TO tell the truth, I was not feeling in my best form. Just before
entering the tramcar I had a brief dispute with my mother in regard to
the contents of a fruit-shop at the beginning of Gray’s Inn Road. There
are many subjects on which the two of us fail to see eye to eye, and
frequently a somewhat acrimonious debate ends in triumph on her side. At
times, we get along admirably together; at others a recommendation from
her that I should not exhibit temper goads me into something like fury.
The storm over, I am sorry that it happened. My mother has often
remarked that I can be a perfect lady when I like.
“Not a one to nurse a grievance,” she adds. “A couple of minutes and
it’s all past and forgotten.”
Our entry into the car was scarcely auspicious, partly because the
question of cherries had not vanished from my thoughts, partly because I
wanted to go up the steps and my mother was resolved to go inside; the
conductor spoke sharply, and my mother resented his tones. He expressed
satisfaction in the knowledge that all passengers did not closely
resemble us, and my mother retorted that if there were many conductors of
his style people would prefer to walk. He said he supposed that she,
being a woman, would insist on having the final word, and my mother
suggested it must give him a nasty shock to find himself correct for the
first time in his life; she added something about his features which
struck me as being not in quite the best taste. I tugged at her arm.
“You be quiet!” she said to me sharply. “Perfect worry, that’s what you
are. Catch me ever letting you come out again to look at the shops!”
The car started from Holborn on its twopenny journey to Stamford Hill in
these circumstances. The conductor, in collecting fares, scowled at me,
and I frowned back at him; before going up the steps he looked in again
to say ironically that we were a pretty pair. A young man with his
sweetheart seated next to us thought the remark was addressed to him, and
there ensued a fresh wrangle, at the end of which the youth took the
conductor’s number, and half the passengers said the conductor had not
gone outside the bounds of common civility; the other half referred to
him as a Jack-in-office. The young woman spoke to me and made some
complimentary allusion to my looks and general appearance.
“Keep still!” ordered my mother. “I won’t have you talking to Tom, Dick,
and Harry.”
I knew that argument was useless; it would have been a waste of time to
point out that these names could not be rightly applied to my new friend.
She, an amiable person, showed me the Holborn Town Hall, and remarked
that she sometimes went to concerts there; the reference must have
suggested something to me, for, despite my mother’s efforts to restrain,
I lifted up my voice and sang. It was but a simple melody, but the
earnestness I put into it seemed to touch the hearts of other passengers,
and when I finished they had ceased the dispute regarding the conductor
and were nodding to me pleasantly.
“Less noise inside there!” commanded the conductor, returned from
upstairs.
“Let her sing if she wants to,” said a matronly woman near the door.
“I’m not a-going to have this tramcar turned into a Queen’s Hall,” he
declared, “and you ought to know yourself better than encourage her.”
“I was young myself once.”
“That wasn’t yesterday,” he suggested.
The song had received so much favour that I considered the wisdom of
giving them either another or diversifying the entertainment by offering
some of my celebrated imitations. These have always been highly
successful at home and at the houses of relatives; an uncle of mine
remarked on one occasion that they were far and away superior to the
originals. I had not, however, previously attempted them before an
audience of strangers, and this, for the moment, made me shy and nervous.
The moment of hesitation over, I started.
“Now, that’s what I call clever,” said the young man near to us. “Milly,
if you could only do something like that I might get reelly fond of you!”
My first idea was to make eyes at him; reflection told me that the love
of a man who was so easily influenced could never be worth having, and I
reassured the girl with a smile. Glancing up and down the car, I could
see that I had now secured complete attention. Men had folded up evening
newspapers, and were waiting to see what I would do next; women beamed in
my direction and one opposite offered me chocolates. I took the box, but
my mother, whose knowledge of the rules of etiquette forms the subject of
one of her proudest boasts, said it would be more genteel to select only
one of the sweets. I accepted the hint, and my mother—now in good
temper, and making no attempt to conceal the fact—remarked to the others
that I had always been noted for excellence of behaviour.
I gave next a recitation—one of my own composition—a short but telling
piece, with somewhat humorous references to the incident of a cat who
found its saucer of milk empty. This went only fairly well; I think I
must give more care to voice-production. The matronly lady near the door
asked what it was supposed to be all about, and my mother readily
furnished a sort of synopsis. Some one begged I would sing again, but,
discouraged by the cool acceptance of the recital, I declined, until my
mother begged and entreated me not to sing. At the conclusion there was
that genuine and hearty applause which every public performer recognises
and welcomes.
“Bless my soul!” cried some of the passengers, “Shoreditch Church,
already!” They said goodbye to me, and I endeavoured to thank them for
their kindness in listening to my poor efforts. One offered me a coin,
which I flung upon the floor. I am an amateur, not a professional.
It was as the car went up Stoke Newington Road that I introduced my most
diverting item. It has always pleased, but I was not certain that here
it would be appreciated. The idea is to begin with a smile, to allow the
smile to broaden and become more pronounced; this is followed by a
chuckle, and then comes a peal of laughter. My mother identified the
early stages, and, trembling with pride, warned the rest to pay special
and particular notice. I am not exaggerating when I say that in less
than a minute I had the whole car with me—every one amused, some roaring.
The conductor put his hand over his face, but was compelled to give way,
and he went so far as to admit, very handsomely, that it was the funniest
thing he had witnessed outside the Dalston Hippodrome.
“Don’t tire yourself, darling,” begged my mother solicitously, and
speaking in aristocratic tones. “Be careful not to overdo it. You know
what you’re like when you’ve been excited.”
I pushed her advice aside, and when the car slowed up near the station I
do believe all who were going on to the terminus felt honestly sorry to
see me preparing to leave. As we stood on the pavement—the conductor had
given us a hand, and he apologised for brusqueness of behaviour at the
start, explaining that there had been an awkward passenger on the
previous journey, and they had come to words—as we stood, I say, on the
pavement, every one in the car waved hands, and the young man, I was
gratified to notice, blew a kiss.
“Hullo, Ernest!” said my mother. “Here we are at last. Been waiting
long?”
“Months and months and months,” replied my father. “What sort of a girl
has she been? Baby,” he went on, addressing me, and taking me in his
arms, “you may be as clever as your mother tries to make out, but I take
me oath you don’t get none the lighter as time goes on!”