3
“Mother, why did you pile it on?”
They would soon be down at the corner of Banbury Park where the tram lines ended and the Favorite omnibuses were standing in the muddy road under the shadow of the railway bridge. Through the jingling of the trams, the dop-dop of the hoofs of the tram-horses and the noise of a screaming train thundering over the bridge, Miriam made her voice heard, gazing through the spotted veil at her mother’s quivering features.
“They might have made me do all sorts of things I can’t do.”
Mrs. Henderson’s voice, breathless with walking, made a little sound of protest, a narrowed sound that told Miriam her amusement was half annoyance. The dark, noisy bridge, the clatter and rattle and the mud through which she must plunge to an omnibus exasperated her to the limit of her endurance.
“I’d got the post,” she said angrily; “you could see it was all settled and then you went saying those things.”
Glancing at the thin shrouded features she saw the faint lift of her mother’s eyebrows and the firmly speechless mouth.
“Piccadilly—jump on, chickie.”
“Let’s go outside now it’s fine,” said Miriam crossly.
Reaching the top of the omnibus she hurried to the front seat on the left hand side.
“That’s a very windy spot.”
“No it isn’t, it’s quite hot. The sun’s come out now. It’s rained for weeks. It won’t rain any more. It’ll be hot. You won’t feel the wind. Will you have the corner, mother?”
“No, chick, you sit there.”
Miriam screwed herself into the corner seat, crossing her knees and grazing the tips of her shoes.
“This is the only place on the top of a bus.”
Mrs. Henderson sat down at her side.
“I always make Harriett come up here when we go up to the West End.”
“Of course it’s the only place,” she insisted in response to her mother’s amused laugh. “No one smoking or talking in front; you can see out in front and you can see the shops if there are any, and you’re not falling off all the time. The bus goes on the left side of the road and tilts to the left.”
The seats were filling up and the driver appeared clambering into his place.
“Didn’t you ever think of that? Didn’t you ever think of the bus tilting that way?” persisted Miriam to her mother’s inattentive face. “Fancy never thinking of it. It’s beastly on the other side.”
The omnibus jerked forward.
“You ought to be a man, Mimmy.”
“I liked that little short one,” said Miriam contentedly as they came from under the roar of the bridge. “They were awfully nice, weren’t they? They seemed to have made up their mind to take me before we went.... So I think they like us. I wonder why they like us. Didn’t you think they liked us? Don’t you think they are awfully nice?”
“I do. They are very charming ladies.”
“Yes, but wasn’t it awfully rum their liking us in that funny way?”
“I’m sure I don’t see why they should not.”
“Oh, mother, you know what I mean. I like them. I’m perfectly sure I shall like them. D’you remember the little one saying all girls ought to marry? Why did she say that?”
“They are dear funny little O.M.’s,” said Mrs. Henderson merrily. She was sitting with her knees crossed, the stuff of her brown canvas dress was dragged across them into an ugly fold by the weight of the velvet panel at the side of the skirt. She looked very small and resourceless. And there were the Pernes with their house and their school. They were old maids. Of course. What then?
“I never dreamed of getting such a big salary.”
“Oh, my chickie, I’m afraid it isn’t much.”
“It is, mother, it’s lovely.”
“Oh—eh—well.”
Miriam turned fiercely to the roadway on her left.