The social evenings took place on alternate Mondays. There was one at
the beginning of Philip’s second week at Lynn’s. He arranged to go with
one of the women in his department.
“Meet ’em ’alf-way,” she said, “same as I do.”
This was Mrs. Hodges, a little woman of five-and-forty, with badly dyed
hair; she had a yellow face with a network of small red veins all over
it, and yellow whites to her pale blue eyes. She took a fancy to Philip
and called him by his Christian name before he had been in the shop a
week.
“We’ve both known what it is to come down,” she said.
She told Philip that her real name was not Hodges, but she always
referred to “me ’usband Misterodges;” he was a barrister and he treated
her simply shocking, so she left him as she preferred to be independent
like; but she had known what it was to drive in her own carriage,
dear—she called everyone dear—and they always had late dinner at home.
She used to pick her teeth with the pin of an enormous silver brooch.
It was in the form of a whip and a hunting-crop crossed, with two spurs
in the middle. Philip was ill at ease in his new surroundings, and the
girls in the shop called him ‘sidey.’ One addressed him as Phil, and he
did not answer because he had not the least idea that she was speaking
to him; so she tossed her head, saying he was a ‘stuck-up thing,’ and
next time with ironical emphasis called him Mister Carey. She was a
Miss Jewell, and she was going to marry a doctor. The other girls had
never seen him, but they said he must be a gentleman as he gave her
such lovely presents.
“Never you mind what they say, dear,” said Mrs. Hodges. “I’ve ’ad to go
through it same as you ’ave. They don’t know any better, poor things.
You take my word for it, they’ll like you all right if you ’old your
own same as I ’ave.”
The social evening was held in the restaurant in the basement. The
tables were put on one side so that there might be room for dancing,
and smaller ones were set out for progressive whist.
“The ’eads ’ave to get there early,” said Mrs. Hodges.
She introduced him to Miss Bennett, who was the belle of Lynn’s. She
was the buyer in the ‘Petticoats,’ and when Philip entered was engaged
in conversation with the buyer in the ‘Gentlemen’s Hosiery;’ Miss
Bennett was a woman of massive proportions, with a very large red face
heavily powdered and a bust of imposing dimensions; her flaxen hair was
arranged with elaboration. She was overdressed, but not badly dressed,
in black with a high collar, and she wore black glace gloves, in which
she played cards; she had several heavy gold chains round her neck,
bangles on her wrists, and circular photograph pendants, one being of
Queen Alexandra; she carried a black satin bag and chewed Sen-sens.
“Please to meet you, Mr. Carey,” she said. “This is your first visit to
our social evenings, ain’t it? I expect you feel a bit shy, but there’s
no cause to, I promise you that.”
She did her best to make people feel at home. She slapped them on the
shoulders and laughed a great deal.
“Ain’t I a pickle?” she cried, turning to Philip. “What must you think
of me? But I can’t ’elp meself.”
Those who were going to take part in the social evening came in, the
younger members of the staff mostly, boys who had not girls of their
own, and girls who had not yet found anyone to walk with. Several of
the young gentlemen wore lounge suits with white evening ties and red
silk handkerchiefs; they were going to perform, and they had a busy,
abstracted air; some were self-confident, but others were nervous, and
they watched their public with an anxious eye. Presently a girl with a
great deal of hair sat at the piano and ran her hands noisily across
the keyboard. When the audience had settled itself she looked round and
gave the name of her piece.
“A Drive in Russia.”
There was a round of clapping during which she deftly fixed bells to
her wrists. She smiled a little and immediately burst into energetic
melody. There was a great deal more clapping when she finished, and
when this was over, as an encore, she gave a piece which imitated the
sea; there were little trills to represent the lapping waves and
thundering chords, with the loud pedal down, to suggest a storm. After
this a gentleman sang a song called Bid me Good-bye, and as an encore
obliged with Sing me to Sleep. The audience measured their enthusiasm
with a nice discrimination. Everyone was applauded till he gave an
encore, and so that there might be no jealousy no one was applauded
more than anyone else. Miss Bennett sailed up to Philip.
