10
“Come and share the remains of the banquet Miss Hens’n.”
“Do have just a bit of somethin’, Ro darling, a bit of chicking or somethin’.”
“Feeling the effects?” remarked Mr. Leyton cheerfully munching, “I’ve got a patient at half past” he added nervously glancing up as if to justify his existence as well as his remark. Miriam hoped he would go on; perhaps it would occur to Mrs. Orly to ask him about the patient.
“You’d feel the effects my boy if you hadn’t had a wink the whole blessed night.”
“Hancock busy Miss Hens’?” Miriam glanced at the flushed forehead and hoped that Mr. Orly would remain with his elbows on the table and his face hidden in his hands. She was hungry and there would be no peace for anybody if he were roused.
“Too many whiskies?” enquired Mr. Leyton cheerfully, shovelling salad on to his plate.
“Too much whisking and frisking altogether sergeant,” said Mr. Orly incisively, raising his head.
Mrs. Orly flushed and frowned at Mr. Orly.
“Don’t be silly Ley—you know how father hates dinner parties.”
Mr. Orly sighed harshly, pulling himself up as Miriam began a dissertation on Mr. Hancock’s crowded day.
“Ze got someone with him now?” put in Mrs. Orly perfunctorily.
“Wonderful man” sighed Mr. Orly harshly, glancing at his son.
“Have a bit of chicking Ro.”
“No my love no not all the perfumes of Araby—not all the chickens of Cheshire. Have some paté Miss Hens’—No? You despise paté?”
A maid came briskly in and looked helpfully round.
“Who’s your half past one patient Ley?” asked Mrs. Orly nervously.
“Buck” rapped Mr. Leyton. “We going to wait for Mr. Hancock, Mater?”
“No, of course not. Keep some things hot Emma and bring in the sweets.”
“Have some more chicken Miss Hens’—Emma!” he indicated his son with a flourish of his serviette. “Wait upon Mr. Leyton, serve him speedily.”
Emma arrested looked helpfully about, smiled in brisk amusement, seized some dishes and went out.
Mrs. Orly’s pinched face expanded. “Silly you are, Ro.” Miriam grinned, watching dreamily. Mr. Leyton’s flushed face rose and dipped spasmodically over the remains of his salad.
“Bucking for Buck”—laughed Mr. Orly in a soft falsetto.
“Ro, you are silly, who’s Buck, Ley?”
“Don’t question the officer Nelly.”
“Ro, you are absurd,” laughed Mrs. Orly.
“Help the jellies dearest” shouted Mr. Orly in a frowning whisper. “Have some jelly, Miss Hens’. It’s all right Ley ... glad you so busy, my son. How many did you have this morning?” Mopping his brow and whisking his person with his serviette he glanced sidelong.
“Two” said Mr. Leyton, noisily spooning up jelly, “any more of that stuff mater, how about Hancock?”
“There’s plenty here” said Mrs. Orly helping him. Miriam laboured with her jelly and glanced at the dish. People wolfed their food. It would seem so conspicuous to begin again when the fuss had died down; with Mr. Orly watching as if feeding were a contemptible self-indulgence.
“Had a beastly gold case half the morning” rapped Mr. Leyton and drank, with a gulp.
“Get any help?” said Mr. Orly glancing at Miriam.
“No” said Mr. Leyton in a non-committal tone, reaching across the table for the cheese.
“Hancock too busy?” asked Mr. Orly. “Have some more jelly, Miss Hens’n.”
“No thank you” said Miriam.
“A bit of cheese; a fragment of giddy Gorgonzola.”
“No thanks.”
Mrs. Orly brushed busily at her bodice, peering down with indrawn chin. The room was close with gas. If Mr. Hancock would only come down and give her the excuse of attending to his room.
“What you doing s’aafnoon?” asked Mr. Leyton.
“I, my boy, I don’t know,” said Mr. Orly with a heavy sigh, “string myself up, I think.”
“You’d much better string yourself round the Outer Circle and take Lennard’s advice.”
“Good advice my boy—if we all took good advice ... eh Miss Hens’n? I’ve taken twenty grains of phenacetin this morning.”
