Читать книгу Slade - Warwick Deeping - Страница 9

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James Slade sat down on his cane-bottomed chair. It wobbled, and creaked under him. His bowler hat lay on the bed, looking like a great black tumour swelling from the cheap blue counterpane. He stared at the white-washed wall of the area and the fringe of flowers in the garden above, with the sunlight shining through them. It occurred to him that this underground room would be very dark in winter, and that it seemed a strange economy to burrow into the ground when there was so much earth at man’s service. By what light would he go to bed and get up on dark winter mornings? A candlestick standing on the chest of drawers answered that question. His glance travelling round the walls, remained fixed upon the text.

“I—will—repay,” saith the Lord.

Was that Clara’s judgment upon him? Had she planned and ordered this penance? Well, according to Clara no doubt he deserved it. He may have been a desperate fool, but Clara was not the sort of woman to tolerate folly, especially when it ended in failure. And he was a complete failure, a disgraced failure, and all through the years that had passed he had learned to accept failure, or material failure. Yet there was that other spirit.

But—the—child!

Why had Clara kept it from him? Had her secretiveness been inspired by cruelty or kindness? Kindness—to the child, of course. Wasn’t that obvious? Would he not have chosen silence, the blank page, the closed book? Yes, most certainly, for the child’s sake, in this most respectable world—and yet——!

There could be pain in too much thinking. The world that he had lived in for the last seven years had taught James Slade that it was better that a man should have sore fingers than a sore soul, unless—of course—he had discovered that faith which is an assuagement and a balm. Yes, that and God. If God was with you people might not matter so much. The thing was to be busy, and James Slade got up, hung his hat on a peg behind the door, and lifting his bag on to the chair, opened it and began to unpack. The bag contained all his worldly possessions, such as they were, a couple of cheap shirts, a pair of pants, a vest, three white collars, a razor, two nightshirts, a sponge-bag, and his Bible. James Slade lifted out the Bible, and opened it in search of a particular object, his legal label. It had gone!

He stood and stared at the open book. It had opened at the Gospel of St. John. Then he ran his fingers quickly through the pages to make sure. The card was not there. Had Clara taken it? But how and when? When she had sent him for the cab? Oh, possibly. Clara was taking no chances. She had impounded that passport to partial freedom as she appeared to have impounded his person. James Slade closed the Bible and placed it on the chest of drawers, and proceeded to unpack and put away his possessions.

But he did own one leaf torn from the book of the past, a relic of whose existence Mrs. Pomeroy was ignorant, and having completed his unpacking, James Slade sat down on the bed and let his fingers explore the inner breast pocket of his coat. He glanced at the door. There was neither key nor bolt. So, even his privacy was relative! Well, a chair might prevent a sudden invasion, and having cocked the chair with its top rail under the handle, James Slade sat down again on the very hard bed, and brought out his relic. It was a very old and faded photograph showing a comely young woman seated with her husband standing behind her. The man was smiling rather fatuously, the young woman looking straight into the camera, a very hard and handsome and determined young woman.

James Slade smiled at his own silly smile. How well he remembered the photographer’s appeal.

“Smile, sir, if you please. Just moisten the lips, and smile. That’s better—much better. Now, quite still, please.”

But footsteps were to be heard on the basement stairs. Mr. Slade smuggled the picture back into his pocket, and jumped up to remove the protective chair.

Someone knocked.

“Come in.”

It was Florence, a below-stairs Florence who spoke as she pleased and in the vernacular about the above-stairs order. She had no reason to be shy of this elderly man, and she was not shy of him. Mr. Slade did not look capable of killing a flea, and Florence was ready to address him as Dad. In fact, in a week’s time the below-stairs world was to know him as Dad, and to accord him respect and a growing affection.

“She—says I’ve got to tell you about things. My name’s Floe.”

Mr. Slade placed the chair for her.

“Sit down, Florence.”

Florence sat down. Mr. Slade could be considered the perfect gentleman.

“Don’t mind if I do. On my feet most of the day, and she chasing you round. And I’ve got a corn that nothin’ wont touch.”

“I’m sorry,” said Mr. Slade. “Have you tried Bland’s Corn Solvent?”

“No, I ’aven’t.”

“Well, you try it. Is it a hard or soft corn?”

“Hard. Right on m’ little toe.”

“Well, you try it. Now, what about giving me a little advice.”

