Twenty Thousand Streets Under the Sky by Patrick Hamilton
Her name was Jane Taylor. During this interview Mrs. Rodgers learned that she had once worked in a factory. This, in combination with her prettiness, again worked a minute disturbance in the heart of Mrs. Rodgers. Was it conceivable that she was about to lodge in her house not a new servant, but a pretty factory girl? She could have swallowed an ordinary factory girl converted to domestic service, but was not a pretty factory girl (however deeply rooted her change of heart) a little too much of a good thing?
She confessed her trepidations to her sister. But Miss Chingford, who had still not seen the girl but was dead set on her, knew no fear of factories in her soul. Her faith infected Mrs. Rodgers, and the next afternoon Kate and the newcomer both came round for an hour or so to go over the house – the former expounding in detail to the latter the domestic geography, traditions, drawers, cupboards and utensils in relation to each other. This went off very well, with gaiety indeed, and that evening both Mrs. Rodgers and Miss Chingford were highly pleased with themselves.
At this juncture a curious thing occurred. Mrs. Brackett, now to be dismissed, underwent a horrible metamorphosis. From a respectable though rather trying and inconsistent ‘daily,’ she was converted, overnight, into a black monster of every evil. It seemed that they had never in their hearts liked her, but not until now, at the rising of a new dawn, did they apprehend how dark their household night had been. Filth, unpunctuality, insolence, cunning, scandal-mongering, smashing, lying – all these qualities in Mrs. Brackett stood out clear in the illumination of the coming change. Thieving, in fact, was the sole misdemeanour not positively attributable to Mrs. Brackett, but even here shrewd and exultant suspicions enlivened the mind. Mrs. Brackett was given no knowledge of this lightning plunge from grace, and departed peacefully with presents.
* * *
Dr. Chingford, Mrs. Rodgers, and Miss Chingford, who were known respectively within their own precincts as Robert, Marion, and Bella, took a large lunch in the middle of the day. Afterwards they all felt dazed and rather ill. Robert then retired to his ‘study,’ wherein he studied exclusively slumber, with whose every department he was majestically acquainted: Marion went to her bedroom; and Bella stayed down in an armchair before the fire.
The two ladies generally read for some time, finally letting fall both their literature and their lower jaws, and swimming off into a fuddled coma until tea time. Then Marion took the initiative, came quietly down the creaking stairs, and in a tense zero period put on the kettle for tea.
A cup was taken up to Robert, and spirits slowly revived. Then the two ladies generally went out for a walk. After this it commonly occurred that one or both of them suffered from some slight indisposition or other – a headache, giddiness, indigestion or mere fatigue – and they again parted to recuperate alone.
It therefore chanced, on Thursday evening at six o’clock, when the new girl arrived, that Bella was alone downstairs in the dining-room armchair, while Marion was up in her bedroom.
Though it was a sunny evening, a bright fire burned in the grate, and Bella had fallen into another doze. The girl’s single knock – the timid and barely audible knock of her class – startled Bella extremely, and threw her into a mental state bordering upon panic. All door-opening was left to Marion, Bella being unused and constitutionally unsuited to the task.
She therefore sprang up, took a hurried glimpse through the window curtain, confirmed her worst fears, went out into the hall, and, standing to listen, prayed in her craven soul that Marion had heard.
Marion had not heard. Instead, a sepulchral silence reigned upstairs and all over the house. On one side of the front door the new maid diffidently awaited promised admission, on the other an old lady stood disconcerted.
But at last, taking her courage into both hands, Bella went to the door and opened it.
‘Ah! . . . You’re . . .’
Bella did not describe, but smiled and nodded a welcoming comprehension of what the young person was.
‘Yes, madam,’ said the girl shyly, and smiled, and came in.
Bella went to the bottom of the stairs. ‘Marion!’ she cried. Marion shouted something from a distance, and Bella, smiling sweetly once more, went into the dining-room, leaving the door open.
Marion made no further sign, and oceans of silence descended again upon the house. The girl remained standing in the hall; Bella remained standing in the dining-room. Each was agonizingly aware of the other’s creaking proximity, and the moment was charged with awkwardness and ulterior significance. They were both in their hearts conscious of the near, one might say intimate nature of the relationship about to come into being between them, and yet were dismayed by each other’s strangeness. They had never set eyes on each other before, and yet out of the blue they were in the same house and about to participate closely in the same personal things – from the cooking and eating of food down to the handling of personal linen.
Marion coming downstairs made things a great deal easier. She greeted the girl apparently without introspection or misgiving of any sort, and conducted her to the kitchen.
The kitchen was on the ground floor, and communicable with the dining-room by means of a sliding hatch situate in a dark passage between the two. If the bell remained unheard you thrust your head out of the hatch and shouted to the kitchen. The hatch, also, was a reputed means to the end of the eavesdropper, and was often winked and nodded at when the ladies thought they were speaking too loudly.
