The new Canteen in Pollard Street was opened before Christmas.
Lesbia Willoughby, in an immense overall of light blue-and-white check,
stood behind a long buffet and demanded stridently whether she wasn't
too exactly like a barmaid for words, and Char's consignment of helpers
worked for the most part briskly and efficiently, only the unfortunate
Miss Plumtree upsetting a mug of scalding tea over herself at the
precise moment when Miss Vivian, trim and workmanlike in her dark
uniform, entered the big hall and stood watching the scene with her
arrogant, observant gaze. She did not ask Miss Plumtree whether her hand
was scalded, but neither did she rebuke her very evident clumsiness. She
moved slowly and imperially through the thick tobacco-laden atmosphere,
speaking to several of the men, and silently observing the demeanour of
her staff.
The following week she issued an office circular in which the precise
direction which the activity of each worker was to take was inexorably
laid down.
Miss Plumtree was banished _à perpetuité_ to the pantry, to wash up at
full speed over a sink. She worked at the Canteen on Mondays, always the
busiest evening. In the same shift were Mrs. Potter and Miss Henderson,
to each of whom was appointed the care of an urn, Grace Jones, Miss
Delmege, and Miss Marsh. Miss Delmege stood behind the buffet, which
position, she said, seemed very strange to her from being so like a
counter in a shop, and the other two took orders at the various small
tables in the hall, and hurried to and fro with laden trays.
No one would have dreamed of disputing this arbitrary disposal of
energies, but it struck Grace as extremely unfortunate that Miss Marsh
and Miss Delmege should select their first Monday together at the
Canteen for the form of unpleasantness known as "words." Miss Jones
became the medium by which alone either would address the other.
"I'm sorry, dear, but Delmege has really got on my nerves lately, and
you can tell her I said so if you like. When it comes to suggesting that
I don't do sufficient work, there's simply nothing more to be said. You
heard her the other night saying some people were so lucky they could
always get off early when they liked. Just because I'd cleared up by six
o'clock, for once in a way!"
"But she didn't say she meant you," urged Miss Jones, who was far too
sympathetic not to take any grievance confided to her at the teller's
own valuation, and foresaw besides an extremely awkward evening at the
Canteen.
"Some people aren't straightforward enough to say what they mean right
out, but that doesn't prevent others from seeing the point of the sort
of remarks they pass," declared Miss Marsh cryptically.
"If she told you she really hadn't meant anything personal, wouldn't it
be all right?"
But Grace did not make the suggestion very hopefully, and her room-mate
merely repeated gloomily that Delmege had really got on her nerves
lately, and though she did not think herself one to bear malice, yet
there were limits to all things.
Grace's success with Miss Delmege on their way down the street at seven
o'clock that evening, was even less apparent.
"It's all very well, dear, but I've always been _most_ sensitive. I
can't help it. I know it's very silly, but there it is. As a tiny tot,
mother always used to say of me, 'That child Vera is so sensitive, she
can't bear a sharp word.' I know it's very silly to be thin-skinned, and
causes one a great deal of suffering as one goes through life, but it's
the way I'm made. I always was so."
This complacent monologue lasted almost to the bottom of Pollard Street,
when Grace interrupted desperately: "Do make it up with her before we
start this job. It's so much nicer to be all cheerful together when
we've got a hard evening in front of us."
"I'm quite willing to be friendly, when Miss Marsh speaks to me first.
At the present moment, dear, as you know, she's behaving very strangely
indeed, and doesn't speak to me at all. Of course, I don't mind either
way--in fact, it only amuses me--but I don't mind telling you, Gracie,
that I think her whole way of carrying on is most strange altogether."
Grace felt a desperate certainty that affairs were indeed past remedy
when Miss Delmege had to resort so freely to her favourite adjective
"strange" to describe the manners and conduct of Miss Marsh.
