ADA MAKES A FRIEND
Ada moved uneasily, opened her eyes and stared at the patch of light on
the opposite wall. As she lay half awake, she tried to remember the
day of the week, and, deceived by the morning silence, decided that it
was Sunday. She thought, with lazy pleasure, that a day of idleness
lay before her, and felt under the pillow for the tin of lollies that
she hid there every night. This movement awakened her completely, and
stretching her limbs luxuriously between the warm sheets, she began to
suck the lollies, at first slowly revolving the sticky globules on her
tongue, and then scrunching them between her firm teeth with the
tranquil pleasure of a quadruped.
This was her only pleasure and the only pleasant hour of the day. She
looked at Jonah, who lay on his side with his nose buried in the
pillow, without repugnance and without liking. That had gone long ago.
And as she looked, she remembered that he was to be awakened early and
that it was Friday the hardest day of the week, when she must make up
her arrears of scrubbing and dusting. Her luxurious mood changed to
one of dull irritation, and she looked sullenly at the enormous
wardrobe and dressing-table with their speckled mirrors. These had
delighted her at first, but in her heart she preferred the battered,
makeshift furniture of Cardigan Street. A few licks with the duster
and her work was done; but here the least speck of dust showed on the
polished surface. Jonah, too, had got into a nasty habit of writing
insulting words on the dusty surface with his finger.
Well, let him! There had been endless trouble since he bought the
piano. As sure as Miss Grimes came to give Ray his lesson, he declared
the place was a pigsty and tried to shame her by taking off his coat
and dusting the room himself. Not that she blamed Miss Grimes. She
was quite a lady in her way, and had won Ada's heart by telling her
that she hated housework. She thought Ada must be a born housekeeper to
do without a servant, and Ada didn't trouble to put her right. Anyhow,
Jonah should keep a servant. He pretended that their servants in
Wyndham Street had made game of her behind her back, and robbed her
right and left. What did that matter? she thought--Jonah could afford
it.
The real reason was that he wanted no one in the house to see how he
treated his wife. She cared little herself whether she had a girl or
not, for she had always been accustomed to make work easy by neglecting
it. If Jonah wanted a floor that you could eat your dinner off, let him
get a servant. He was as mean as dirt. A fat lot she got out of his
money. Here she was, shut up in these rooms, little better than a
prisoner, for her old pals never dared show their noses in this house,
and she could never go out without all the shop-hands knowing it. She
never bought a new dress, but Jonah stormed like a madman, declaring
that she looked like a servant dressed up. Well, her clothes knocked
Cardigan Street endways when she paid her mother a visit, and that was
all she wanted.
There was her mother, too. She had never been a real mother to her;
you could never tell what she was thinking about. Other people took
their troubles to her, but she treated her own daughter like a
stranger. And, of course, she sided with Jonah and talked till her jaw
ached about her duty to her child and her husband. She would have
married Tom Mullins if it hadn't been for the kid, and lived in
Cardigan Street like her pals. Her thoughts travelled back to Packard's
and the Road. She remembered with intense longing the group at the
corner, the drunken rows, and the nightly gossip on the doorstep. That
was life for her. She had been like a fish out of water ever since she
left it. She thought with singular bitterness of Jonah's attempts to
introduce her to the wives of the men he met in business, women who
knew not Cardigan Street, and annoyed her by staring at her hands, and
talking of their troubles with servants till they made her sick.
Her thoughts were suddenly interrupted by Jonah. He turned in his
sleep and pushed the sheet from his face, but a loud scrunch from Ada's
jaw woke him completely. He tugged at the pillow and his hand fell on
the tin of sticky lollies.
"Bah!" he cried in disgust, and rubbed his fingers on the sheet. "Only
kids eat that muck."
"Kid yerself!" cried Ada furiously. "Anybody 'ud think I was eatin'
di'monds. Yer'd grudge me the air I breathe, if yer thought it cost
money."
"Yah, git up an' light the fire!" replied Jonah.
"Yes, that's me all over. Anybody else 'ud keep a servant; but as long
as I'm fool enough ter slave an' drudge, yer save the expense."
