Mavis was again workless, this time with a capital of fifteen shillings
and sixpence halfpenny.
Immediately after her interview with Orgles, she had gone to her room
to change into her out-of-door clothes.
She disregarded the many questions that several of the girls came
upstairs to ask her. She packed up her things as a preliminary to
leaving "Dawes'" for good. For many hours she paced the streets,
heedless of where her steps led her, her heart seemingly breaking with
rage and shame at the insults to which she had been subjected.
About eight, she felt utterly exhausted, and turned into the first shop
where she could get refreshment.
This was a confectioner's. The tea and dry biscuits she ordered enabled
her to marshal her distracted thoughts into something approaching
coherence; she realised that, as she was not going back to "Dawes',"
she must find a roof for the night.
She had several times called on her old friend Mrs Ellis; she decided
to make for her house. She asked her way to the nearest station, which
was Notting Hill; here she took a ticket to Hammersmith and then walked
to Kiva Street, where she knocked at the familiar door. A
powerful-looking man in corduroy trousers and shirt sleeves opened it.
"Mrs Ellis?" asked Mavis.
"'Orspital."
"I'm very sorry. What's the matter with her?"
"Werry bad."
"I wanted rooms. I used to lodge here."
At this piece of information the man made as if he would close the door.
"Can you tell me where I can get a room for the night?" asked Mavis.
The man by way of reply muttered something about the lady at the end of
the row wanting a lodger.
"Which hospital is Mrs Ellis at?" asked Mavis.
By way of reply, the door was slammed in her face. Mavis dragged her
weary limbs to the end house in the row, where, in reply to her knock,
a tall, pasty-faced, crossed-eyed woman, who carried an empty jug,
answered the door.
"I thought you was Mrs Bonus," remarked the woman.
"I want a room for the night. I used to lodge with Mrs Ellis at number
20."
"Did yer? There! I do know yer face. Come inside."
Mavis followed the landlady into a faded and formal little
sitting-room, where the latter sat wearily in a chair, still clasping
her jug.
"Can I have a room?" asked Mavis.
"I think so. My name's Bilkins."
"Mine is Keeves."
"That's a funny name. I 'ope you ain't married."
"No."
"It's only fools who get married. You jest hear what Mrs Bonus says."
"I'm very tired," said Mavis. "Can you give me anything to eat?"
"I've nothing in the 'ouse, but I'll get you something when I go out.
And, if Mrs Bonus comes, ask her to wait, an' say I've jes gone out to
get a little Jacky."
Mavis waited in the dark room of the deserted house. Had she not been
tired and heartsick, she would have been amused at this strange
experience. A quarter of an hour passed without anyone calling, when
she heard the sound of a key in the latch, and Mrs Bilkins returned.
"No Mrs Bonus?"
"No one's been."
"It isn't her washing day neither, though it would be late for a lady
like 'er to be out all alone. Drink this."
"But it's stout," said Mavis, as Mrs Bilkins lit the gas.
"I call it jacky. A glass will do you good."
Mavis drank some of the liquor and certainly felt the better for it.
"I bought you a quarter of German," declared Mrs Bilkins, as she
enrolled a paper parcel.
"You mean German sausage," said Mavis, as she caught sight of the
mottled meat, a commodity which her old friend Mr Siggers sold.
"I always call it German," remarked Mrs Bilkins, a trifle huffily.
"But what am I to eat it on?"
"That is funny. I'm always forgetting," said Mrs Bilkins, as she faded
from the room.
After some time, she came back with a coarse cloth, a thick plate, a
wooden-handled knife, together with a fork made of some pliant
material; these she put before Mavis.
The coarse food and more of the stout put fresh heart into the girl.
She got a room from Mrs Bilkins for six shillings a week, on the
understanding that she did not give much trouble.
"There's only one thing. I suppose you have a bath of some sort?" said
Mavis.
"That is funny," said Mrs Bilkins. "I've never been asked such a thing
in my life."
"Don't you wash?"
"In penny pieces; a bit at a time."
"But never all over, properly?"
"You are funny. Why, three years ago, I had the rheumatics; then I was
covered all over with flannel. Now I don't know which is flannel and
which is skin."
It was arranged, however, that, if Mrs Bilkins could not borrow a bath
from a neighbour in the morning, she would bring Mavis her washing-tin,
which would answer the same purpose. Mavis slept soundly in a fairly
clean room, her wanderings after leaving "Dawes'" having tired her out.