“Well, you go and get a good walk,” said Mr. Leyton clattering to his feet. “S’cuse me, Mater.”
“Right my boy! Excellent! A Daniel come to judgment! All right Ley—get on with you. Buck up and see Buck. Oh-h-h my blooming head. Excuse my language Miss Hens’n. Ah! Here’s the great man. Good morning Hancock. How are you? D’they know you’re down?”
Mr. Hancock murmured his greetings and sat down opposite Miriam with a grave preoccupied air.
“Busy?” asked Mr. Orly turning to face his partner.
“Yes—fairly” said Mr. Hancock pleasantly.
“Wonderful man.... Ley’s gone off like a bee in a gale. D’they know Hancock’s down Nelly?”
Miriam glanced at Mr. Hancock wishing he could lunch in peace. He was tired. Did he too feel oppressed with the gas and the pale madder store cupboards? ... glaring muddy hot pink?
“I’ve got a blasted head on ... excuse my language. Twenty of ’em, twenty to dinner.”
“Oh yes?” said Mr. Hancock shifting in his chair and glancing about.
“Nelly! D’they know he’s down? Start on a paté, Hancock. The remains of the banquet.”
“Oh ... well, thanks.”
“You never get heads do ye?”
Mr. Hancock smiled and began a murmuring response as he busied himself with his paté.
“Poor Ro he’s got a most awful head.... How’s your uncle Mr. Hancock?”
“Oh—thank you.... I’m afraid he’s not very flourishing.”
“He’s better than he used to be, isn’t he?”
“Well—yes, I think perhaps on the whole he is.”
“You ought to have been there, Hancock. Cleave came. He was in no end of form. Told us some fine ones. Have a biscuit and butter Miss Hens’n.”
Miriam refused and excused herself.
On her way upstairs she strolled into Mr. Leyton’s room. He greeted her with a smile—polishing instruments busily.
“Mr. Hancock busy?” he asked briskly.
“M’m.”
“You busy? I say if I have Buck in will you finish up these things?”
“All right, if you like” said Miriam, regretting her sociable impulse. “Is Mr. Buck here?” She glanced at the appointment book.
“Yes, he’s waiting.”
“You haven’t got anybody else this afternoon” observed Miriam.
“I know. But I want to be down at Headquarters by five in full kit if I possibly can. Has the Pater got anybody?”
“No. The afternoon’s marked off—he’s going out, I think. Look here, I’ll clear up your things afterwards if you want to go out. Will you want all these for Mr. Buck?”
“Oh—all right, thanks; I dunno. I’ve got to finish him off this afternoon and make him pay up.”
“Why pay up? Isn’t he trustworthy?”
“Trustworthy? A man who’s just won three hundred pounds on a horse and chucked his job on the strength of it.”
“What a fearfully insane thing to do.”
“Lost his head.”
“Is he very young?”
“Oo—’bout twenty-five.”
“H’m. I spose he’ll begin the rake’s progress.”
“That’s about it. You’ve just about hit it” said Mr. Leyton with heavy significance.
Miriam lingered.
“I boil every blessed thing after he’s been ... if that’s any indication to you.”
“Boil them!” said Miriam vaguely distressed and pondering over Mr. Leyton standing active and aseptic between her and some horror ... something infectious ... it must be that awful mysterious thing ... how awful for Mr. Leyton to have to stop his teeth.
“Boil ’em” he chuckled knowingly.
“Why on earth?” she asked.
“Well—there you are” said Mr. Leyton—“that’s all I can tell you. I boil ’em.”
“Crikey” said Miriam half in response and half in comment on his falsetto laugh, as she made for the door. “Oh, but I say, I don’t understand your boiling apparatus, Mr. Leyton.”
“All right, don’t you worry. I’ll set it all going and shove the things in. You’ve only to turn off the gas and wipe ’em. I daresay I shall have time to do them myself.”
