KICKS AND HALFPENCE
More than four years had elapsed since Mrs. Shafto and her son had
driven away from “Littlecote” behind a pair of smart bay steppers. (The
widow was determined to keep up what she was pleased to call “her
position” to the last.) Immediately succeeding this dignified exit came
a woeful change in their circumstances. Mrs. Shafto was obliged to make
the best of boarding-house and ’bus, and Douglas, thanks to the
exertions of his friends the Tremenheeres, found a situation in a
mercantile house in the City. There was no time for him to pick and
choose. It was imperative that he should begin to earn without delay,
and not, as his parent frankly remarked, “look to a poor widow for
support.” This condition of abject poverty was, she declared, “entirely
due to his father’s criminal carelessness respecting his affairs. She
had what would barely keep her alive”—170 pounds per annum—“and that
was all.” As for Douglas, he must work.
Although they were not congenial companions Douglas faithfully
accompanied his mother in her varied wanderings, supported her in
action with enraged landladies, helped her out of a libel case, covered
her reverses and retreats, and lived by command under the same roof.
For the last eighteen months the pair had been established at a
well-managed private hotel in Lincoln Square, Bayswater, W. “Malahide”
was a flourishing concern; two substantial houses had been thrown into
one; the rooms were spacious, clean, and adequately furnished; the food
was plain but abundant. The double drawing-room contained a fine piano,
one or two sofas, and card tables; also a sufficiency of sound and
reliable chairs; but not an ornament, save two clocks—not one paper
fan, nor bunch of coloured grasses, nor a single antimacassar, not even
a shell! Such amazing restraint gave the apartments an empty but
dignified appearance.
Among its various advantages, “Malahide” was within a few minutes’ walk
of “the Grove,” and “Underground,” a situation which appealed to men in
business and to women whose chief occupation was shopping.
Mrs. Shafto appreciated her present quarters for several excellent
reasons. Here she had no giggling young rivals and was, even at
forty-five, the best-looking and best-dressed of all the lady boarders.
Moreover, she had found a friend and admirer in her neighbour at
meals—a certain Mr. Manasseh Levison, a widower, with a stout figure, a
somewhat fleshy nose, and a pair of fine piercing black eyes. He was
the proprietor of a fashionable and flourishing antiquities and
furniture business in a well-known thoroughfare, and was considered one
of the best judges of old silver and china in the trade.
It exasperated Shafto to listen to his mother’s “table talk,” and he
made a point of sitting as far as possible from her vicinity. She liked
to impress Levison and other with highly-coloured reminiscences of her
grand acquaintances; even the Tremenheeres—with whom she had quarrelled
so bitterly—were dragged in and shown off as intimates. More than once
Shafto had felt his face burn, as exaggerations and glorifications were
unfolded in his parent’s far-carrying and assertive treble.
Besides Mr. Manasseh Levison, were the two Misses Smith—twins—genteel,
middle-aged spinsters, who, until the arrival of the sprightly and
attractive widow, had alternately cherished high hopes of the wealthy
Jew. Their chief energies were devoted to the task of blowing one
another’s trumpets, thereby drawing attention to particular virtues and
modestly hidden accomplishments. For example, the elder would say:
“Darling Ella is so clever at cooking, as good as any French chef, her
sauces and savouries are too wonderful.”
They were!
And Ella, in repayment, assured her listeners that Jessie had a perfect
genius for gardening and housekeeping; and yet it was whispered that
this effusively fond couple, when alone, quarrelled and wrangled as
cruelly as the notorious Kilkenny cats.
Among other patrons at “Malahide” were two quiet, polite little
Japanese gentlemen, Mr. Den and Mr. Yabe; Madame Galli, a shrivelled
old woman in a cheap wig, with sharp rat’s eyes that nothing escaped,
the soul of good nature, rich, miserly and incredibly mischievous.
There were several boarders who were in business in the City, and Mr.
Hutton, a careworn man of fifty, who spent his days working in the
British Museum. Next to him at table sat Douglas Shafto, now a well
set-up, self-possessed young fellow, who still retained something of
the cheery voice and manner of the Public School boy. Thanks to his
steadiness and fair knowledge of French and German, he was drawing a
salary of a hundred and fifty per annum.