"You slave an' drudge?" cried Jonah in scorn--"that was in yer dream.
Are yer sure ye're awake?"
"Yes, I am awake, an' let me tell yer that it's the talk of the
neighbourhood that yer've got thousands in the bank, an' too mean ter
keep a servant."
"That's a lie, an' yer know it!" cried Jonah. "Didn't yez 'ave a girl
in Wyndham Street, an' didn't she pinch enough things to set up 'er
sister's 'ouse w'en she got married?"
"Yous couldn't prove it," said Ada, sullenly.
"No, I couldn't prove it without showing everybody wot sort of wife I'd
got."
"She's a jolly sight too good fer yous, an' well yer know it."
"Yes, that's wot I complain of," said Jonah. "I'd prefer a wife like
other men 'ave that can mind their 'ouse, an' not make a 'oly show of
themselves w'en they take 'em out."
"A fat lot yer take me out!"
"Take yous out! Yah! Look at yer neck!"
Ada flushed a sullen red. So far the quarrel had been familiar and
commonplace, like a conversation about the weather, but her neck,
hidden under grubby lace, was Ada's weak point.
"Look at the hump on yer back before yer talk about my neck," she
shouted. It was the first time she had ever dared to taunt Jonah with
his deformity, and the sound of her words frightened her. He would
strike her for certain.
Jonah's face turned white. He raised himself on his elbow and clenched
his fist, the hard, knotty fist of the shoemaker swinging at the end of
the unnaturally long arms, another mark of his deformity. Jonah had
never struck her--contrary to the habit of Cardigan Street--finding
that he could hit harder with his tongue; but it was coming now, and
she nerved herself for the blow. But Jonah's hand dropped helplessly.
"You low, dirty bitch," he said. "If a man said that to me, I'd
strangle him. I took yer out of the factory, I married yer, an' worked
day an' night ter git on in the world, an' that's yer thanks. Pity I
didn't leave yer in the gutter w'ere yer belonged. I wonder who yer
take after? Not after yer mother. She is clean an' wholesome. Any
other woman would take an interest in my business, an' be a help to a
man; but you're like a millstone round my neck. I thought I'd done
with Cardigan Street, an' the silly loafers I grew up with, but s'elp
me Gawd, when I married you I married Cardigan Street. I could put up
with yer want of brains--you don't want much brains ter git through
this world--but it's yer nasty, sulky temper, an' yer bone idleness. I
suppose yer git them from yer lovely father. The 'ardest work 'e ever
did was to drink beer. It's a wonder yer don't take after 'im in that.
I suppose I've got something to be thankful for."
"Yes, I suppose yer'd like me ter drink meself ter death, so as yer
could marry again. But yer needn't fear I'll last yous out," cried
Ada, recovering her tongue now that she was no longer in fear of a blow.
"Ah well, yer can't make a silk purse out of a sow's ear they say,"
said Jonah. There was an intense weariness in his voice as he turned
his back on Ada.
"No more than yer can make a man out of a monkey on a stick," muttered
Ada to herself as she got out of bed.
Ada got the breakfast and went about the house in sullen silence.
Jonah was used to this. For days together after a quarrel she would
sulk without speaking, proud of her stubborn temper that forced others
to give in first. And they would sit down to meals and pass one
another in the rooms, watching each other's movements to avoid the
necessity for speaking. The day had begun badly for Ada, and her anger
increased as she brooded over her wrongs. Heavy and sullen by nature,
her wrath came to a head hours after the provocation, burning with a
steady heat when others were cooling down.
But as she was pegging out some towels in the yard she heard a discreet
cough on the other side of the fence. Ada recognized the signal. It
was her neighbour, the woman with the hairy lip, housekeeper to Aaron
the Jew. It had taken Ada weeks to discover Mrs Herring's physical
defect, which she humoured by shaving. Now Ada could tell in an
instant whether she was shaven or hairy, for when her lip bristled with
hairs for lack of the razor, she peered over the fence so as to hide
the lower part of her face. Ada, being used to such things, thought at
first she was hiding a black eye. But who was there to give her one?
