The town of Shaston-on-Sea had shaped itself very much like the Nile,
that Lily of the Desert with its flower-head on the sea and its stem
trailing towards the equator. Shaston had flowered along the seafront in
solid masses of white Georgian and grey stuccoed Victorian houses, and
the Edwardian red villa craze had coloured the fringe of its petals a
hard red. The high, commercial part of Shaston lay in the calyx of the
flower, grouped about King William Street that joined the seafront to
the stalk of the town, and there the simile ended. The Georgians had
planned solidly and well, but the commercial individualists who had
followed them had been men in a hurry to make money. The haste and the
hideousness of it showed everywhere in the long valley behind the town.
Bricks and stucco and slate had been slopped down in great yellow
puddles that had trickled and met and intermingled till the ugliness was
complete. There were rows upon rows of flat-faced, wall-eyed houses,
crowding back to back with miserable little spaces, called “gardens,”
between them. The creators of this base, cynically cheap rubbish heap
may have taken Bermondsey or Bethnal Green as their models. Some
sardonic humorist had flung names about. Blackberry Hill, Alsatia,
Bilson’s Bottom, Rope Alley, Mug’s Lane, Victoria Road, Sea View
Terrace. All this nastiness was within two miles of the Whiteholt beech
woods, and less than a mile from the sea.
Tod Western accepted Shaston-on-Sea as a healthy boy accepts his dinner.
It was there, on the plate, waiting to be eaten, and Tod swallowed it
with relish, not yet having arrived at that analytical stage when a man
worries about his proteids, fats and carbohydrates. The place was new to
Tod, and full of life and mystery. Mr. Flowerdew let the lad out every
afternoon the first week, not from any wish that Tod should enjoy life,
but rather to let him satiate himself with Shaston.
“Let a boy gorge himself with strawberries and he’ll give up wanting
them.”
Tod explored Shaston from the fashionable quarter of St. Margarets in
the West to certain picturesque slums called “The Shingles” and “Red
Ruin” that lay under the shadow of the White Cliff. He went on the pier,
tried the various penny-in-the-slot machines, listened to the band, went
for a sail in one of the pleasure yachts, roared with laughter at Punch
and Judy, got up early and bathed and made friends with a swarthy young
man from Horrox & Horrox’s drapery establishment who promised to teach
him to swim. This Mr. Robert Twine appeared to find Tod very breezy and
refreshing. He was always calling him “You kid” or “You jolly green
apple.” Tod was green, healthily and innocently green. He accepted life,
and he accepted Shaston, putting his penny in the slot of each day and
getting his chocolate or his nougat.
At the end of a week he was whole-heartedly in love with Miss Kitty
Flowerdew. She was a shy girl who had gathered up her brown hair and
lengthened her skirts less than six months ago, and whose prettiness was
the prettiness of a soft dark pansy. She played the piano, and sang in a
pleasant, bird-like way, such songs as “The Carnival,” “Good-bye” and
“Annie Laurie.” She was religious, going to the weekday services at St.
Jude’s, and never missing early communion on Sunday.
Tod fell into such depths of shyness in her presence that he became very
slow over his meals, and was always late for pudding. His adoration
gazed and gazed, and might have gone on gazing in the same blind and
devoted way had not Miss Lena Flowerdew taken it in hand.
“Wake up, moon-calf.”
There was nothing soft or subtle about Lena Flowerdew. She was as ready
to rend Tod’s feelings as though they were calico, and she had no love
for her sister Kitty.
Mr. Rook, who had dinner and tea with the family, seconded her in
de-romancing Tod. Tod did not understand Mr. Edwin Rook in those early
days. The fellow was always quizzing him in a sneering, cold-blooded
sort of way. He was particularly witty if Mr. Flowerdew happened to be
absent.
“Mind you don’t fall into it, Western.”
“Fall into what?” asked Tod.
“Your plate, of course. You ought to look where you’re going.”
Tod glared and blushed, while Miss Flowerdew gave a snigger.
“Expect to see them rolling round the table any moment. Sure they are in
tight, Western?”
“What d’you mean?” and Tod glanced at his buttons.
“Why, your googlies, old chap, those nice, round marble eyes of yours.”
“Shut up,” said Tod.
Kitty would look uncomfortable and a little frightened, and Tod began to
suspect that she was afraid of her sister. He noticed too that she
hardly ever looked at Edwin Rook, but that Edwin Rook often looked at
her. He stared at her in a way that puzzled Tod, his lower lip thrust
out, his pale eyes all big and funny behind his glasses. And once Tod
happened to glance at Lena Flowerdew when Rook was looking at her sister
in that way, and the elder girl’s face shocked Tod. It was a face of
evil hatred, jealousy and scorn, the nostrils pinched and sneering, the
mouth thin and cruel, with its lips stretched tight over Miss
Flowerdew’s prominent teeth.
Quite a number of things began to puzzle Tod.
Why was Kitty Flowerdew so utterly unlike her father or her sister?
