2
She saw the girls seated at a table at the far end of the big restaurant and shyly advanced.
“Hulloh child!”
“What you having?” she asked sitting down opposite to them. The empty white table-cloth shone under a brilliant incandescent light; far away down the vista the door opened on the daylit street.
“Isn’t it a glorious Spring evening?” Spring? It was, of course. Everyone had been saying the spring would never come, but to-day it was very warm. Spring was here of course. Perspiring in a dusty cycling school and sitting in a hot restaurant was not spring. Spring was somewhere far away. Going to stay and talk in people’s houses did not bring Spring—landscapes belonging to people were painted; you must be alone ... or perhaps at the Brooms. Perhaps next week-end at the Brooms would be in time for the spring; in their back garden, the watered green lawn and the sweetbriar and the distant trees in the large garden beyond the fence. In London it was better not to think about the times of year.
But Mag seemed to find Spring in London. Her face was all glowing with the sense of it.
“What you having?”
“Have you observed with what a remarkable brilliance the tender green shines out against the soot-black branches?” Yes, that was wonderful but what was the joke?
“Every spring I have spent in Lonndonn I have heard that remark at least fifty times.”
Miriam laughed politely. “Jan, what have you ordered?”
“We’ve ordered beef my child, cold beefs and salads.”
“Do you think I should like salad?”
“If you had a brother would he like salad?”
“Do they put dressing on it? If I could have just plain lettuce.”
“Ask for it my child, ask and it shall be given unto thee.”
A waitress brought the beef and salad, two glasses with an inch of whisky in each, and a large syphon.
Miriam ordered beef and potatoes.
“I suppose the steak and onion days are over.”
“I shan’t have another steak and onions, please God, until next November.”
Miriam laughed delightedly.
“Why haven’t you gone away for the week-end, child?”
“I told you she wouldn’t.”
“I don’t know. I wanted to come down here.”
“Is that a compliment to us?”
“I say, I’ve had a bicycle lesson.”
Both faces came up eagerly.
“You remember; that extraordinary woman I met at the Royal Institution.”
The faces looked at each other.
“Oh you know; I told you about it—the two lessons she didn’t want.”
“Go on my child; we remember; go on.”
Miriam sat eating her beef.
“Go on Miriam. You’ve really had a lesson. I’m delighted my child. Tell us all about it.”
“D’you remember the extraordinary moment when you felt the machine going along; even with the man holding the handle-bars?”
“You wait until there’s nobody to hold the handlebars.”
“Have you been out alone yet?”
The two faces looked at each other.
“Shall we tell her?”
“You must tell me; es ist bestimmt in Gottes Rath.” They leaned across the table and spoke low one after the other. “We went out—last night—after dark—and rode—round Russell Square—twice—in our knickers——”
“No. Did you really? How simply heavenly.”
“It was. We came home nearly crying with rage at not being able to go about, permanently, in nothing but knickers. It would make life an absolutely different thing.”
“The freedom of movement.”
“Exactly. You feel like a sprite you are so light.”
“And like a poet though you don’t know it.”
“You feel like a sprite you are so light, and you feel so strong and capable and so broadshouldered you could knock down a policeman. Jan and I knocked down several last night.”
“Yes; and it is not only that; think of never having to brush your skirt.”
“I know. It would be bliss.”
“I spend half my life brushing my skirt. If I miss a day I notice it—if I miss two days the office notices it. If I miss three days the public notices it.”
“La vie est dure; pour les femmes.”
“You don’t want to be a man Jan.”
“Oh I do, sometimes. They have the best of everything all round.”
“I don’t. I wouldn’t be a man for anything. I wouldn’t have a man’s—consciousness, for anything.”
“Why not asthore?”
“They’re too absolutely pig-headed and silly....”
“Isn’t she intolerant?”
Miriam sat flaring. That was not the right answer. There was something; and they must know it; but they would not admit it.
“Then you can both really ride?”
“We do nothing else; we’ve given up walking; we no longer walk up and downstairs; we ride.”
Miriam laughed her delight. “I can quite understand; it alters everything. I realised that this afternoon at the school. To be able to bicycle would make life utterly different; on a bicycle you feel a different person; nothing can come near you, you forget who you are. Aren’t you glad you are alive to-day, when all these things are happening?”
“What things little one?”
“Well cycling and things. You know girls when I’m thirty I’m going to cut my hair short and wear divided skirts.”
Both faces came up.
“Why on earth?”
“I can’t face doing my hair and brushing skirts and keeping more or less in the fashion, that means about two years behind because I never realise fashions till they’re just going, even if I could afford to,—all my life.”
“Then why not do it now?”