The next morning she came down to a breakfast of which the tea was
smoked and her solitary egg was scarcely warm; when she opened this
latter, the yolk successfully eluded the efforts of her spoon to get it
out. It may be said at once that this meal was a piece with the entire
conduct of Mrs Bilkins's house, she being a unit in the vast army of
incapable, stupid women who, sooner or later, drift into the letting of
lodgings as a means of livelihood. After breakfast, Mavis wrote to
"Dawes'," requesting that her boxes might be sent to her present
address. Now that the sun of cold reason, which reaches its zenith in
the early morning, illumined the crowded events of yesterday, Mavis was
concerned for the consequences of the violence she had offered Orgles.
Her faith in human justice had been much disturbed; she feared that
Orgles, moved with a desire for vengeance, would represent her as the
aggressor, himself as the victim of an unprovoked assault: any moment
she feared to find herself in the clutches of the law. She was too
dispirited to look for work; to ease the tension in her mind, she tried
to discover what had become of Mrs Ellis, but without success.
About five, two letters came for her, one of these being, as the
envelope told her, from "Dawes'." She fearfully opened it. To her great
surprise, the letter regretted the firm's inability to continue her
temporary engagement; it enclosed a month's salary in place of the
usual notice, together with the money due to her for her present
month's services; it concluded by stating that her conduct had given
great satisfaction to the firm, and that it would gladly give her
further testimonials should she be in want of these to secure another
place.
Mavis could hardly believe her good fortune; she read and re-read the
letter; she gratefully scanned the writing on the cheque. The other
letter attracted her attention, which proved to be from Miss Meakin.
This told her that, if Mavis could play the piano and wanted temporary
work, she could get this by at once applying at "Poulter's" Dancing
Academy in Devonport Road, Shepherd's Bush, which Miss Meakin attended;
it also said that the writer would be at the academy soon after nine,
when she would tell Mavis how she had found her address. Mavis put on
her hat and cloak with a light heart. The fact of escaping from the
debasing drudgery of "Dawes'," of being the possessor of a cheque for
L2. 12S., the prospect of securing work, if only of a temporary nature,
made her forget her loneliness and her previous struggles to wrest a
pittance from a world indifferent to her needs. After all, there was
One who cared: the contents of the two letters which she had just
received proved that; the cheque and promise of employment were in the
nature of compensation for the hurt to her pride which she had suffered
yesterday at Orgles's hands. She thought her sudden good fortune
justified a trifling extravagance; she had no fancy for Mrs Bilkins's
smoked tea, so she turned into the first teashop she came to, where she
revelled in scrambled eggs, strong tea, bread, butter, and jam. She ate
these unaccustomed delicacies slowly, deliberately, hugely enjoying the
savour of each mouthful. She then walked in the direction of Shepherd's
Bush.
The garish vulgarity of the Goldhawk Road, along which a procession of
electric trams rushed and whizzed, took away her breath. Devonport
Road, in which she was to find the academy, was such a quiet, retiring
little turning that Mavis could hardly believe it joined a noisy
thoroughfare like the Goldhawk Road. "Poulter's" Dancing Academy took
some finding; she had no number to guide her, so she asked the two or
three people she met if they could direct her to this institution, but
not one of them appeared to know anything about it. She walked along
the road, keeping a sharp look-out on either side for door plate or
lamp, which she believed was commonly the out-ward and visible sign of
the establishment she sought. A semicircle of brightly illuminated
coloured glass, placed above an entrance gate, attracted her, but
nearer inspection proved this to be an advertisement of "painless
dentistry."
Further down the road, a gaily coloured lamp caught her eye, the
lettering on which read "Gellybrand's Select Dancing Academy. Terms to
suit all pockets. Inquire within." Mavis was certain that the name of
which she was in search was none other than Poulter: she looked about
her and wondered if it were possible for such a down-at-heel
neighbourhood to support more than one dancing academy. The glow of a
light in an open doorway on the other side of the way next attracted
her. She crossed, to find this light came from a lamp which was held
aloft by a draped female statue standing just inside the door: beyond
the statue was another door, the upper part of which was of glass, the
lower of wood. Written upon the glass in staring gilt letters was the
name "Poulter's."
Mavis walked up the steps to the front door. Her heart sank as she
noticed that the plaster had worn away and was broken from various
parts of the house, which had a shabby and dilapidated appearance.