Why did Lena Flowerdew hate Kitty? The elder girl was very much the
mistress of her father’s house. She was capable, hard, domineering; she
managed the housekeeping, bullied the little general servant, and paid
the bills. Her voice dominated the place, and the only person whom she
feared was her father. Tod often heard her sneering and gibing at her
sister. She had the most sarcastic, virulent tongue; the tradesmen’s
boys hated her. Tod had caught Kitty with wet eyes, and had felt her
brush past him in a hurry, and he more than suspected that Miss
Flowerdew was responsible.
Edwin Rook puzzled him; he was such a cold fish, such a queer, sarcastic
beast. He showed extraordinary suavity to anyone entering the shop, and
talked with a glibness that fascinated Tod. Rook’s real self came to
life again when the customer had returned to the street. He used to
indulge in little snarling phrases.
“Good day, Mrs. Snobson. Vewy enervating wevver to-day, what! Yes, we
have—ah—a wig-table—ah—don’t ch’you know. Quite the recherché
article—ah—yes. Shall we—ah—pack it in cotton-wool—ah—and dispatch
it to you—madam—in a van—ah?”
As a rule he was more terse and bitter.
“Dirty shoppies, that’s what we are, young Western, and don’t you forget
it.”
“Fleeced the old fool that time! Good biz!”
“Bargains? We bargain ’em. We stuff ’em in worm-holes, or send ’em to
Birmingham.”
Tod was almost equally puzzled by Mr. Eli Flowerdew. There appeared to
be three Mr. Flowerdews—the Flowerdew of the shop, the Flowerdew of the
house, the Flowerdew of the Sabbath. The Flowerdew of the shop was
bland, obliging, persuasive, spouting a Sheraton and Sheffield plate
jargon that Tod had yet to learn. The Flowerdew of the house scolded,
made a noise when it drank, sucked its teeth, was vulgarly hard and
overbearing, kicked the cat, was greedy at meals. The Flowerdew of the
Sabbath came down to breakfast in a very bad temper, put on a frock coat
and a top hat, went to church as though its nostrils were closed against
the smell of original sin, acted as church-warden with an air of severe
serenity, called itself a “mis-er-able sinner,” came home to a hot
dinner, slept on the sofa with a handkerchief over its face, had tea,
went to church again, sang “Rock of Ages,” and spent the rest of the
evening working out the week’s profits. There was yet another and more
compact edition of the Sabbath Flowerdew that was issued on Wednesday
evenings. It appeared at the meeting of the local Social Purity League,
a very fastidious Flowerdew, one of the lily-white angels who guarded
Shaston’s honour.
Tod spoke of his puzzlement to that new friend of his, Bob Twine. They
had just splashed back from the sea, and were drying themselves on the
shingle.
“Can’t make old Flowerdew out at all,” said Tod
“What’s worrying you, kid?”
“He’s such a rum mixture. I go to church with them, you know.”
Bob Twine chuckled. He was a rather _farouche_ young man who had been
born and bred in Shaston.
“Six days with the devil and one with God! Do you know old Flowerdew
killed his wife?”
“What!” said Tod with horror. “You’re rotting.”
“No, I’m not. He made life so sweet for her that she went off her head
and drowned herself.”
“Good Lord!”
“Yes, just about here. That second girl of hers is just like her.”
Tod scratched a bare leg and stared at the shingle.
“But how’d you know?”
“My mother told me.”
“But he goes to church,” said Tod, “and he’s great at those Christian
Purity Meetings, or whatever you call ’em.”
“Oh, chuck it!” quoth Mr. Twine, “the society for getting searchlights
fixed on the pier to prevent a man kissing a girl on the beach after
dark.”
Tod’s last puzzlement was provided by the shop and warehouse. He was
taking the business seriously, and living in a chaos of old books, oak
chests and gate-legged tables, Chippendale chairs, Sheraton sideboards,
Boule tables, bureaux, pictures, prints, old china, pewter, Sheffield
plate, Toby jugs, grandfather clocks, brass candlesticks, warming-pans,
mirrors, fire-backs, dogs, Dinanderie, Dutch tiles, knife boxes,
fenders, wine coolers, samplers in frames, old pistols, blunderbusses,
candelabra, Oriental plates, tall-boys, Welsh dressers. It was all very
queer and confusing. Nothing seemed to have the value which you would
have expected it to have. Ladies of obvious wealth and intelligence came
in and paid what seemed to Tod absurd sums for ugly little pot sheep and
spotted cows and snuff-boxes, and shabby old worm-eaten chairs. Tod
noticed too that the prices varied most queerly. Old Flowerdew and Mr.
Rook seemed to have a game of their own, a game of which Tod was
destined to learn the rudiments.
Mr. Flowerdew had urged him to play the shadow to Edwin Rook.
“Knowledge is money, Western, especially in a business such as this.
Rook’s worth double what he was when he came to me.”
Rook was no very willing instructor, and he did not like Tod, but
necessity and Mr. Flowerdew persuaded him to part with a portion of his
knowledge. He tried to teach Tod the elements of value in the world of
Wardour Street, and he advised Tod to specialise in old books.
