S. GEDGE ANTIQUES peered dubiously at his niece. He had a
dislike of women and more than any other kind he disliked young women.
But one fact was already clear; he had let himself in for it. Frowning
at this bitter thought he cast his mind back in search of a reason.
Knowing himself so well he was sure that a reason there must be and
a good one for so grave an indiscretion. Suddenly he remembered the
charwoman and his brow cleared a little.
“Let me have a look at you, niece.” As a hawk might gaze at a wren he
gazed at June through his spectacles. “Tall and strong seemingly. I
hope you’re not afraid of hard work.”
“I’m not afraid of anything, Uncle Si,” said June with calm precision.
“No answers,” said S. Gedge curtly. “If you intend to stay here you’ve
got to mind your p’s and q’s and you’ve got to earn your keep.” He
sighed and impatiently plucked the spectacles from his nose. “Thought
so,” he snarled. “I’m looking at you with my selling spectacles. For
this job I’ll need my buying ones.”
Delving into the capacious pockets of his dressing gown, the old man
was able to produce a second pair of glasses. He adjusted them grimly.
“Now I can begin to see you. Favour your father seemingly. And he was
never a mucher--wasn’t your father.”
“Dad is dead, Uncle Si.” There was reproof in June’s strong voice.
“And he was a very good man. There was never a better father than Dad.”
“Must have been a good man. He hardly left you and your mother the
price of his funeral.”
“It wasn’t Dad’s fault that he was unlucky in business.”
“Unlucky.” S. Gedge Antiques gave a sharp tilt to his “buying”
spectacles. “I don’t believe in luck myself.”
“Don’t you?” said June, with a touch of defiance.
“No answers.” Uncle Si held up a finger of warning. “Your luck is
you’re not afraid of work. If you stop here you’ll have to stir
yourself.”
June confessed a modest willingness to do her best.
S. Gedge continued to gaze at her. It was clear that he had undertaken
an immense responsibility. A live sharp girl, nineteen years of age,
one of these modern hussies, with opinions of her own, was going to
alter things. It was no use burking the fact, but a wise man would have
looked it in the face a little sooner.
“The char is taking a day off,” he said, breaking this reverie. “So I’d
better give you a hand with your box. You can then change your frock
and come and tidy up. If you give your mind to your job I daresay I’ll
be able to do without the char altogether. The woman’s a nuisance, as
all women are. But she’s the worst kind of a nuisance, and I’ve been
trying to be quit of her any time this ten years.”
In silence June followed Uncle Si kitchenwards, slowly removing a pair
of black kid gloves as she did so. He helped her to carry a trunk
containing all her worldly possessions up a steep, narrow, twisty
flight of uncarpeted stairs to a tiny attic, divided by a wooden
partition from a larger one, and lit by a grimy window in the roof. It
was provided with a bedstead, a mattress, a chest of drawers, a washing
stand and a crazy looking-glass.
“When the boy comes, he’ll find you a couple o’ blankets, I daresay.
Meantime you can fall to as soon as you like.”
June lost no time in unpacking. She then exchanged her new mourning
for an old dress in which to begin work. As she did so her depression
was terrible. The death of her mother, a month ago, had meant the loss
of everything she valued in the world. There was no one else, no other
thing that mattered. But she had promised that she would be a brave
girl and face life with a stout heart, and she was going to be as good
as her word.
For that reason she did not allow herself to spend much time over the
changing of her dress. She would have liked to sit on the edge of
the small bed in that dismal room and weep. The future was an abyss.
Her prospects were nil. She had ambition, but she lacked the kind of
education and training that could get her out of the rut; and all the
money she had in the world, something less than twenty pounds, was in
her purse in a roll of notes, together with a few odd shillings and
coppers. Nothing more remained of the sum that had been realized by the
sale of her home, which her mother and she had striven so hard to keep
together. And when this was gone she would have to live on the charity
of her Uncle Si, who was said to be a very hard man and for whom she
had already conceived an odd dislike, or go out and find something to
do.