Aaron the pawnbroker, not being her husband, could not take such a
liberty.
She had introduced herself over the fence the week of Ada's arrival,
giving her the history of the neighbourhood in an unceasing flow of
perfect English, her voice never rising above a whisper. For days she
would disappear altogether, and then renew the conversation by coughing
gently on her side of the fence. This morning her lip was shaven, and
she leaned over the fence, full of gossip. But Ada's sullen face
caught her eye, and instantly she was full of sympathy, a peculiar look
of falsity shining in her light blue eyes.
"Why, what's the matter, dearie?" she inquired.
"Oh, nuthin'," said Ada roughly.
"Ah, you mustn't tell me that! When my poor husband was alive, I've
often looked in my glass and seen a face like that. He was my husband,
and I suppose I should say no more, but men never brought any happiness
to me or any other woman that I know of. The first day I set eyes on
you, I said, 'That's an unhappy woman.'"
"Well, yer needn't tell the bloomin' street," growled Ada.
"What you want is love and sympathy, but I suppose your husband is too
busy making money to spare the time for that. Ah, many's the time,
when my poor dear husband was alive, did I pine for a kind word, and
get a black look instead! And a woman can turn to no one in a trouble
like that. She feels as if her own door had been slammed in her face.
What you want is a cheerful outing with a sympathetic friend, but I
hear you're little more than a prisoner in your own house."
"Who told yer that?" cried Ada, flushing angrily.
"A little bird told me," said the woman, with a false grin.
"Well, I'd wring its neck, if I 'eard it," cried Ada. "And as fer
bein' a prisoner, I'm goin' out this very afternoon."
"Why, how curious!" cried Mrs Herring. "This is my afternoon out. We
could have a pleasant chat, if you have nothing better to do."
Ada hesitated. Jonah always wanted to know where she was going, and
had forbidden her to make friends with the neighbours, for in Cardigan
Street friendship with neighbours generally ended in a fight or the
police court. She had never defied Jonah before, but her anger was
burning with a steady flame. She'd show him!
"I'll meet yer at three o'clock opposite the church," she cried, and
walked away.
She gave Jonah his meal in silence, and sent Ray off on a message
before two o'clock. But Jonah seemed to have nothing to do this
afternoon, and sat, contrary to custom, reading the newspaper. Ada
watched the clock anxiously, fearing she would be baulked. But, as
luck would have it, Jonah was suddenly called into the shop, and the
coast was clear. It never took Ada long to dress; her clothes always
looked as if they had been thrown on with a pitchfork, and she slipped
down the outside stairs into the lane at the back. It was the first
time she had gone out without telling Jonah where she was going and
when she would be back. And afterwards she could never understand why
she crept out in this furtive manner. Mrs Herring was waiting, dressed
in dingy black, a striking contrast to Ada's flaring colours. They
walked up Regent Street, as Mrs Herring said she wanted to buy a
thimble.
But when they reached Redfern Street, Mrs Herring put her hand suddenly
to her breast and cried "Oh, dearie, if you could feel how my heart is
beating! I really feel as if I am going to faint. I've suffered for
years with my heart, and the doctor told me always to take a drop of
something soothing, when I had an attack."
They were opposite the "Angel", no longer sinister and forbidding in
the broad daylight. The enormous lamps hung white and opaque; the huge
mirrors reflected the cheerful light of the afternoon sun. The
establishment seemed harmless and respectable, like the grocer's or
baker's. But from the swinging doors came a strong odour of alcohol,
enveloping the two women in a vinous caress that stirred hidden desires
like a strong perfume.
"Do you think we could slip in here without being seen?" said the
housekeeper.
"If ye're so bad as all that, we can," replied Ada.
Mrs Herring turned and slipped in at the side door with the dexterity
of customers entering a pawnshop, and Ada followed, slightly
bewildered. The housekeeper, seeming quite familiar with the turnings,
led the way to a small room at the back. Ada looked round with great
curiosity. She had never entered a hotel before in this furtive
fashion. In Cardigan Street she had always fetched her mother's beer
in a jug from the bar. On the walls were two sporting prints of dogs
chasing a hare, and a whisky calendar. On the table was a small gong,
which Mrs Herring rang. Cassidy himself, the landlord, answered the
ring.
