Читать книгу The Guarded Halo - Margaret Pedler - Страница 5

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Shirley sat back on her heels and poked viciously at the small, unresponsive fire which flickered spasmodically in the grate, threatening to come to an untimely end at any moment. June had blustered in unsmilingly, bleak with chilly rain and wind, and a fire was a necessary extravagance. Only this obstinate, black-looking handful of coals in the high-barred fire-place—which last was not nearly as black as it should have been, but showed unsightly patches of red rust here and there—compared very unfavourably with the cheery, crackling log fires that had prevailed at Fen Wyatt.

But then, as she admitted with a sigh, everything at No. 7, Pagan Street, where she and Bob had found temporary quarters while they looked for work, was as different as it could possibly be from Fen Wyatt. A narrow, drab-looking street, with tall, grimy houses on either side, many of them boasting a fly-blown card in the windows which bore the legend, Apartments, in large letters. Shirley could not conceive why it rejoiced in the name of Pagan. There was certainly, as she had remarked with a faint smile to Bob, no suggestion of pagan luxury about it.

In fact, luxury, even the smallest modicum of it, was a thing she was beginning to rule out of her life. A brief three weeks in London had sufficed to bring both Bob and Shirley sharply up against the meaning of actual shortage of money—something entirely outside their previous experience. A week, and they had found it necessary to readjust their ideas as to how long their limited funds would hold out if—and this was becoming a much bigger “if” than they had anticipated—they did not both find jobs before long. The cost of their lodgings in Pagan Street, consisting of two ill-furnished bedrooms and a diminutive sitting-room, was making deep inroads into their small amount of capital, and to the actual rent had to be added the price of food and various other items of existence. The “fried sardine” for breakfast had become an actual fact—and it wasn’t even always fried, either.

Neither of the Wilsons, in the beginning, had expected to find much difficulty in obtaining a position of some kind, but their optimism had been speedily quenched. So far, daily perusal of the “vacancy” advertisements in the newspapers, and manifold visits to different agencies, had proved quite barren of results. Between them they had written dozens of letters of application for various posts, the majority of which had not even brought an answer, while Bob had often tramped the streets all day in order to save bus fares, applying personally for any work that seemed to offer, only to find himself one of hundreds of other candidates similarly situated—either too young, too old, too inexperienced or inefficient to be considered by those in authority. And, on her side, Shirley had been equally unsuccessful.

So that the end of three weeks found them with a sadly depleted exchequer, no prospects, and still occupying the same depressing rooms in Pagan Street. And even their continued tenancy of the latter had seemed at the outset to be a matter of speculation, since Mrs. Barnet, their landlady, had eyed the young couple with considerable suspicion—a fact which supplied them with one of their few moments of genuine amusement. Even Shirley’s assurance that they were not “theatricals,” and that Bob was her very own brother, had at first failed to allay her doubts.

“They all calls ’em that, brother or cousin or somethin’ of the sort,” she averred skeptically. “And ’aving always kep’ me lodgin’s respec’able, I’m not goin’ to start no other at my time o’ life.”

“I don’t know what ‘they’ do,” Shirley informed her at last, firmly. “I’ve told you that Mr. Wilson is my brother, but if you’re not satisfied we’ll look for rooms elsewhere.” Although, even as she delivered herself of this ultimatum, uttered with all the dignity she could muster up, she was conscious of an inward tremor of apprehension. For she was well aware that, handicapped by their small acquaintance with the cheaper parts of London, she and Bob would find difficulty in discovering fresh quarters at short notice. Moreover, the loss of time entailed in hunting for them would be little less than a calamity, when the search for work was so all-important.

Perhaps something in the clear gray eyes which challenged her convinced Mrs. Barnet of the groundlessness of her doubts, for she shuffled away at last with a muttered apology.

“No offence meant, miss, and I ’ope none taken. But one ’as to be pertic’lar in lettin’ rooms.”

And later on, downstairs in the basement she confided her considered opinion to the charlady who “obliged” her twice a week.

“ ’E don’t negleck ’er enough to be ’er ’usband, nor ’e ain’t sloppy enough to be anythink else, so I dessay ’e is ’er brother, after all.”

But sidelights of amusement, such as that provoked by Mrs. Barnet’s dark suspicions, were becoming less and less frequent in the lives of Bob and Shirley, and the girl’s face, as she tried to persuade the sulky fire to burn more brightly in readiness for her brother’s return, seemed to have acquired a gravity that was foreign to it. There is nothing in the least funny about being hard up, and when, with each day, the prospect of obtaining work seems to draw no nearer, an element of panic begins to enter in.

There was a look almost of desperation in Shirley’s eyes as she awaited Bob’s coming. He had gone out once more in search of a job, and she wondered wretchedly whether he would have any success to-day or would return with only the usual depressing report of failure.

“Oh, Mugs, it’s thoroughly beastly being poor!” she exclaimed at last, out loud. She felt she simply must confide her thoughts to someone, and for the moment Mugs was the only possible audience. He had been sitting on his small haunches, thoughtfully contemplating her efforts to coax the coals into a blaze, and probably wondering in his doggy mind why there should be such an immense difference between the caloric values of London and Fen Wyatt fires. At the sound of Shirley’s voice he leapt up, wagging his stumpy little tail and thrusting a warm, moist nose eagerly into her hand. He did not know what the trouble was, but he was quite aware there was trouble in the air, and he attempted the only form of consolation of which he was capable. She stroked his head in silence for a minute or two.