His neighbour on the left happened to be his own cousin, Sandy Larcher,
older by three years, and in the same office, but receiving a lower
“screw,” Sandy was of the “knut” tribe, a confident authority on dress,
noisy, slangy, and familiar; much given to cigarettes and music-halls,
a slacker at work, but remarkably active at play and, on the whole,
rather a good sort.
Sandy’s mother, Mrs. Larcher, the widow of a cab proprietor, was Mrs.
Shafto’s only sister, and in the days of that sister’s glory had never
obtruded herself; but now that poor Lucilla had come down in the world,
she had advanced with open arms, and at “Monte Carlo,” the abode of the
Larcher family, Mrs. Shafto occasionally spent a week end. The
“go-as-you-please” atmosphere, late hours, breakfast in bed, and casual
meals, recalled old, and not unhappy times. Mrs. Larcher, who had never
been a beauty, was now a fat woman past fifty, lazy, good-natured, and
absolutely governed by her children. Besides Sandy, the dandy, she had
two daughters, Delia and Cossie.
Delia was on the stage (musical comedy), petite, piquant, and very
lively; a true grasshopper, living only for the summer; a loud,
reckless but respectable young woman, who, having but thirty shillings
a week salary and to find her own “tights,” was ever ready to accept
motor drives, dinners, or a smart hat, or frock, from any of her
“boys.” Cossie, the stay-at-home, was round-faced and plump; a tireless
talker and tennis player. She managed the house, held the slender
purse, accepted her sister’s cast-offs, and always had a “case” on with
somebody. Cossie was exceedingly anxious (being the eldest of the
family) to secure a home of her own, and made this alarmingly obvious.
To “Monte Carlo” Douglas, the highly presentable cousin, was frequently
commanded by both mother and aunt. At first he had hated this duty, but
nevertheless went, in order to please and silence his parent, whose
hand plied the goad and who otherwise “nagged” at him in public and in
private. In private she pointed out that the Larcher family were his
own blood relations, “so different from his father’s side of the house,
which, since his death, had ignored both her and him, and never even
sent a wreath to the funeral!” By slow and painful degrees Douglas
became accustomed to “Monte Carlo”; at first the manners and customs of
his cousins had a rasping effect, and it was more than a year before he
really fell into line, and visited his kindred without pressure. The
girls were not bad-looking—in a flamboyant style—and effusively
good-natured; they took his chaff and criticism without offence, and
accepted with giggles his hints with respect to manners and appearance.
When Douglas happened to be expected, they did not stroll about
slip-shod in dressing-gowns, with their hair hanging loose, or bombard
one another with corks and crusts.
For his part, he brought them books and chocolates, watered the garden,
mowed the tennis ground, mended the bells, and made himself generally
useful. At first this flashy, muddling, free-and-easy household had
disgusted him; and his cool assured manner and critical air irritated
his relatives; whilst his attitude of superior comment had proved a
vexatious restraint. But week by week Douglas came to see that it was
to this particular class he now belonged. These were his nearest
relatives, and he told himself that he must endeavour to accommodate
himself to circumstances—and them; otherwise he was a snob, a beastly
snob!
His first Christmas holidays had been spent at “Tremenheere,” where he
had received a heart-warming welcome. Other school friends had also
claimed him, but his time was now mortgaged to the office, and by
degrees correspondence and intimacy languished—or, rather, changed. His
contemporaries had gone forth into the wide world; the Army, the
Diplomatic Service, and India, had summoned them, their paths in life
lay far apart from that of a mere correspondence clerk, and only the
old birds remained in the nests. Those who were in England wrote and
made arrangements for meetings in town, but Shafto found ready and real
excuses and generally withdrew from his former circle. He liked his
friends—nothing could offer him so much pleasure as their company—but
he realised that in time they would arrive at the parting of the ways,
and it was for him to make the first step in that direction; in such
homes as “Monte Carlo” he must in future find society and
entertainment.