Such an outlook was grim. But as June put on an old house frock she
shut her lips tight and determined not to think about to-morrow.
Uncle Si had told her to clean out the grate in the back kitchen. She
flattered herself that she could clean out a grate with anybody. Merely
to stop the cruel ache at the back of her brain she would just think of
her task, and nothing else.
In about ten minutes June came down the attic stairs, fully equipped
even to an overall which she had been undecided whether to pack in her
box but had prudently done so.
“Where are the brushes and dust pan, Uncle Si?”
“In the cupboard under the scullery sink.” A growl emerged from the
packing case, followed by a gargoyle head. “And when you are through
with the kitchen grate you can come and clear up this litter, and then
you can cook a few potatoes for dinner--that’s if you know how.”
“Of course I know how,” said June.
“Your mother seems to have brought you up properly. If you give your
mind to your job and you’re not above soiling your hands I quite expect
we’ll be able to do without the char.”
June, her large eyes fixed on Uncle Si, did not flinch from the
prospect. She went boldly, head high, in the direction of the scullery
sink while S. Gedge Antiques proceeded to burrow deeper and deeper into
the packing case.
Presently he dug out a bowl of Lowestoft china, which he tapped with a
finger nail and held up to the light.
“It’s a good piece,” he reflected. “There’s one thing to be said for
that boy--he don’t often make mistakes. I wonder what he paid for
this. However, I shall know presently,” and S. Gedge placed the bowl on
a chair opposite the engraving “after” P. Bartolozzi.
His researches continued, but there was not much to follow. Still,
that was to be expected. William had only been given twenty pounds and
the bowl alone was a safe fiver. The old man was rather sorry that
William had not been given more to invest. However, there was a copper
coal-scuttle that might be polished up to fetch three pounds, and a
set of fire irons and other odds and ends, not of much account in
themselves, but all going to show that good use had been made of the
money.
“Niece,” called Uncle Si when at last the packing case was empty, “come
and give a hand here.”
With bright and prompt efficiency June helped to clear up the débris
and to haul the packing case into the backyard.
The old man said at the successful conclusion of these operations:
“Now see what you can do with those potatoes. Boil ’em in their skins.
There’s less waste that way and there’s more flavour.”
“What time is dinner, Uncle Si?”
“One o’clock sharp.”
S. Gedge Antiques, having put on his collar, and discarded his dressing
gown for the frock coat of commerce, shambled forward into the front
shop with the air of a man who has no time to waste upon trivialities.
So far things were all right. The girl seemed willing and capable
and he hoped she would continue to be respectful. The times were
against it, certainly. In the present era of short skirts, open-work
stockings, fancy shoes and bare necks, it was hard, even for experts
like himself, to say what the world was coming to. Girls of the new
generation were terribly independent. They would sauce you as soon
as look at you, and there was no doubt they knew far more than their
grandmothers. In taking under his roof the only child of a half-brother
who had died worth precious little, S. Gedge Antiques was simply asking
for trouble. At the same time there was no need to deny that June
had begun well, and if at eight o’clock the next morning he was in a
position to say, “Mrs. R. you can take another day off and get yourself
a better billet,” he would feel a happier man.
A voice with a ring in it came from the shop threshold. “Uncle Si, how
many potatoes shall I cook?”
“Three middling size. One for me, one for you, one for William if he
comes. And if he don’t come, he can have it cold for his supper.”
“Or I can fry it,” said the voice from the threshold.
“You can fry it?” S. Gedge peered towards the voice over the top of his
“buying” spectacles. “Before we go in for fancy work let us see what
sort of a job you make of a plain bilin’. Pigs mustn’t begin to fly too
early--not in the West Central postal district.”
“I don’t know much about pigs,” said June, calmly, “but I’ll boil a
potato with anyone.”
“And eat one too I expect,” said S. Gedge severely closuring the
incident.
The axiom he had just laid down applied to young female pigs
particularly.