. It doesn’t concern me. It’s no concern of mine. I shall not lend him anything, I shall not think about it, it will be the same to me as if there were no cinema. Which is all I have to say,” announced Miss Pinnegar.
“But he’s gone and done it,” said Alvina.
“Then let him go through with it. It’s no affair of mine. After all, your father’s affairs don’t concern me. It would be impertinent of me to introduce myself into them.”
“They don’t concern me very much,” said Alvina.
“You’re different. You’re his daughter. He’s no connection of mine, I’m glad to say. I pity your mother.”
“Oh, but he was always alike,” said Alvina.
“That’s where it is,” said Miss Pinnegar.
There was something fatal about her feelings. Once they had gone cold, they would never warm up again. As well try to warm up a frozen mouse. It only putrifies.
But poor Miss Pinnegar after this looked older, and seemed to get a little round-backed. And the things she said reminded Alvina so often of Miss Frost.
James fluttered into conversation with his daughter the next evening, after Miss Pinnegar had retired.
“I told you I had bought a cinematograph building,” said James. “We are negotiating for the machinery now: the dynamo and so on.”
“But where is it to be?” asked Alvina.
“Down at Lumley. I’ll take you and show you the site tomorrow. The building — it is a frame-section travelling theatre — will arrive on Thursday — next Thursday.”
“But who is in with you, father?”
“I am quite alone — quite alone,” said James Houghton. “I have found an excellent manager, who knows the whole business thoroughly — a Mr. May. Very nice man. Very nice man.”
“Rather short and dressed in grey?”
“Yes. And I have been thinking — if Miss Pinnegar will take the cash and issue tickets: if she will take over the ticket-office: and you will play the piano: and if Mr. May learns the control of the machine — he is having lessons now — : and if I am the indoors attendant, we shan’t need any more staff.”
“Miss Pinnegar won’t take the cash, father.”
“Why not? Why not?”
“I can’t say why not. But she won’t do anything — and if I were you I wouldn’t ask her.”
There was a pause.
“Oh, well,” said James, huffy. “She isn’t indispensable.”
And Alvina was to play the piano! Here was a blow for her! She hurried off to her bedroom to laugh and cry at once. She just saw herself at that piano, banging off the Merry Widow Waltz, and, in tender moments, The Rosary. Time after time, The Rosary. While the pictures flickered and the audience gave shouts and some grubby boy called “Chot-let, penny a bar! Chot-let, penny a bar! Chot-let, penny a bar!” away she banged at another tune.
What a sight for the gods! She burst out laughing. And at the same time, she thought of her mother and Miss Frost, and she cried as if her heart would break. And then all kinds of comic and incongruous tunes came into her head. She imagined herself dressing up with most priceless variations. _Linger Longer Lucy_, for example. She began to spin imaginary harmonies and variations in her head, upon the theme of _Linger Longer Lucy_.
Linger longer Lucy, linger longer Loo. How I love to linger longer linger long o’ you. Listen while I sing, love, promise you’ll be true, And linger longer longer linger linger longer Loo.
All the tunes that used to make Miss Frost so angry. All the Dream Waltzes and Maiden’s Prayers, and the awful songs.
For in Spooney-ooney Island Is there any one cares for me? In Spooney-ooney Island Why surely there ought to be.
Poor Miss Frost! Alvina imagined herself leading a chorus of collier louts, in a bad atmosphere of “Woodbines” and oranges, during the intervals when the pictures had collapsed.
How’d you like to spoon with me? How’d you like to spoon with me? (_Why ra-ther!_)
Underneath the oak-tree nice and shady Calling me your tootsey-wootsey lady? How’d you like to hug and squeeze, (_Just try me!_)
Dandle me upon your knee, Calling me your little lovey-dovey How’d you like to spoon with me? (_Oh-h — Go on!_)
Alvina worked herself into quite a fever, with her imaginings. In the morning she told Miss Pinnegar.
“Yes,” said Miss Pinnegar, “you see me issuing tickets, don’t you? Yes — well. I’m afraid he will have to do that part himself. And you’re going to play the piano. It’s a disgrace! It’s a disgrace! It’s a disgrace! It’s a mercy Miss Frost and your mother are dead. He’s lost every bit of shame — every bit — if he ever had any — which I doubt very much. Well, all I can say, I’m glad I am not concerned. And I’m sorry for you, for being his daughter. I’m heart sorry for you, I am. Well, well — no sense of shame — no sense of shame — ”
And Miss Pinnegar padded out of the room.
Alvina walked down to Lumley and was shown the site and was introduced to Mr. May. He bowed to her in his best American fashion, and treated her with admirable American deference.
“Don’t you think,” he said to her, “it’s an admirable scheme?”
