Christina Alberta's father

by H. G. Wells

Presently “upstairs” was “read-ee;” Mrs. Harold Crumb was free to answer questions and make explanations and Mr. Preemby could learn more of Christina Alberta’s plans for his comfort. Upstairs was more various but less spacious than downstairs, the beds were dressed-up rather than disguised as divans and there was more vaguely improper but highly decorative Art. Like Christina Alberta Mrs. Crumb had not fully considered Mr. Preemby’s possibilities in the way of luggage, but she rose to the occasion very well. When Mr. Preemby spoke of the mahogany cabinet and the wardrobe, she said that it would be quite easy for Harold to “camouflage” them with very, very bright-coloured paint, and she thought a lot might be done for Mr. Preemby’s trunks and clothes by making a curtained alcove in a corner. “Trouble with clothes,” said Mrs. Crumb, “is when somebody starts charades or dressing up. Nothing is sacred. Last week, somebody tore my only pyjamas limb from limb.”

“We’d have to arrange,” said Mr. Preemby, a little uneasily.

“We’ll have to arrange somehow,” said Mrs. Crumb.

But before anything could be arranged definitely Harold returned from his shopping with a large piece of purple beefsteak in a mere loin cloth of newspaper, and a lettuce and a bundle of small onions in his hand and two large bottles of beer under his arm, and everybody’s attention was directed to the preparation of the midday meal.

“Generally,” said Harold, “we go Out for a meal. There’s quite a decent aufschnittery and a little Italian place and so forth not five minutes away in the King’s Road. It’s more fun feeding Out. But we thought you’d like to see the studio put through its paces.”

Mr. Preemby in the course of his life had rarely seen meals prepared; somebody else had always laid a table and said “Dinner’s ready, Daddy,” or “Supper’s ready, Daddy,” as the case might be, and he had just sat down, and it was with real interest that he obeyed Mr. Crumb’s invitation to “come and see how we do it,” and assisted under direction in the operations. Mr. Crumb, in a few well-chosen words, introduced the cooking apparatus that clustered around the gas-stove; the gas-stove was lit explosively, Mr. Preemby handed things and held things under direction and got in the way a good deal. Christina Alberta, who seemed used to the job, chopped the onions and dressed a salad at a small kitchen table close at hand, and the steak got itself grilled fiercely and flaringly.

Meanwhile Mrs. Crumb laid a blue-painted table in what was to be Mr. Preemby’s room with an orange-coloured cloth and a selection of plates and parts of plates, yellow-glazed mugs with rudely painted inscriptions in some rustic dialect, “Here’s t’ absent frens” and the like, several knives and forks, a pewter mug full of cigarettes and a bunch of sunflowers in a brown-glazed bowl. And at this table Mr. Preemby presently found himself seated very hot in the face and liberally splashed with fat from the grilled steak. Nobody said grace, and the meal began.

There was a general assumption that Mr. Preemby’s tenancy was settled, though there were many points upon which he would have liked a clearer definition. He was particularly anxious to exclude as tactfully as possible his garments and his specimens from promiscuous use as properties when these charades occurred, but he did not know quite how to reopen the subject. And he was preoccupied by a doubt whether his long nightgowns of Saxony flannel, if they were publicly exposed, might not be considered old-fashioned by these artistic young people. But their talk jumped about so that it was difficult to lead up to what he had to say. He was accustomed, especially when company was present, to clear his throat “h’rrmp” and waggle his moustache up and down a little before he spoke, and by the time he was ready to deliver what he had to say one of the others was away with something else. So that he hardly said anything but an occasional “h’rrmp” all through the meal.

The two young ladies did most of the talking. Harold seemed moody, making an occasional correction or comment upon his wife’s remarks and eating most of the steak with the pained expression of one who has tender teeth and is used to better food. Once he asked Mr. Preemby if he really cared for Good Music, and once if he had been to see the Iberian dancers last year, but neither of these inquiries led to a sustained conversation. “H’rrmp. No-oh,” said Mr. Preemby. “Not exactly. Not particularly,” and in the second case, “No-oh, I didn’t.”

Mrs. Crumb talked brightly of various newspaper jobs she had got and how she had been asked to do a children’s corner in the Patriotic News and whether she would accept the offer—Mr. Preemby thought the editors and newspaper proprietors she mentioned seemed a depraved lot—but mainly the talk concerned the movements and readjustments of a large circle of friends. After the meal there was coffee, and Harold, with an air of resignation, went and washed up.