11
When she had prepared for Mr. Hancock’s first afternoon patient Miriam sat down at her crowded table in a heavy drowse. No sound came from the house or from the den. The strip of sky above the blank wall opposite her window was an even cold grey. There was nothing to mark the movement of the noisy wind. The room was cold and stuffy. Shivering as she moved, she glanced round at the lamp. It was well trimmed. The yellow flame was at its broadest. The radiator glared. The warmth did not reach her. She was cold to the waist, her feet without feeling on the strip of linoleum; her knees protruding into the window space felt as if they were in cold water. Her arms crept and flushed with cold at every movement, strips of cold wrist disgusted her, showing beyond her skimpy sleeves and leading to the hopelessness of her purplish red hands swollen and clammy with cold. Her hot head and flushed cheeks begged for fresh air. Warm rooms, with carpets and fires; an even, airy warmth.... There were people who could be in this sort of cold and be active, with cool faces and warm hands, even just after lunch. If Mr. Leyton were here he would be briskly entering up the books—perhaps with a red nose; but very brisk. He was finishing Buck off; briskly, not even talking. Mr. Hancock would be working swiftly at well up-to-date accounts, without making a single mistake. Where had he sat doing all those pages of beautiful spidery book-keeping? Mr. Orly would be rushing things through. What a drama. He knew it. He knew he had earned his rest by the fire ... doing everything, making and building the practice ... people waiting outside the surgery with basins for him to rush out and be sick. Her sweet inaccurate help in the fine pointed writing on cheap paper ... the two cheap rooms they started in.... The Wreck of the Mary Gloucester ... “and never a doctor’s brougham to help the missis unload.” They had been through everything together ... it was all there with them now ... rushing down the street in the snow without an overcoat to get her the doctor. They were wise and sweet; in life and wise and sweet. They had gone out and would be back for tea. Perhaps they had gone out. Everything was so quiet. Two hours of cold before tea. Putting in order the materials for the gold and tin she propped her elbows on the table and rested her head against her hands and closed her eyes. There was a delicious drowsiness in her head but her back was tired. She rose and wandered through the deserted hall into the empty waiting room. The clear blaze of a coal fire greeted her at the doorway and her cold feet hurried in on to the warm Turkey carpet. The dark oak furniture and the copper bowls and jugs stood in a glow of comfort. From the centre of the great littered table a bowl of daffodils asserted the movement of the winter and pointed forward and away from the winter stillness of the old room. The long faded rich crimson rep curtains obscured half the width of each high window and the London light screened by the high opposing houses fell dimly on the dingy books and periodicals scattered about the table. Miriam stood by the mantelpiece her feet deep in the black sheepskin rug and held out her hands towards the fire. They felt cold again the instant she withdrew them from the blaze. The hall clock gonged softly twice. The legal afternoon had begun. Anyone finding her in here now would think she was idling. She glanced at the deep dark shabby leather armchair near by and imagined the relief that would come to her whole frame, if she could relax into it for five undisturbed minutes. The ringing of the front door bell sent her hurrying back to her room.
The sound of reading came from the den—a word-mouthing word-slurring monotonous drawl—thurrah-thurrah-thurrah; thurrah thurrah ... a single beat, on and on, the words looped and forced into it without any discrimination, the voice dropping uniformly at the end of each sentence ... thrah.... An Early Victorian voice giving reproachful instruction to a child ... a class of board school children reciting.... Perhaps they had changed their minds about going out.... Miriam sat with her hands tucked between her knees musing with her eyes fixed on the thin sheets of tin and gold ... extraordinary to read any sort of text like that ... but there was something in it, something nice and good ... listening carefully you would get most of the words. It would be better to listen to than a person who read with intelligent modulations, as if they had written the thing themselves; like some men read ... and irritatingly intelligent women ... who knew they were intelligent. But there ought to be clear ... enunciation. Not expression—that was like commenting as you read; getting at the person you were reading to ... who might not want to comment in the same way. Reading, with expression, really hadn’t any expression. How wonderful—of course. Mrs. Orly’s reading had an expression; a shape. It was exactly like the way they looked at things; exactly; everything was there; all the things they agreed about, and the things he admired in her ... things that by this time she knew he admired.... She was conscious of these things ... that was the difference between her and her sister, who had exactly the same things but had never been admired ... standing side by side exactly alike, the sister like a child—clear with a sharp fresh edge; Mrs. Orly with a different wisdom ... softened and warm and blurred ... conscious, and always busy distracting your attention, but with clear eyes like a child, too.