"Good dey, good dey to you, Mrs Herring," he said briskly. "The same
as usual, I suppose? And what'll your friend take?" he added, grinning
at Ada.
"My friend, Mrs Jones," said the housekeeper.
"Glad to meet you," cried Cassidy. "A terrible hill this," he
continued, winking at Ada. "We should never see Mrs Herring, if it
wasn't for the hill."
"Nothing for me," said Ada, shaking her head.
"Now just a drop to keep me company," begged Mrs Herring.
As Ada continued to shake her head, Cassidy went out, and returned with
a bottle of brandy and three glasses on a tray.
"Sure, I forgot to tell you I'm a father again; father number nine,
unless I've lost count. Sure your friend will join us in a glass to
wet the head of the baby?"
He filled three glasses as he spoke, and winked at Mrs Herring. Ada's
brain was in a whirl. She saw that she had been trapped, and that Mrs
Herring was a liar and a comedian. She might as well drink now she was
here. But Jonah would kill her, if he smelt drink on her. Well, let
him! It was little enough fun she got out of life anyhow. She nodded
to Cassidy. They clinked the three glasses and drank, the landlord and
Mrs Herring at a gulp, Ada with tiny sips as if it were poison.
"Well, I'll leave you to your bit of gossip; I think I hear the child
crying," said the landlord, backing out of the door with a grin.
Mrs Herring, who had forgotten her palpitations, filled her glass
again, and sipped slowly to keep Ada company. In half an hour Ada
finished her second glass. A pleasant glow had spread through her
body. The weight was lifted off her mind, and she felt calm and happy.
She thought of Jonah with indifference. What did he matter? She
listened cheerfully to Mrs Herring's ceaseless whisper, only catching
the meaning of one word in ten.
"And many's the time, when my poor dear husband was alive, have I gone
out meaning to throw myself into the harbour, and a drop of cordial has
changed my mind."
Ada nodded to show that she understood that the late Mr Herring was a
brute and a tyrant.
"And then he went with the contingent to South Africa, and the next I
heard was that he was dead. And the thought of my poor dear lying with
his face turned to the skies would have driven me mad, if the doctor
hadn't insisted on my taking a drop of cordial to bear my grief. And
when I recovered, I vowed I would never marry again. The men dearie,
are all alike. They marry one woman, and want twenty. And if you as
much as look at another man, they smash the furniture and threaten to
get a divorce. I can see you've found that out."
"Ye're barkin' up the wrong tree," said Ada. "My old man's as 'ard as
nails, but 'e don't run after women. 'E's the wrong shape, see."
Ada had never spent such a pleasant time in her life. She had never
tasted brandy till that afternoon. Cardigan Street drank beer, and
the glasses Ada had drunk at odd times had only made her sleepy without
excitement. But this seductive liquid leapt through her veins,
bringing a delicious languor and a sense of comfort. Her mind, dull
and heavy by habit, ran on wheels. She wanted to interrupt Mrs Herring
to make some observations of her own which seemed too good to lose.
She felt a silly impulse to ask her whether she was born with a
moustache, who taught her to shave, whether she could grow a moustache
if she left it alone. She wanted to ask why her palpitations had gone
off so quickly, and why she seemed perfectly at home in the "Angel",
but her thoughts crowded heel on heel so fast that she had forgotten
them before she could speak.
She remembered that a few weeks ago the housekeeper's husband had died
of typhoid in the Never Never country, and Mrs Herring had nursed him
bravely to the end. She tried to reconcile this with his death this
afternoon in the Boer War, and decided that it didn't matter. He must
have died somewhere, for no one had ever seen him. She was discovering
slowly that this woman was a consummate liar, who lied as the birds
sing, but forgot her many inventions, a born liar without a memory.
Suddenly Mrs Herring said she must be going, and Ada got up to leave.
She lurched as she stood, and pushed her chair over with a clumsy
movement.
"I b'lieve I'm drunk," she muttered, with a foolish titter.