Mavis set going a bell, which could be heard faint-heartedly tinkling
in the distance; she employed the time that she was kept waiting in
examining the statue. This was as depressing as the house: its smile
was cracked in the middle; a rude boy had reddened the lady's nose; its
dress cried aloud for some kindly disposed person to give it a fresh
coat of paint. Presently, a drab of a little servant opened the inner
door.
"'Pectus?" said the girl, directly she caught sight of Mavis.
"I want to see Mr Poulter."
"Not a 'pectus?"
Mavis repeated her request.
"Come insoide. 'E's 'avin' 'is tea."
Mavis followed the drab along a passage: at the end of this was a door,
above which was inscribed "Ladies' Cloak Room."
Opening this, the drab said mechanically:
"Walk insoide. What nime?"
"Miss Keeves. I've come from Miss Meakin."
Mavis walked inside, to find herself in a smallish room, the walls of
which were decorated with rows of hooks, beneath each of which was a
number printed in large type. There were a cracked toilette glass, a
few rickety chairs, a heavy smell of stale toilet powder, and little
else. A few moments later, a little, shrivelled-up, elderly woman
walked into the room with a slight hobble. Mavis noticed her narrow,
stooping shoulders, which, although the weather was warm, were covered
by a shawl; her long upper lip; her snub nose; also that she wore her
right arm in a sling.
"Was you waiting to see Mr Poulter particular?" she asked.
"I was rather."
"'E's 'avin' 'is tea, and--and you know what these artists are at
meal-time," said the little woman confidentially.
"I'm in no hurry. I can easily wait," said Mavis.
"Was you come about 'privates'?" asked the little woman wistfully.
"Privates?"
"I mean private lessons. 'Poulter's' always calls 'em 'privates.'"
"I heard you were in want of an accompanist. I came to offer my
services."
"It won't be for long; my fingers is nearly healed of the chilblains."
"Anything is better than nothing," remarked Mavis.
"Would you mind if I heard you play?"
"Not at all."
"My word might go some way with Mr Poulter. See?" said the little woman
confidentially.
"It's very good of you," remarked Mavis, who was beginning to like the
little, shrivelled-up old thing.
The woman with the chilblains led the way to a door in a corner of the
cloak-room, which Mavis had not noticed before. Mavis followed her down
an inclined, boarded-in gangway, decorated with coloured presentation
plates from long forgotten Christmas numbers of popular weeklies, to
the ballroom, which was a portable iron building erected in the back
garden of the academy. At the further end was a platform, which
supported a forlorn-looking piano.
"Be careful not to slip," said Mavis's conductor.
"Thank you, I won't," replied Mavis, who was not in the least danger of
losing her foothold.
"'E invented it."
"Invented what?"
"This floor wax. It's Poulter's patent," the little woman reverently
informed Mavis.
"He must be rather clever!"
"Rather clever! It's plain you've never met 'im."
Mavis sat down to the piano, but did not do herself justice over the
first waltz she played, owing to the faultiness of the instrument. As
with many other old pianos, the keys were small; also, the treble was
weak and three notes were broken in the bass.
"Try again!" said the little woman dubiously.
By this time, Mavis had mastered the piano's peculiarities; she played
her second waltz resonantly, rhythmically.
"I think you're up to 'Poulter's,'" said the little woman critically,
when Mavis had finished. "And what about terms?"
"What about them?" asked Mavis pleasantly.
"It's a great honour being connected with 'Poulter's,'" the little
woman hazarded.
"No doubt."
"And what with the undercutting and all, on the part of those who ought
to know better, it makes it 'ard to make both ends meet."
"I'm sure it does."
"But there! We'll leave it to Mr Poulter."
"That's the best thing to do."
"I'll see if Mr Poulter's finished 'is tea."
Mavis followed the woman across the ballroom, and back to the
cloak-room, where she was left alone for quite five minutes. Then the
little woman put her head into the room to say:
"Mr Poulter won't be many minutes now. 'E's come to the cake," at which
Mavis smiled as she said:
"I can wait any time."
Mavis already quite liked the odd little woman. She waited some minutes
longer, till at last her friend excitedly re-entered to say, in the
manner of one conveying information of much moment:
"Mr Poulter is reelly coming on purpose to see you."
Mavis nerved herself for the ordeal of meeting the dancing-master.