The next morning, about a quarter to ten, Josiah boarded a Municipal
tram at the foot of The Rise, earning in the process the almost
groveling respect of its conductor, and paid twopence for a journey to
Love Lane. Five doors up on the left was a meager house that had been
converted into a greengrocer's shop. By far the most imposing thing
about it was a signboard, which, although sadly in need of a coat of
paint, boldly displayed the name William Hollis Fruiterer, in white
letters on a black ground. For the last sixteen years, whenever the
proprietor of the Duke of Wellington had occasion to pass this eyesore
which was clearly visible from the busy main thoroughfare that ran by
the end of the street, he made it a fixed rule to look the other way.
But this morning when he got off the tram car at the corner, he set his
teeth, faced the signboard resolutely and walked slowly towards it.
A stately thirty seconds or so of progress brought him to the shop
itself. For a moment he stood looking in the window, which was neither
more nor less than that of a visibly unprosperous greengrocer in a very
small way of business. He then entered a rather moribund interior, the
stock in trade of which consisted in the main of baskets of potatoes
and carrots and an array of stale cabbages laid in a row on the counter.
The shop had no one in it, but the first step taken by an infrequent
customer across its threshold rang a bell attached to the underside
of a loose board in the floor, thereby informing a mysterious entity
beyond a glass door draped with a surprisingly clean lace curtain that
it was required elsewhere.
The entity did not immediately respond to Josiah's heavy-footed
summons. When it did respond it was seen to be that of a thin faced,
exceedingly unhappy looking woman of thirty-five whose hair was
beginning to turn gray. Her print dress, much worn but scrupulously
clean and neat, had its sleeves rolled back beyond the elbows; and this
fact and a coarse sackcloth apron implied that she had been interrupted
in the task of scrubbing the floor of the back premises.
The interior of the shop was rather dark and Josiah, having taken up a
position in its most sunless corner, was not recognized at once by his
eldest daughter.
They stood looking at each other, not knowing what to say or how to
carry themselves after a complete estrangement of sixteen years.
Josiah, however, had taken the initiative; he was a ready-witted man
of affairs and he had been careful to enter the shop with a formula
already prepared to his mind. It might or might not bridge the gulf,
but in any case that did not greatly matter. He had not come out of a
desire to make concessions; he was there at the call of duty.
"They tell me your man's joined th' army." That was the formula, but
it needed speaking. And when spoken it was, after a moment uncannily
tense, it was not as Alderman Munt J.P. had expected and intended to
utter it. Instead of being quite impersonal, the tone and the manner
were rude and grim. Somehow they had thrown back to an earlier phase of
autocratic parenthood.
Melia turned very white. It did not seem possible for her to say
anything beyond a defiant "yes." Breathing hard, she stood looking
stonily at her father.
"When did he go?"
"Monday." The tone of Melia was queerly like his own.
Josiah rolled the scrub of whisker under his chin between his thumb and
forefinger, and then slowly transferred the weight of his ponderous
body from one massive foot to the other. "Don't seem to be doing much
trade."
"Not much." But the tone of Melia rather implied that it was none of
his business even if such was the case.
"Will ye be able to carry on?"
Melia didn't know. Her father didn't either. He was inclined to think
not, but without expressing that opinion he stood with narrowed eyes
and pursing his lips somberly. "Where's the books?" he said abruptly.
The desire uppermost in Melia was to tell him in just a few plain
words that the books were no concern of his and that she would be much
obliged if he would go about his own affairs. But for some reason she
was not able to do so. She was no longer afraid of him; years ago she
had learned to hate and despise him; but either she was not strong
enough, not a big enough character to be openly rude to him, or the
subtle feelings of a daughter, long since rejected and forgotten, may
have intervened. For after a horrible moment, in which devils flew
round in her, she said impassively, "Don't keep none."
"Not books! Don't keep books!" The man of affairs caught up the
admission and treated it almost as a young bull in a paddock might have
treated a red parasol. "Never heard the like!" He cast a truculent
glance round the half denuded shop. "No wonder the jockey has to make
compositions with his creditors."