“Monte Carlo” (sixpence return, third class, from town, and eight
minutes’ walk from the station) was a grotesque, little red-faced
abode, situated among a tangle of villas and roads. It stood detached
in a garden, with—O! theme of pride—a full-sized tennis court. There
were also several flower beds, and six unhappy gooseberry bushes, but
_the_ feature was the lawn; here also were seats and a small striped
awning. The grounds of “Monte Carlo” were only divided from its
immediate neighbours by a thin wooden partition—there was no such thing
as privacy or seclusion. Conversation was audible, and the boisterous
jokes of “Chatsworth” and “Travancore” were thoroughly enjoyed at
“Monte Carlo.” In the same way “Monte Carlo” overheard various
interesting items of news, some sharp quarrels and, once or twice,
unpleasant personal truths! On the last occasion, the remark was so
unfriendly (it dealt with Cossie’s methods) that when “Chatsworth,”
ignorant of offence, sent the same evening an emissary to borrow three
pints of stout, the reply was a harsh refusal!
Within doors space was naturally more contracted, but the click of the
opposite gate, the sound of the next door dinner-bell and gramophone
remained, as it were, common property! The tiny hall was choked with
umbrellas, wraps, tennis shoes, and tattered sixpenny books; the
drawing-room, with its pink casement curtains, gaudy cretonne covers,
huge signed photographs, jars of dusty artificial flowers, packs of
dingy cards, and scraps of millinery, looked “lived in”—but tawdry and
untidy. The big Chesterfield sofa—a wonderful bargain—had broken
springs (perhaps it was not such a wonderful bargain?) and many hills
and hollows. In the roomiest of these last the mistress of the house
was more or less a fixture, and the whole apartment, like a _passée_
beauty, was to be seen at its best by candle-light.
The dining-room was chiefly notable for the heavy atmosphere of
tobacco, and multitudes of empty black bottles under the sideboard. The
kitchen, both in sound and smell, absolutely refused to be ignored.
Such was “Monte Carlo!”
The inmates of “Malahide” have received honourable mention, but nothing
has been said of Mrs. Malone, the proprietress, who kept the
establishment running, as it were, on well-oiled wheels. Joyce Malone
was an Irishwoman who had met with cruel reverses. Well born, well
educated, and an almost penniless widow, she thankfully accepted the
post of housekeeper in a nobleman’s family, and there remained until
her savings, and a timely legacy, enabled her to set up for herself.
From the first she had met with success. Her terms were moderate;
butter, eggs and poultry came from her native land; there was no
skimping of coals, or hot water; and clients—who became
permanent—flocked to “Malahide.” In appearance Mrs. Malone was a tall
old woman, with a stoop, who shuffled a little as she walked, and
always wore a black gown, a gold Indian chain, and a white lace cap
with ribbon bows. She kept severely aloof from her guests and had her
own little lair on the second landing. It was, she said, “her business
to see to domestic matters, and not to gossip or play bridge.”
Nevertheless, she had her favourites: Mr. Hutton and young Shafto.
(Envy and malice declared that Mrs. Malone had _no_ favourites among
her own sex.) She was drawn to the boy by his air of good breeding and
admirable manners; also she noticed with secret indignation how
shamefully his mother neglected and snubbed him. She took far more
notice of Jimmy Black, or Sandy Larcher, than of her own son. No doubt
she disliked to be so unmistakably dated by his tall, well-grown youth,
and her hostess mentally agreed with a gossip who declared that “Mrs.
Shafto didn’t care a pin for her boy—rather the other way, and if she
had kept her figure, she could never keep her word, or a secret—and was
a hard, selfish, grasping woman.”
Although Shafto and his mother lived under the same roof, she,
figuratively, sat with folded hands as far as he was concerned; it was
kindly Mrs. Malone who looked after his little comforts, saw that his
socks were mended, and made him a hot drink when he had a heavy cold.
Also, as a special honour, she invited him to her “den,” gave him a cup
of coffee, or a glass of port, and talked to him of her Irish home and
her young days. Once upon a time she had been a capital horsewoman, and
it was strange to hear this old lady and the bright-eyed youth
comparing notable runs.
One day in the Strand at luncheon hour, Shafto came face to face with
his old friend Geoffrey Tremenheere, looking bronzed, splendidly fit,
and independent as a prince.
“Hallo, Douglas!” he exclaimed. “Well, if this isn’t a piece of luck!
How are you, old man?”
“All right—and you?”
“I arrived from India yesterday and go up to Scotland to-night—the
family are all on the moors. I’ve just been looking for a pair of guns.
Come and give your opinion, and then we will lunch. I’m stopping at the
Grand.”