“And even you are an extravagance,” she remarked at last, ruefully. “An extravagance we’ve really no business to indulge in. Only”—clasping him suddenly very tightly in her arms—“we simply can’t do without you, Mugs.”

The “extravagance” merely settled himself happily on her lap and went to sleep, and for another half-hour Shirley sat there holding him, vaguely comforted by the feel of his small warm body against her own.

Presently she caught the sound of Bob’s footsteps on the staircase outside, and, letting Mugs slide down abruptly to the floor, she sprang up to welcome him.

“Well, what news?” she asked eagerly, as he entered the room. But she knew, the moment she saw his face, what the answer would be, and her heart sank.

“No luck,” he said moodily. Crossing to the fire, which had at last consented to burn up, he flung himself down into a chair and held out his hands to the warmth.

The three weeks in London had left their mark on him. He was thinner in face and his eyes held the same expression of secret anxiety which dwelt in Shirley’s.

“I never imagined before,” he went on with a short, half-resentful laugh, “that I was such a useless cumberer of the earth. My services appear to be entirely at a discount wherever I offer them.”

“But they won’t always be,” she put in hastily, speaking with a cheerfulness she was very far from feeling. “You’re bound to come across the right person soon—I mean an employer person.”

“Am I? I see no particular reason why I should,” he returned gloomily. “Have you? What about that Lady Somebody you wrote to who wanted a companion-secretary? Any good?”

“None whatever,” replied Shirley, smiling. “She wants shorthand and book-keeping—household accounts, you know—and someone who can play accompaniments, and do her sewing for her, and who understands face massage and can look after two dogs. I think the last is about the only thing I’m qualified for.”

Even Bob’s face lightened with a brief smile.

“Gosh! The woman wants a sort of walking Whiteley’s, I should think,” he commented. “Well, so that’s that,” he went on. “Three weeks—and we’re just where we were when we started.”

“Except that we’re a trifle poorer,” subjoined Shirley dryly.

He nodded.

“Precisely. And we really can’t reduce expenditure much more. We must remain civilized—at least to the extent of clean towels and soap, et cetera.”

“Cleanliness being next to godliness.”

He grinned.

“It may be. But it’s a damned sight more expensive.” Then, the grin fading swiftly from his face: “Seriously, kiddy, we’re in a very tight place. Funds won’t hold out much longer, and I’m beginning to feel a bit desperate about it. We simply must find jobs.”

“Well, I’m sure we’ve tried hard enough. I don’t know what more we can do.”

“Nor I. Unless”—bitterly—“we’re prepared to eat humble pie and ask Alan Wyatt to renew his offer.”

“Never!” declared Shirley, with spirit. “That’s the one thing we can’t do.”

He shrugged his shoulders.

“It would be more to the point if you could think of one thing we can do.”

“I might go out as a housemaid,” she suggested, a little hysterically. “Only I’ve no references from my last place.”

Bob got up suddenly from his chair and, coming to her side, laid his hands on her shoulders. His eyes searched her face.

“Shirley, are you sure—quite sure—you never regret my refusing the money Alan Wyatt offered us?”

She met his gaze with the clear honesty of her own.

“Never,” she answered steadily. “At least I feel—clean—now, even though things are more difficult than we ever expected. I shouldn’t, if we’d accepted.”

His hands fell from her shoulders.

“Then that’s all right,” he said, with a sigh of relief. “It was only for your sake that I asked. I hate your living—in this.” He waved his hand expressively, indicating the meagre little sitting-room with its shoddy furniture and threadbare carpet. “I can stand things for myself, but not for you.”

Shirley smiled his apprehensions aside. She had been down into the depths to-day, but now her courage was mounting up again, answering to the call on it.

“I can stand my own share, Bob,” she returned gamely. “So don’t worry about me, old thing. After all, something’s bound to turn up before long, and we’ll just hang on somehow until it does.”

And, as though Fate had been charmed into a more kindly mood by the cheery optimism which defied it, something did turn up, the very next day. Shirley, eagerly scanning the advertisement columns of the morning paper, suddenly gave vent to a little shout of delight.

“At last! Listen, Bob, here’s the very thing for me:

“ ‘An English girl, someone bright and jolly, required as companion for two or three months to a young married lady travelling on the Continent. Principal qualifications required: A good knowledge of French and a good sense of humour.’ ”

Bob looked up from his own perusal of another newspaper.

“Are you making it up as you go on?” he inquired skeptically.

“No, indeed I’m not—though it does sound too good to be true, doesn’t it? I’m sure the person who put it in must be nice—it’s so unlike the usual run of advertisements. And I really think I answer to the description wanted.” She glanced down once more at the advertisement. “Let me see: ‘Apply between eleven and one o’clock at 15, Fremingham Place.’ Bob, I must fly, so as to get there before any other bright and jolly English girls.”

She disappeared, to return a few minutes later dressed for the street.

“Wish me luck!” she commanded gaily. “I’m off to apply for ‘a temp’r’y job’—just like old Nanny.”