“Because all my friends and relatives would object. It would worry them too—they would feel quite sure then I should never marry—and they still entertain hopes, secretly.”
“Don’t you want to marry—ever; ever?”
“Well—it would mean giving up this life.”
“Yes, I know. I agree there. That can’t be faced.”
“I should think not. Aren’t you going to have any pudding?”
“But why thirty? Why not thirty-one?”
“Because nobody cares what you do when you’re thirty; they’ve all given up hope by that time. Aren’t you two going to have any pudding?”
“No. But that is no reason why you should not.”
“What a good idea—to have just one dish and coffee.”
“That’s what we think; and it’s cheap.”
“Well, I couldn’t have had any dinner at all only I’m cadging dinner with you to-morrow.”
“An egg, at an A.B.C.”
“How fond you are of A.B.C’s.”
“I love them.”
“What is it that you love about them.”
“Chiefly I think their dowdiness. The food is honest; not showy, and they are so blissfully dowdy.”
Both girls laughed.
“It’s no good. I have come to the conclusion I like dowdiness. I’m not smart. You are.”
“This is the first we have heard of it.”
“Well you know you are. You keep in the fashion. It may be quite right, perhaps you are more sociable than I am.”
“One is so conspicuous if one is not dressed more or less like other people.”
“That’s what I hate; dressing like other people. If I could afford it I should be stylish—not smart. Perfect coats and skirts and a few good evening dresses. But you must be awfully well off for that. If I can’t be stylish I’d rather be dowdy and in a way I like dowdiness even better than stylishness.”
The girls laughed.
“But aren’t clothes awful, anyhow? I’ve spent four and eleven on my knickers and I can’t possibly get a skirt till next year if then, or afford to hire a machine.”
“Why don’t you ask them to raise your salary?”
“After four months? Besides any fool could do the work.”
“If I were you I should tell them. I should say ‘Gentlemen—I wish for a skirt and a bicycle.’”
“Mag, don’t be so silly.”
“I can’t see it. They would benefit by your improved health and spirits. Jan and I are new women since we have learned riding. I am thinking of telling the governor I must have a rise to meet the increased demands of my appetite. Our housekeeping expenses I shall say are doubled. What will you? Que faire?”
“You see the work I’m doing is not worth more than a pound a week—my languages are no good there. I suppose I ought to learn typing and shorthand; but where could I find the money for the training?”
“Will you teach her shorthand if I teach her typing?”
“Certainly if the child wants to learn. I don’t advise her.”
“Why not Jan. You did. How long would it take me in evenings?”
“A year at least, to be marketable. It’s a vile thing to learn, unless you are thoroughly stupid.”
“That’s true. Jan was a perfect fool. The more intelligent you are the longer you take.”
“You see it isn’t a language. It is an arbitrary system of signs.”
“With your intelligence you’d probably grow grey at the school. Wouldn’t she, Jan?”
“Probably.”
“Besides I can’t imagine Mistress Miriam in an office.”
“Nobody would have me. I’m not business-like enough. I am learning book-keeping at their expense. And don’t forget they give me lunch and tea. I say are we going to read ‘The Evolution Idea of God’ to-night?”
“Yes. Let’s get back and get our clothes off. If I don’t have a cigarette within half an hour I shall die.”
“Oh, so shall I. I had forgotten the existence of cigarettes.”
Out in the street Miriam felt embarrassed. The sunset glow broke through wherever there was a gap towards the north-west, and flooded a strip of the street and struck a building. The presence of the girls added a sharpness to its beauty, especially the presence of Mag who felt the spring even in London. But both of them seemed entirely oblivious. They marched along at a great rate, very upright and swift—like grenadiers—why grenadiers? Like grenadiers, making her hurry in a way that increased the discomfort of her hard cheap down-at-heel shoes. Their high-heeled shoes were in perfect condition and they went on and on laughing and jesting as if there were no spring evening all round them. She wanted to stroll, and stop at every turn of the road. She grew to dislike them both long before Kennett Street was reached, their brisk gait as they walked together in step, leaving her to manœuvre the passing of pedestrians on the narrow pavements of the side streets, the self-confident set of their this-season’s clothes, “line” clothes, like everyone else was wearing, everyone this side of the west-end; Oxford Street clothes ... and to long to be wandering home alone through the leafy squares. Were people who lived together always like this, always brisk and joking and keeping it up? They got on so well together ... and she got on so well too with them. “No one ever feels a third” Mag had said. I am tired, too tired. They are stronger than I am. I feel dead; and they are perfectly fresh.
“D’you know I believe I feel too played out to read” she said at their door.
“Then come in and smoke” said Mag taking her arm. “The night is yet young.”