“Wonderful,” she replied.
“Of cauce,” he said, “the erection will be a merely temporary one. Of cauce it won’t be anything to look at: just an old wooden travelling theatre. But then — all we need is to make a start.”
“And you are going to work the film?” she asked.
“Yes,” he said with pride, “I spend every evening with the operator at Marsh’s in Knarborough. Very interesting I find it — very interesting indeed. And you are going to play the piano?” he said, perking his head on one side and looking at her archly.
“So father says,” she answered.
“But what do you say?” queried Mr. May.
“I suppose I don’t have any say.”
“Oh but surely. Surely you won’t do it if you don’t wish to. That would never do. Can’t we hire some young fellow — ?” And he turned to Mr. Houghton with a note of query.
“Alvina can play as well as anybody in Woodhouse,” said James. “We mustn’t add to our expenses. And wages in particular — ”
“But surely Miss Houghton will have her wage. The labourer is worthy of his hire. Surely! Even of her hire, to put it in the feminine. And for the same wage you could get some unimportant fellow with strong wrists. I’m afraid it will tire Miss Houghton to death — ”
“I don’t think so,” said James. “I don’t think so. Many of the turns she will not need to accompany — ”
“Well, if it comes to that,” said Mr. May, “I can accompany some of them myself, when I’m not operating the film. I’m not an expert pianist — but I can play a little, you know — ” And he trilled his fingers up and down an imaginary keyboard in front of Alvina, cocking his eye at her smiling a little archly.
“I’m sure,” he continued, “I can accompany anything except a man juggling dinner-plates — and then I’d be afraid of making him drop the plates. But songs — oh, songs! _Con molto espressione!_”
And again he trilled the imaginary keyboard, and smiled his rather fat cheeks at Alvina.
She began to like him. There was something a little dainty about him, when you knew him better — really rather fastidious. A showman, true enough! Blatant too. But fastidiously so.
He came fairly frequently to Manchester House after this. Miss Pinnegar was rather stiff with him and he did not like her. But he was very happy sitting chatting tête-à-tête with Alvina.
“Where is your wife?” said Alvina to him.
“My wife! Oh, don’t speak of her,” he said comically. “She’s in London.”
“Why not speak of her?” asked Alvina.
“Oh, every reason for not speaking of her. We don’t get on at all well, she and I.”
“What a pity,” said Alvina.
“Dreadful pity! But what are you to do?” He laughed comically. Then he became grave. “No
,” he said. “She’s an impossible person.”
“I see,” said Alvina.
“I’m sure you _don’t_ see,” said Mr. May. “Don’t — ” and here he laid his hand on Alvina’s arm — ”don’t run away with the idea that she’s _immoral!_ You’d never make a greater mistake. Oh dear me, no. Morality’s her strongest point. Live on three lettuce leaves, and give the rest to the char. That’s her. Oh, dreadful times we had in those first years. We only lived together for three years. But dear _me!_ how awful it was!”
“Why?”
“There was no pleasing the woman. She wouldn’t eat. If I said to her ‘What shall we have for supper, Grace?’ as sure as anything she’d answer ‘Oh, I shall take a bath when I go to bed — that will be my supper.’ She was one of these advanced vegetarian women, don’t you know.”
“How extraordinary!” said Alvina.
“Extraordinary! I should think so. Extraordinary hard lines on me. And she wouldn’t let me eat either. She followed me to the kitchen in a fury while I cooked for myself. Why imagine! I prepared a dish of champignons: oh, most beautiful champignons, beautiful — and I put them on the stove to fry in butter: beautiful young champignons. I’m hanged if she didn’t go into the kitchen while my back was turned, and pour a pint of old carrot-water into the pan. I was furious. Imagine! — beautiful fresh young champignons — ”
“Fresh mushrooms,” said Alvina.
“Mushrooms — most beautiful things in the world. Oh! don’t you think so?” And he rolled his eyes oddly to heaven.
“They are good,” said Alvina.
“I should say so. And swamped — swamped with her dirty old carrot water. Oh I was so angry. And all she could say was, ‘Well, I didn’t want to waste it!’ Didn’t want to waste her old carrot water, and so ruined my champignons. Can you imagine such a person?”
“It must have been trying.”
“I should think it was. I lost weight. I lost I don’t know how many pounds, the first year I was married to that woman. She hated me to eat. Why, one of her great accusations against me, at the last, was when she said: ‘I’ve looked round the larder,’ she said to me, ‘and seen it was quite empty, and I thought to myself Now he _can’t_ cook a supper! And then you did!’ There! What do you think of that? The spite of it! ‘And then you did!”
Complete Works of D.H. Lawrence Page 237