Melia flushed darkly. She would have given much had she been able at
that moment to order this father of hers out of the shop, but every
minute now seemed to bring him an increasing authority. The Dad, the
tyrant and the bully whom she had feared, defied and secretly admired,
was now in full possession. At bottom, sixteen years had not changed
him and it had not changed her. Had the man for whom she had wrecked
her life had something of her father's quality she might have forgiven
his inefficiency, his tragic failure as a human being, or at any rate
have been more able to excuse herself for an act which, look at it as
one would, was simply unforgivable.
"I don't know what you mean." Her hard voice trembled and then broke
harshly--but anger and defiance could not go beyond that. "He paid the
quarter's rent before he went. He owes a few pounds but he's going to
send me a bit every week until it's paid."
"I suppose you've got a list of his liabilities." Even his voice shook
a little, but he treated the scorn, the anger, the hard defiance in her
eyes as if they were not there.
Again the paramount desire was to insult this father of hers, had it
been humanly possible to do so. But again was she bereft of the power
even to make the attempt. "Yes, I have," she said sullenly.
"Let me see it, gel."
For nearly a minute she stood biting her lips and looking at him,
while for his part he coolly surveyed the shop in all its miserable
inadequacy. She still wanted to order him out. His proprietary air
enraged her. Yet she could not repress a sneaking admiration for it
and that enraged her even more. But she suddenly gave up fighting and
retired in defeat to the mysterious region beyond the curtained door,
whence she returned very soon with a piece of paper in her hand.
Josiah impressively put on his gold-rimmed eyeglasses, a recent
addition to his greatness, and examined the paper critically. The
amount of William Hollis's indebtedness, declared in hurried, rather
illiterate pencil, as if the heart of the writer had not been in his
task, came to rather less than twenty pounds.
"This the lot?" He spoke as if he had a perfect right to ask the
question.
"It is." Her eyes and her voice contested the right, yet in spite of
themselves they admitted it.
"Who owns this here property?" Again the half truculent glance explored
every nook and cranny of the meager premises.
"Whatmore the builder."
Josiah rubbed a thick knuckle upon his cheek. "Ah!" That was his only
comment. "Owns the row, I suppose?"
Melia supposed he did.
"What rent do you pay?"
"Twenty-five." She resented the question, but the growing magnetism of
having again a real live man to deal with was making her clay in his
hands.
He took a step to the shop door, the paper still in his hand, and stood
an instant looking up the dreary length of narrow street. It was only
an instant he stood there, but it was long enough to enable him to make
up his mind. Suddenly he swung round on his heel to confront the still
astonished and resentful Melia.
"Want more window space," he said. "Casement ought to be lower
and larger. Those flowers"--he pointed to a bowl of stocks on the
counter--"ought to be where people can look at 'em. But this isn't a
neighborhood for flowers. Offer vegetables and fruit at a low price,
but more shop room's needed so that folks can see 'em and so that you
can buy in bigger quantities. Who is your wholesaler?" He looked down
the list. "Coggins, eh? Coggins in the Market Place?"
Melia nodded. Should she tell him that Coggins had that morning refused
to supply anything else until the last delivery of potatoes, bananas
and tomatoes had been paid for? Pride said no, but a force more
elemental than pride had hold of her now.
"Owe him six pound, I see. What does he let you have in the way of
credit?"
"He won't let me have anything else until I've paid his account," said
the reluctant Melia. "And he says it's all got to be cash for the
future."
"When did he say that?"
"He's just been up to see me."
"Can you pay him?"
"I promised him two pounds by Saturday."
Josiah made no comment. Once more his eyes made the tour of the shop.
And then he said with the slow grunt that Melia knew so well:
"Very creditable to your man to join up ... if he sticks it."
The four last little words were almost sinister. And then in the
unceremonious way in which he had entered the shop the great man
walked out. The place was as distasteful to him as his presence in it
was distasteful to his eldest daughter. Yet for both, and in spite of
themselves, their meeting after long years had had an extraordinary
grim fascination.