Читать книгу Two Black Sheep - Warwick Deeping - Страница 19

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Elsie used her handkerchief, but before the taxi had reached the Pimlico Road she had put the crumpled thing away.

At twenty-eight one should transcend tears and cambric, but her emotions—like her face—were quite without artifice, and at least some powder was needed in the Pym world. She opened a bag and dabbed herself, and with mildness accused the inward Elsie of being a silly ass. The taxi hooted its way over the Ebury Street cross-roads, and Victoria Station and the new world loomed very near. She had been instructed to arrive punctually at ten-thirty, as she would be expected to deal with the Pym luggage. Mrs. Pym loathed loitering in draughty and tumultuous vestibules while luggage was being registered. “Hen-runs, my dear.” Railway termini were quite barbarous, even though a woman wore furs.

Elsie was ten minutes ahead of time. A porter removed her luggage and she paid the taximan.

“One trunk to be registered, miss?”

“Yes, Paris. But I’m travelling with—friends. Can you wait a moment?”

He glanced at her with cynical cheerfulness.

“I lose tips if I lose time, miss, but you’ll find me in there.”

She followed the barrow, and his somehow sulky legs, and looked about anxiously for the Pym party, but as yet she was not wise as to the procrastinations of Mrs. Pym. She would flash upon the scene five minutes before the train departed and, going straight to her seat, leave all the discomforts and agitations to some other person.

Elsie stood on the pavement and waited, and a succession of private cars and taxis arrived, depositing people and their luggage, and Elsie was continually moving herself out of the way of porters and their barrows. At ten-forty two taxis pulled in with Mrs. Pym, Sylvia and Miss Sybil Gasson. The second taxi contained nothing but luggage.

Some contretemps appeared to have annoyed Mrs. Pym. She was wearing a closely-fitting black chapeau that concealed her brassy hair. The child looked sulky. Miss Gasson had the cool and detached air of a woman who could keep other people’s moods at a distance.

Mrs. Pym dropped her bag.

“Oh, damn!”

Elsie picked it up for her, an Elsie who was rather pitifully eager to propitiate these strange women. Mrs. Pym did not thank her; she opened the bag and took out a green case that held the tickets.

“See to the luggage, will you? How many trunks, Sybil? Seven? Here are the tickets. Register to Paris. Wait—I shall want the Pullman seats. Yes, you’ll find us on the train.”

Elsie took the tickets, and became aware of the child looking up at her with a curious and concentrated stare, and it occurred to her at that moment that Mrs. Pym and her daughter were very much alike.

“Got any money on you?”

“Yes.”

“Well, settle and let me know.”

They disappeared, leaving Elsie to deal with all that mountain of luggage. She had to pay the two taxi drivers, and she had just enough silver to do it with, and she was feeling agitated, her reception by the Pym party had been so casual and unfriendly. She found herself with two porters and two barrows, while her own luggage waited to be collected. She hurried in with the men to have the luggage weighed.

“All together, miss?”

“Yes, all together, please.”

Her own green trunk looked very flimsy and obscure, like a poor relation being introduced to all that prosperous baggage. Elsie was given a piece of white paper and told to go to one of the little windows. She was flurried. She dropped the tickets, and apologised to the face of the clerk, who took the white paper from her and began to make entries and calculations.

“Four pounds seven and three pence.”

Elsie’s lower lip quivered.

“Four pounds—!”

She fumbled in her bag. She had not so much money on her, and suddenly she became a creature of panic.

“I haven’t four pounds. I’ll go and find my friends. You see—they left me to pay. I have time—haven’t I?”

The clerk was laconic.

“Plenty of time.”

One of the three porters, an elderly fellow who had been waiting behind her, seeing her agitated face took her in charge.

“That’s all right, miss. Come along with me. Yes, take the tickets.”

She wanted to run, but the veteran’s phlegm restrained her.

“Which car, miss?”

“I don’t know.”

“We’ll find it.”

Mrs. Pym was busy with her mirror when Elsie dashed in.

“Oh—I’m so sorry. I find I haven’t enough money. It comes to rather a lot.”

Miss Gasson glanced ironically over the top of a picture paper. She appeared amused, but Mrs. Pym was not in a mood to see humour in anything.

“Good lord! How much do you want?”

“Four pounds.”

Mrs. Pym found a five-pound note.

“Will that do? Yes. Hurry up. We don’t want the luggage left behind. You had better leave me the tickets.”

“But I may want the tickets.”

“Oh, all right. Be quick.”

A still more agitated Elsie raced back with the deliberate porter to the registered luggage office, and Mrs. Pym returned to her mirror and her own private disharmonies. Yesterday a fool of a coiffeur had made what she described as “a bird’s nest” of her head.

“Silly fool! Why didn’t she ask me for money?”

Miss Gasson lit a cigarette.

“Oh, probably she’s gone abroad before with a suit-case and a hold-all.”

“Where’s that kid?”

Sally was exploring the car and its occupants. Her mother called to her.

“Come and sit down.”

But Sally continued her explorations.

In five minutes Elsie was back with the porters and the hand luggage. She looked moist and apologetic, and her hat seemed to have slipped back. It showed too much forehead, a worried and responsible forehead.

“I’m afraid I haven’t tipped the porters yet. The taxis took all my silver, and the clerk at the office—”

Mrs. Pym reached for her bag.

“Is that so! How many small pieces should there be, Syb?”

“Six of ours.”

“The porters are putting them at the end of the car.”

“Count them. Wait—I want one case here. A brown case with a red label. Got my initials on it.”

Elsie picked up the three half-crowns that Mrs. Pym’s rather clawlike fingers had placed on the table.

“I’ll fetch the case.”

She went, and Mrs. Pym lit a cigarette.

“The girl’s a regular hen.”

Miss Gasson looked darkly amused.

“Yes, she gets rather flurried. What about a little drink? I’ll ring for the lad.”