Читать книгу Delight - Mazo de la Roche - Страница 4

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Kirke enjoyed this moment more than any other in the day. The evening meal—supper they called it at The Duke of York—was over; the busy hours between seven and eleven were just commencing. A pleasant stir of preparation was in the air, men sauntered in at the open front door, washed and brushed after their day’s work, a look of anticipation and good-fellowship softening their features. Shortly the ’bus from the evening train would be clattering up to the door, leaving a half dozen travellers or possibly a theatrical troupe. It was time they had a show. There had been nothing on in the Town Hall for weeks.

Kirke lounged against the newel post, filling his pipe and staring with shrewd, light-blue eyes into the faces that passed him. He was in the way where he stood; his legs were long, and he had crossed them, the toe of one foot resting on the linoleum, one sharp elbow thrust outward behind him. He rather liked being in the way. It gave him a feeling of superiority to have people edging their way around him, and he did not in the least mind the surly looks that were occasionally turned on him. Once Charley Bye, the porter who always lent a hand in the evening, tripped over his foot while carrying a tray to one of the small drinking-rooms, and jarred the foaming “head” over the polished glasses; in short, barely saved himself from arriving headlong with the refreshment. Bill Bastien, the head bartender and manager, came to the door of the bar. His erect, lithe figure was thrown out against a glittering background of glasses and mirrors. He was drying his hands on a clean white towel.

“What the hell—” he said.

“Chairley’s been falling over himself in his zeal,” replied Kirke.

“Mr. Bastien,” said Charley, breathing heavily, “I stumbled over Mr. Kirke’s foot which he sticks out that way a-purpose to mortify me.”

“That’s a dairty lie,” observed Kirke, smiling. “He never looks where he’s going, and you know it.”

Bastien was too busy for argument. His opaque, dark-blue eyes glanced sharply, first at the offending foot, then at the glasses on the tray. With a frown he strode to the door of the drinking-room and looked in. The customers gathered about the table there were not of the fastidious order. They wanted their drinks and wanted them soon. They were rapping impatiently on the table.

“All right, boys,” he said cheerily. “Here we are. Charley’s lost his way in the crowd. Next time he’ll be smarter.” He laid his hand heavily on Charley’s broad shoulder and steered him into the room. Then he returned briskly to the bar where business was now becoming lively.

A rich smell of ale and spirits filled the air. A sustained flow of men’s voices came from all sides, sometimes ebbing to a low drone, sometimes swelling to a vigorous burst of laughter. Night had fallen. The March air was cold, and the heavy, green door was closed after each fresh arrival. Four men from the dye works came in together, their hands, in spite of scrubbing, stained by the dyes they worked in. Then, half a dozen tannery hands, bringing with them their own peculiar nauseating scent. Kirke knew them and nodded curtly.

“It’s a fine nicht,” he said, biting off the vowels like bits of ice.

“Yes, it’s not bad,” agreed one.

“It’s blowing up a mist,” said another.

“Perhaps you’d call this fine in Scotland,” said a third.

“We’d call you a fine fool in Scotland,” bit off Kirke, grinning.

The men passed into the bar. The noise increased, rising to a hubbub, then suddenly falling to a murmur accented by low laughs, the clink of glasses, the drawing of corks. The smell of dyes, the smell of the tannery, mingled with the smell of the bar. A blue cloud of tobacco smoke formed before Kirke’s eyes. It floated in long level shreds that moved quiveringly together till they formed one mass that hung like a magic carpet in the hall. He watched it contemplatively, his lips still in the formation of exhaling. He hoped very much that Charley Bye would not pass through it before it reached the dining-room door.

In the most select of the three little drinking-rooms a hand was striking a table-bell at sharp, regular intervals: ding, ding, ding-ding, ding. Charley appeared to take the order.

“Chairley, dive under yon cloud, d’ye hear?” said Kirke, indicating the magic carpet with his pipe. “Dive under, mon, or it’ll be the worse for ye.”

With a bewildered look, like a timid bull that desires only to avoid the tormenting matador, Charley ducked heavily under the smoke cloud and disappeared into the drinking-room. Still perfect, of a lovely azure against the dark walls, the magic carpet floated on. Kirke was in good humour. In another moment the ’bus would arrive. He would see what passengers there were, and then saunter into the bar with Mr. Fowler, the owner of the ’bus. Fowler probably would treat him. He usually did. And if not, well, he would have one anyway.