“You take that catalogue of Porteous’s and mug at it on your spare time.
Then you’ll know what to watch for and how to grab a prize when the
chance comes. I’ve got enough to do without bothering about books.”
Tod was expected to familiarise himself also with the prices of the
various articles in the shop. Rook started him on furniture, and used to
hold a daily viva-voce examination, running Tod from Sheraton
card-tables to Jacobean chairs. Tod found it rather amusing, and would
have found it more so if Rook had not been such a cold-blooded beast. He
had a suspicion that Rook had never wanted him in the shop, that he was
jealous of him for some reason or other, and Tod wondered why.
As for his love affair it continued to be rather shy and tentative. He
had given up spilling his devotion over the tea-table, largely because
he had realised that Lena Flowerdew and the shopman were ready to use it
as a weapon against Kitty. And Kitty herself gave him a shy hint.
“Tod——”
She called him Tod now.
“Yes——”
“I wish you wouldn’t look at me so much at meals.”
Tod flared scarlet.
“Sorry—I—I didn’t know I did. Of course—you wouldn’t like it.”
She looked at him quickly, approvingly.
“No, it isn’t that, Tod. But Lena—Lena is so quick-tempered.”
“She’s a yellow-faced cat,” said Tod, “but I’d do anything in the world
you asked me to, Kitty.”
Her soft face flushed prettily.
“I think you would, dear.”
So Tod became a model of discretion and of chivalry. There were moments
when Kitty Flowerdew reminded him of his mother, especially in the quick
way her eyes lit up, in the soft wave of her hair, in the poise of her
head when she was working or reading a book. But Kitty Flowerdew lacked
Nancy Western’s strength. She was what our fathers called a “sweet
creature,” sensitive, pliant, easily frightened or suppressed. She was
afraid of her sister, and she was also afraid of Edwin Rook, but she had
no fear of Tod.
Tod had five shillings a week pocket-money, the sum that Uncle Remus
allowed him out of his yearly £40, and nearly all Tod’s pocket-money
found itself being spent in Kitty’s service. He bought her sweets,
flowers, little bottles of scent which she did not dare to use, because
scent always exasperated her father. Her mother had used it.
“Faugh! I won’t have these loose and filthy habits in my house.”
Once or twice she let Tod take her to a concert on the pier, going with
him quite publicly, but not advertising the adventure to the family. The
lad was very much in love with her, and behaved to her always like a
shrewd and big-hearted man. His boyish pride and delight in her would
have touched a few harder hearts than Kitty Flowerdew’s. There is no
doubt that she loved Tod in her shy and rather frightened way, liking
his sturdiness, his brown and intelligent head, and his eyes that always
looked at you as straight as the eyes of a dog, but she was afraid of
her father and her sister, and she was afraid of Edwin Rook.
“I say, how pretty you look.”
“Do I?”
“You’ve got such wonderful hair, Kitty.”
“I don’t think you ought to tell me I am pretty,” she would say, with a
secret and half guilty thrill.
“But it’s the truth. You are.”
Tod went to church with the Flowerdew family, and sat between Kitty and
her father. He had always loathed churchgoing, but even the dismal St.
Jude’s at Shaston was made mysterious and beautiful by Kitty’s presence.
He loved to kneel beside her, feel the soft rustle of her clothes, and
listen to the murmur of her voice when she joined in a public prayer. He
would cast furtive and devoted glances at her soft profile; she charmed
him particularly when her eyes were closed, and her long dark lashes
made sweet and gentle shadows on her cheeks. He almost forgot Mr.
Flowerdew, and the aggressive voice that insisted on reminding God that
he was a “mis-er-able sinner.”
An incident that occurred late in the autumn taught Tod to look at life
and Kitty Flowerdew with a new alertness. They had arranged to meet one
Saturday afternoon and to walk along the cliffs to Melling Gap. It was
one of those innocent little conspiracies so dear to the hearts of a boy
and a girl, and had Tod been challenged to account for it to the
Pharisees of Shaston he might have flared into that fighting mood that
dares prurience to come out into the open.
It was one of those tranquil autumn days and they were sitting on a
rough seat under a windblown thorn tree not far from the edge of the
cliff when a man, who was strolling along the path, stopped and looked
hard at them. He stood there at their backs for fully a minute, grinning
now and again, but not with pleasure. He was about to walk on again,
when Tod happened to look round and so discovered his presence.
“Hallo; it’s Rook!”
Kitty Flowerdew went white, and remained still and motionless for a
moment like a startled bird. Tod felt her shrink from him in a queer,
frightened way.
“Hallo, Rook.”
The shopman grinned maliciously at Tod.
“Thought you were cycling to Pentworth?”
“Did I say so?” asked Tod.
“Mind you don’t fall over that cliff after such a whopper.”
Tod stood up, with a red face, but Edwin Rook walked on.
“Tod——”
He glanced at Kitty and saw a blackness of fear in her soft eyes.
“He’ll tell, Tod.”
“Let him. What’s the harm?”
“Oh, you don’t understand, dear,” she said.