“I’d like to awfully, I need not tell you, Geoff, but I’ve got to be
back at 1.15 sharp—it’s mail day.”
“Oh, hang mail day! Come along and lunch—and let us have a good old
_bukh_!”
“I don’t know what that means—but I’ll be glad of lunch, and more glad
of a bit of a jaw!”
“Now, tell me all about yourself, Douglas,” said his schoolfellow, as
they sat _vis-à-vis_ in the marble hall. “You don’t look particularly
chirpy. Still in the office?”
“Yes—I expect to live and die there.”
“Poor old boy—and doing work you hate!”
“Oh, I’m getting used to it now. I shall manage to hang on.”
“And Mrs. Shafto—how is she?”
“As usual—going strong. We live in the same boarding-house.”
“’Umph! Well, let me tell you this—you are in the black books at home.
I hear you refuse all invitations and make monstrous excuses.”
“You know I’d love to go down to ‘Tremenheere,’ but how can I? My time
is not my own, and I only got a week’s holiday in August and three days
at Christmas. There’s nothing to tell about my career—let’s hear
yours?”
Thus invited, Geoffrey, a gay young officer in a crack regiment, broke
into short and vivid descriptions of Indian quarters, polo matches, and
capital black-buck shooting in the Central Provinces, and gave a full
and detailed history of his one tiger.
Shafto, an eager and enthusiastic listener, exclaimed:
“I say, how splendid! Do you know, Geoff, I’d give ten years of this
life to have a good chance of seeing the world—especially the East?”
“Who knows—you might yet!”
“Pigs might fly! Still I must not grumble. I’m delighted you have had
such a glorious time; when one’s friends are enjoying themselves, it’s
next best to doing the same oneself. What leave have you got?”
“Only three months and every hour is priceless. This time to-morrow I
shall be blazing away at a grouse drive.”
From grouse they fell to talking of shooting, of old scenes, of
rabbiting and ferreting, of cricket matches, schoolfellows and scrapes.
Suddenly Douglas sprang to his feet and pointed to the clock.
“Half-past one, I must run! Good-bye and good luck, old boy,” wringing
his friend’s hand, “I shan’t forget this lunch in a hurry,” and he was
gone. This little break and talk of old times and warm friends gave
Shafto something pleasant to think of for many days; it was like a
gleam of sunshine in his grey and joyless life.
Richard Hutton, hack writer and “ghost,” sat next to him at table twice
a day, and proved a sympathetic neighbour. Hutton was a clever,
cultured, and—when he pleased—a wholly delightful companion.
Occasionally on Sundays the pair made little excursions together,
visited the City churches and quaint bits of Old London, or ventured a
dash into the country, or up the river.
“You say Friday is a holiday in your office, Shafto,” he remarked one
evening; “how would you like to come for a prowl, and see what we can
find in the Caledonian Market? It’s an out-of-the-way place, where once
a week all manner of rubbish is shot, and now and then you pick up a
really staggering bargain.”
“What’s that?” inquired Shafto.
“Well, I’m told that lately a woman bought a rusty steel fender for two
shillings and, when she went to clean it, it turned out to be solid
silver—a bit of loot from some old French chateau. I must confess that
I’ve never found any spoil, but I only root among the books. Once, I
thought I’d got hold of a Coverdale Bible, but it proved to be a fake.”
“All right,” agreed Shafto, “I’d like to try my luck; I’ll go with you
and look for a set of gold fire-irons. I’ve nothing special on—only
tennis in the afternoon.”
“And the market is at its best in the morning—we’ll start at ten.”
Friday morning found the couple roaming aimlessly round that great bare
enclosure at the end of the Camden Road, known as the Caledonian
Market. It was just eleven by the clock tower, and wares were still
pouring in; arriving in all manner of shabby carts and vans—mostly
drawn by aged and decrepit horses. Every variety of goods had its own
particular pitch. In one quarter were piles of books, brown, musty
volumes of all shapes and sizes, also tattered magazines, and of
theological works a great host. Farther on the explorers came to a vast
collection of old iron. It was as if numbers of travelling tinkers had
here discharged their stock; fenders, gasoliers, stair-rods, tin-cans,
officers’ swords—yes, at least a dozen—frying pans and saucepans. Old
clothes were needless to say, a prominent feature. Here you might suit
yourself with a bald-looking sealskin, a red flannel petticoat, a
soiled evening gown on graceful lines, or a widow’s bonnet. Here also
were black costumes (dripping beads), broken feathers, and hopeless
hats. Old furniture had several stands and was an important department.
