Читать книгу Seven Men Came Back - Warwick Deeping - Страница 11

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Eleven o’clock had surprised people in all sorts of situations and held them posed rather like figures in a waxwork show. Mr. Archibald Steel, serving behind the counter of Narbiton’s branch of the Midland Bank, was busy with one of those little copper scoops that remind one of the shovel attached to a Victorian coal-box. A young person had come in through the swing-doors with a bag. She had deposited on the counter a wad of cheques, a packet of notes, a canvas bag full of silver and another canvas bag full of coppers. She was a rather attractive young person, black and buxom and gaillard, and Mr. Steel, in checking the money, had slipped into inaccuracies.

He had consulted the paying-in slip.

“Your silver’s wrong.”

“I’m quite sure it isn’t.”

As an expert in the handling of cash Mr. Steel should not have faltered. He had recounted the silver and found that Miss Black and White had been both accurate and confusing. He had apologized.

“Sorry.”

And she had smiled upon him.

Mr. Steel was in the act of scooping up that silver when the local fire-syren warned Narbiton as to the hour. Archie Steel stood to attention. He held the scoop—shovel end upwards—rather like a regal sceptre. The young person stood opposite him with her hands on the counter.

Archie’s blue eyes met the brown eyes of the girl. In spite of, or perhaps—because of the solemnity of the occasion, there was a gladness in them. She wanted to giggle. She was minx enough to know that she had disturbed the cashier in his calculations, and that she was disturbing him as he stood at attention grasping that absurd copper shovel. Archie was disturbed so easily, in spite of that new little villa—“Clovelly” in Radnor Road. He had come back to Blighty to serve decorously behind a mahogany counter, a married man with responsibilities.

There were days when he felt far from responsible.

There were moments when he wanted to cheek the dry and bespectacled manager of the local branch.

There were days when he was tempted to grab a wad of notes, leap over the counter and rush out upon adventure.

Six months of married life, a chocolate-box affair that was emptying itself of chocolates, the romance quite stale, supper a meal of pressed beef and pickles. One small maid, and a wife who loathed cooking. Girls! Archie had never been anything but susceptible.

This young wench on the other side of the counter! She had a skin like cream, a broad nose, a big and inviting mouth, bold eyes. She disturbed him. He would like to have had her with him on the river in a punt, both of them on cushions. Something soft and solid to clasp.

O, damn!

Well—they would have a ruddy beano to-night. He would see old Sherring, and Crabbie, and the Doc. Yes, and old Kettle of B Company Mess. He would get merry, but not too merry.

Irene had been rather peevish about the show. Suspicious, yes, that was the word. Irene was becoming uncomfortably possessive. She catechized him. “Where have you been. Where are you going?” She was a regular little colonel.

He was staring at the opposite wall. People were coming into the bank. The young person giggled.

“I’ll have my canvas bags, please.”

So, the silence was over. Canvas bags! Surely those exciting members of hers were not sheathed in canvas?

He passed her the bags, and she glimmered her eyes at him and departed.

Two elderly women took her place. This was reality. A hand in a black glove pushed a cheque at him.

“I want one pound note, two ten-shilling notes, ten shillings in silver, a shillingsworth of coppers.”

Archie Steel’s eyes stared.

“I beg your pardon, do you mind saying it again.”

The old lady said it again and with severity.