Florrie took a deep breath.

“Supposin’ I tell you about some of the blokes. There’s ol’ Truslove, fussy and all that, but ’e ain’t a bad sort, and e’s better than some of the ol’ women. ’E’s always served first.”

“What, before the ladies?”

“Well, ’e’s a perm, and he pays more than anybody else. But p’raps I’d better begin about ’Er.”

“Mrs. Pomeroy?”

“Yus. She can be a fair terror. Don’t you ever answer ’er back. And don’t try no tricks with the sugar. I believe she counts every blessed lump. And you’ve always got to appear to be doin’ somethink—even if you ain’t got anythink to do. Just flick a duster abart, or make believe you’re polishin’ somethink. Don’t you ever let ’er catch you sittin’ down.”

Florence paused to draw a deep breath.

“She says you’re going to do the boots and the coal and the luggage, and wait at table, and clean the silver.”

“I understand so.”

“Well, you be very partic’lar about the plates and the forks. She’s dead nuts on a dirty plate. And don’t you go offerin’ second ’elpings to the third floor, specially the third floor backs. She—don’t like it.”

“Mr. Truslove, I presume, has——?”

“Oh, ’e always can ’ave a third, if ’e wants it. So can Mr. Spiceby, and Miss Popham. You treat the first floors to anythink and sometimes the seconds.”

“I see—Florence. Various gradations and values.”

“Coo, you do use long words. And don’t you use too much blackin’ on the old women’s boots, and be careful of the coal. She’s got an eye like an ’awk.”

“Thank you, Florence. Tell me, she has a daughter.”

“Oh, Miss Rose. She’s a fair little pet. Don’t know where she got ’er nice nature from. Not from ’Er. Must ’ave been old Pom.”

“And who and what was old Pom?”

“Well, if you ask me—that’s a bit of a mystery. Lawks——” and Florrie giggled—“we do say in the kitchen that there wasn’t a Mr. Pom. Cos she’s so respectable, goes to church reg’lar. But ’e must ’ave been a good sort must Mr. Pom, judgin’ by the kid. Can’t see as ’ow she got a nice nature from ’er mother.”

Mr. Slade smiled vaguely at this fanciful picture of a gay and gallant Mr. Pomeroy. Well, well, well, Florence was proving valuable as the hotel cicerone, and the advice she was giving him was both intimate and technical. Had Florence five minutes leisure? If so Mr. Slade would be glad to be shown the intricacies of the basement. Florence was more than willing. The staff tea was at half-past five in the kitchen, and at nine there was a spot of supper, bread and dripping, and sometimes cheese. The hotel took its supper at seven. So, Mr. Slade was led along a dark passage to the kitchen and was introduced to Eliza the cook, May the kitchen-maid, and Jane and Bertha the housemaids. Eliza was fat and fiftyish with fierce black eyebrows and an incipient moustache. She looked formidable, and was not, provided her authority was not flouted and no one complained of the soup. May was a cheeky little blonde, with bright blue eyes. Jane had a dark, slim dignity. Bertha was brown and pink-cheeked and very sentimental.

Mr. Slade gave Eliza a polite little bow.

“Pleased to meet you.”

Eliza looked him over as though she had mistrusted the novelty of having a man messing about the place, but there was a shyness about this gentle and elderly man that somehow moved the maternal soul in Eliza.

“Had your tea, Mr. Slade?”

“As a matter of fact I haven’t. But please don’t trouble.”

“It isn’t any trouble. May, put the kettle on again. It’ll be ready in five minutes.”

“Thank you very much. A cup of tea is a comfort. Meanwhile Florence is going to show me round.”

So Mr. Slade was introduced to the coal-cellar, and the cupboard where brooms, etc. were kept, and to the back stairs which led up into the back garden, and the wine cellar which, of course, was locked.

“Beer and stout, mostly,” said Florence, “and ain’t she careful about it. Not ’alf.”

Meanwhile, Mrs. Eliza, whose surname was Cotgrove, had given it as her opinion that Mr. Slade was a nice, gentlemanly old chap, and that he looked a bit starved, and needed feeding up. And he wouldn’t be any bother about the place, and didn’t look the sneaky sort—neither. The kitchen had been somewhat prejudiced against a strange importation in trousers, some fellah—who—as Mrs. Eliza put it—might have upset the girls.