Grandfather clocks, sideboards, chairs (Chippendale or otherwise),
chairs in horsehair or upholstered in wool-work, and framed family
portraits solicited notice. Should anyone marvel as to what becomes of
the rubbish and relics belonging to houses whose contents have been
scattered, after several generations—trifles that survived wrecked
fortunes, odds and ends which, for sacred reasons, people had clung to
till the last, let them repair to the “Market”—the relics are there,
lying on unresponsive cobble stones, a pitiful spectacle, handled,
despised, and cast aside—the precious hoarded treasures of a bygone
age.
Delicately worked samplers, faded water-colours, portraits, old seals,
snuff-boxes, and lockets, attract the curio-hunter. Here is a Prayer
Book with massive silver clasps, inscribed, “Dearest Mary, on our
wedding day, June 4th, 1847, from Gilbert.” There, in a red morocco
case, is a miniature of a handsome naval officer. At the back, under
glass, are two locks of hair, joined by a true lover’s knot in seed
pearls. Some ruthless hand will pick out those pearls and throw the
hair away.
For a considerable time Shafto strolled about with his hands in his
pockets, so far seeing nothing to tempt him. Meanwhile his companion
eagerly examined books and bargained over a tattered old volume. Shafto
noted with surprise the number of well-dressed visitors poking among
the stalls, in search of treasure trove. There were a parson with a
greedy-looking leather bag, an officer in uniform, and various smart
ladies, hunting in couples. Among a quantity of jugs and basins, soup
tureens and coarse crockery, Shafto’s idle glance fell upon a frightful
Chinese figure, the squat presentation of a man, about eight inches in
height.
“I say, did you ever see such a horror?” he asked, pointing it out to
his companion; “a curio for ugliness, and just the sort of monster Mrs.
Malone would love. I’ll try if I can get hold of it. What’s the price
of the China demon?” he inquired of a wizened old woman, who wore a
bashed black bonnet and a pair of blue sand shoes.
“Five shillin’,” she replied promptly.
“Five shillings!” he exclaimed. “You’re joking.”
“No time for jokes here,” she retorted, “it’s a good piece” (picking up
the figure), “and come out of a grand house. If it were in Bond Street,
they’d ask you five pounds. I showed it to a man, who said it was good,
although there was no mark, and it might be worth a lot; but I’ve no
time to be raking up things—my trade is a quick sale—and cash.”
“I’ll give you half a crown,” said the customer.
“Two half-crowns, and it’s yours, and a bargain; you won’t know the old
fellow when he’s had a wash!”
“What do you say, Hutton?” inquired Douglas, turning to his friend.
“Well, I think you might risk five shillings; you don’t see such
ugliness every day, and I should not wonder if it was a good piece.
I’ve never come across one like it.”
“All right then, I’ll take the horror.”
And in another moment the bargain was effected. Douglas tendered two
half-crowns, which the old woman carefully examined and pocketed, then
she wrapped up the figure in a piece of crumpled newspaper, and
presently he and his friend departed, each bearing his booty.
“There is little to find now,” said Hutton, as they passed through the
gates; “the Market has become one of the weekly fashionable gatherings
of the town, and is dredged by dealers from all over England, who look
on it as a sort of lucky-bag—but the bag is nearly empty.”
Mrs. Malone was enchanted with the monster—she had a secret weakness
for cheap little gifts—that is to say, from her own particular friends.
More than once Douglas had brought her some trifling tribute, but his
mother had felt deeply affronted by such uncalled for generosity to a
stranger; and when he ventured to exhibit the Chinese atrocity, she
exclaimed with great bitterness:
“Oh, for Mrs. Malone, Of course! It’s rather strange that you never
think of bringing me a present.”
“But, mother, you wouldn’t care for this sort of thing,” he protested,
“and it was awfully cheap.”
“Cheap and nasty!” she retorted. “If you had offered me such hideous
rubbish, I’d have sent it straight to the dustbin!”