“I’m sure you play or sing, Mr. Carey,” she said archly. “I can see it
in your face.”
“I’m afraid I don’t.”
“Don’t you even recite?”
“I have no parlour tricks.”
The buyer in the ‘gentleman’s hosiery’ was a well-known reciter, and he
was called upon loudly to perform by all the assistants in his
department. Needing no pressing, he gave a long poem of tragic
character, in which he rolled his eyes, put his hand on his chest, and
acted as though he were in great agony. The point, that he had eaten
cucumber for supper, was divulged in the last line and was greeted with
laughter, a little forced because everyone knew the poem well, but loud
and long. Miss Bennett did not sing, play, or recite.
“Oh no, she ’as a little game of her own,” said Mrs. Hodges.
“Now, don’t you begin chaffing me. The fact is I know quite a lot about
palmistry and second sight.”
“Oh, do tell my ’and, Miss Bennett,” cried the girls in her department,
eager to please her.
“I don’t like telling ’ands, I don’t really. I’ve told people such
terrible things and they’ve all come true, it makes one superstitious
like.”
“Oh, Miss Bennett, just for once.”
A little crowd collected round her, and, amid screams of embarrassment,
giggles, blushings, and cries of dismay or admiration, she talked
mysteriously of fair and dark men, of money in a letter, and of
journeys, till the sweat stood in heavy beads on her painted face.
“Look at me,” she said. “I’m all of a perspiration.”
Supper was at nine. There were cakes, buns, sandwiches, tea and coffee,
all free; but if you wanted mineral water you had to pay for it.
Gallantry often led young men to offer the ladies ginger beer, but
common decency made them refuse. Miss Bennett was very fond of ginger
beer, and she drank two and sometimes three bottles during the evening;
but she insisted on paying for them herself. The men liked her for
that.
“She’s a rum old bird,” they said, “but mind you, she’s not a bad sort,
she’s not like what some are.”
After supper progressive whist was played. This was very noisy, and
there was a great deal of laughing and shouting, as people moved from
table to table. Miss Bennett grew hotter and hotter.
“Look at me,” she said. “I’m all of a perspiration.”
In due course one of the more dashing of the young men remarked that if
they wanted to dance they’d better begin. The girl who had played the
accompaniments sat at the piano and placed a decided foot on the loud
pedal. She played a dreamy waltz, marking the time with the bass, while
with the right hand she ‘tiddled’ in alternate octaves. By way of a
change she crossed her hands and played the air in the bass.
“She does play well, doesn’t she?” Mrs. Hodges remarked to Philip. “And
what’s more she’s never ’ad a lesson in ’er life; it’s all ear.”
Miss Bennett liked dancing and poetry better than anything in the
world. She danced well, but very, very slowly, and an expression came
into her eyes as though her thoughts were far, far away. She talked
breathlessly of the floor and the heat and the supper. She said that
the Portman Rooms had the best floor in London and she always liked the
dances there; they were very select, and she couldn’t bear dancing with
all sorts of men you didn’t know anything about; why, you might be
exposing yourself to you didn’t know what all. Nearly all the people
danced very well, and they enjoyed themselves. Sweat poured down their
faces, and the very high collars of the young men grew limp.
Philip looked on, and a greater depression seized him than he
remembered to have felt for a long time. He felt intolerably alone. He
did not go, because he was afraid to seem supercilious, and he talked
with the girls and laughed, but in his heart was unhappiness. Miss
Bennett asked him if he had a girl.
“No,” he smiled.
“Oh, well, there’s plenty to choose from here. And they’re very nice
respectable girls, some of them. I expect you’ll have a girl before
you’ve been here long.”
She looked at him very archly.
“Meet ’em ’alf-way,” said Mrs. Hodges. “That’s what I tell him.”
It was nearly eleven o’clock, and the party broke up. Philip could not
get to sleep. Like the others he kept his aching feet outside the
bed-clothes. He tried with all his might not to think of the life he
was leading. The soldier was snoring quietly.