Monday wasn’t much better. He was in a fever of excitement all the morning and afternoon. When Sydney and he reached Wembley at four o’clock, and as soon as Sydney was safely out of the way in one of the little houses, George rushed to the telephone box.
“’Ullo?” said a man’s voice in George’s ear.
“Could I speak to Miss Brant?” George asked, trying to imagine what the man looked like from the sound of his voice.
“’Oo?”
“Miss Brant,” George repeated, raising his voice. “Not now, yer can’t. I got no one to send.”
“But I must speak to Miss Brant,” George said firmly. “Well. I dunno. I can’t leave the shop, now can I? It means going hup the stairs. I ain’t good at stairs, either… not at my age, I ain’t. Can’t you ring later? The missus’ll be hack then.”
“No, I can’t,” George said, thoroughly irritated. “I understood that Miss Brant could use your ’phone. I want to speak to her.”
“Orl right, orl right,” the voice said crossly. “I’ll give ’er a yell. ’Ang on, will yer?”
George waited. It was insufferably hot in the telephone box, and he pushed the door open. He could hear voices faintly over the line. Once he heard the voice that had spoken to him shout, “Two pounds of greens, six pounds of spuds and a pound of onions…” And he swore under his breath. The old devil wasn’t getting Cora at all, he thought savagely. He was serving his rotten customers! But there was nothing else to do but wait. Time was going. He really ought to be on the job. Well, he wasn’t going to hang up now he’d got so far. He would have to work a hit longer to make up for losing time like this. Oh, come on! Come on! he thought furiously. Why don’t you hurry!
He waited nearly five minutes, then he heard the voice bawl, “Emmie Emmie someone wants that Brant girl on the blower…”