She entered the hall rather dejectedly. It was very tiring to hurry
about with heavy trays at the end of a long day's work, and the
atmosphere seemed thicker than ever tonight and the noise greater. Grace
hung up her coat and hat, and hastily made room on the already
overcrowded peg for Miss Marsh's belongings, as she heard Miss Delmege
say gently "_Excuse_ me," and deliberately appropriate to her own use
the peg selected by her neighbour.
"Did you see that?" demanded Miss Marsh excitedly. "Isn't that Delmege
all over? After this, Gracie, I shall simply not speak to her till she
apologizes. Simply ignore her. Believe me, dear, it's the only way. I
shall behave as though Delmege didn't exist."
This threat was hardly carried out to the letter. No one could have
failed to see a poignant consciousness of Miss Delmege's existence in
the elaborate blindness and deafness which assailed Miss Marsh when
within her neighbourhood.
Miss Delmege adopted a still more trying policy, and addressed acid
remarks in a small, penetrating voice to her surroundings.
"I must say the state of _some_ trays is like nothing on earth!" she
said to Grace, when Miss Marsh had spilt a cup of cocoa over her
tray-cloth and brought it back to the counter for a fresh supply. "How
the poor men stand it! I must say I do like things to be _dainty_
myself. Give me a meal daintily served and I don't care what it is! All
depends what one's been used to, I suppose."
"I should be awfully obliged, Gracie, if you could get hold of a clean
tray-cloth for me," said Miss Marsh furiously. "There doesn't seem to be
anybody not-what-I-call-_capable_ here."
Grace looked appealingly at Miss Delmege, but the pince-nez were
directed towards the roof, and Miss Delmege's elegantly curved fingers
were engaged in swiftly unloading a tray of clean plates.
"A clean cloth for this tray, please," said Gracie rapidly. "There's
been a spill."
Miss Delmege, appearing quite capable of seeing through the back of her
head, still kept her back turned to the infuriated Miss Marsh, and said
coldly: "How very messy, dear! But I'm sure you're not responsible for
that. Some people are so strange; their fingers seem to be all thumbs."
"I can't stand here all night, Gracie!" exclaimed Miss Marsh, recklessly
tipping all the dirty crockery from the tray on to the counter. "You
wouldn't let me have your cloth, I suppose, would you, dear?" At the
same time she skilfully disproved her own supposition by rapidly
possessing herself of Grace's clean tray-cloth.
"Of all the coolness! Here, dear; I'll give you another one. What's your
order?"
"Cup of tea, sausage and mashed, roll of bread."
Miss Delmege gave the short mirthless snigger with which she always
acclaimed such orders, so as to make it clear that she did not take
anything so vulgar as a sausage and mashed potatoes seriously, and
further exclaimed, "They are quaint, aren't they?" as she telephoned
through to the kitchen.
"Miss Jones," said Char's cool voice behind her, "I've been watching you
for the last five minutes. Kindly ask for what you want a little more
quickly. You seem to forget that the man is waiting for his supper."
She waited while the order was being rapidly executed from the kitchen,
watching the two girls. Miss Delmege coloured faintly, and moved about
restlessly under the scrutiny of which she was obviously conscious, but
Grace's small, pale face had not altered, and she stood by the counter
waiting for her tray, gazing quite interestedly at a small group of new
arrivals.
Mrs. Willoughby stood at the door, eagerly ushering in visitors whom she
had obviously invited to survey the scene of her activities.
"This is my little job--plenty of the dear fellows here tonight, you
see. Aren't they dears, and don't they look too delightfully at home for
words? I must fly back to my barmaid's job now; you'll see me behind the
counter in another minute, Joanna. I find I have the most wonderful
talent for _chaff_--the men love it so, you know. Do come in,
John--you're my chief asset here tonight; the men will simply love your
Military Cross. I want you to come round and tell one or two of my
special pets exactly how you won it."
Only the secret pressure of his Cousin Joanna's hand on his arm and the
mirthful gleam in her blue eyes prevented Captain Trevellyan, with his
Military Cross, from taking an instant departure.