Marion now stayed for some time in the kitchen talking to the newcomer, and returning, every now and again, to the dining-room. On each occasion she returned she found her sister, for no obvious reason, standing up. Nothing was said, but Marion was irritated by this symptom and confession of restlessness over what she desired to regard as a perfectly commonplace event – the installation of a new maid.
Finally Marion went upstairs again, and five minutes later the girl knocked on the door and entered. Bella, now in an armchair, peered over her newspaper and her spectacles and smirked affably again. The girl smiled back, and at once proceeded primly and methodically to lay the table.
Bella began slyly to take stock of her, and her first reflex was one of alarm. She now saw the girl for the first time without her hat, and was staggered by her prettiness. The fact that Marion had said she was very pretty was in an instant submerged and lost to the mind for ever in the overwhelming phenomenon of her actual prettiness. Bella, in fact, strongly suspected that she was lovely. Her very fair hair – her rather full mouth – her clear wide blue eyes – her slim figure and white arms – who was this that had come to share her privacy in her old age? She was so pretty that, with her quiet erect gait, she gave a mischievous impression of playing, like a theatrical doll, at laying the table.
She now accidentally dropped a fork, and they smiled at each other again.
‘Did you find your way here all right?’ asked the old lady, and in the manner common to those who are slightly deaf and imagine others equally stricken, repeated the question. ‘Did you find your way here?’
‘Oh yes, madam. It was quite easy.’
This was the first time Bella had heard a full-blown ‘madam’ uttered in the house since the war. It gratified her, but she was unable entirely to rid herself of the impression that it was merely in keeping with the solemn game being played by this little thing.
‘I came by the 27 ’bus,’ she added.
‘Oh yes. Let me see now – you live up at Hackney, don’t you?’
‘No. Camden Town, madam.’
‘Oh yes. Camden Town. How silly of me.’
‘Yes. It’s just a threepenny ride, madam.’
‘Oh yes. But then you’re coming in to live with us on Saturday, aren’t you?’
‘Yes, madam. That’s right.’
She left the room, returning a few moments later. She herself next volunteered a remark.
‘It’s over a pet animal shop, madam – where we live,’ she said, in naïve, clear, and peculiarly childish acc
‘Oh yes?’ Bella was surprised by the girl’s simplicity. ‘That must be very interesting.’
‘Yes madam. They’re interesting to look at – some times.’
There was then a silence, and Bella again looked at her. What on earth did it all mean – this prettiness, this neatness, this humility, this grave courtesy, this perfect charm and complacency? She had an air of being much too good to be true.
The wild dogs of optimism in Bella’s heart leaped to the occasion. What if the problem was as clear as day? What if the good, for once, had come true? What if this child were a treasure? Why not? She looked at her again and was convinced she was.
At this moment Marion came into the room. Rendered self-conscious by the presence of the other two, she went to poke the fire.
‘Jane’s been telling me about where she lives,’ said Bella. ‘We must start calling you Jane now, mustn’t we?’
‘Yes, we must, mustn’t we?’ said Marion. ‘Is that what they call you at home?’
‘Yes, madam. Though a lot call me Jenny.’
‘Oh. Jenny. That’s very pretty.’
‘Though you couldn’t hardly say it’s for short, could you, madam?’
All three laughed nervously at this truism and said ‘No!’
‘Yes,’ said Marion. ‘I think that’s very pretty. We’ll call you that . . . Jenny. . . .’
Jenny, without blushing, here assumed the countenance of one who blushes, and a moment afterwards left the room, closing the door softly behind her.
‘Well, what do you think of that?’ whispered Bella.
‘Don’t know at present. What do you?’
Bella here mumbled a few words culminating, as had been anticipated by Marion, in the word Treasure.
‘M’m,’ said Marion severely. ‘New brooms sweep clean.’
But there was an unhabitual gleam of exultation in her voice, and she did not look at her sister as she brushed the fireplace.
Jenny had been advised to beat the gong five minutes before actually laying the supper on the table. This was a crude estimate of the time it should take the ‘Doctor’ to bring himself downstairs. The beating of the gong was supplemented by a stentorian visit from Marion, and the old man got to work at once. With his mouth agape, and gazing fixedly ahead, he achieved the journey in a series of methodical advances from one stair to another – remaining a full period upon each, it seemed less with the object of recuperation than of appraising and exhausting its responsive creaks. With experience a maid might well boil an egg from observation of his progress.
Jenny’s first glimpse of the Doctor was when he was on the seventh stair from the bottom. She was moving rapidly in and out between the dining-room and the kitchen, and she caught the straight beam of his steady but alarming eye. She imagined he would be in the dining-room by the time she returned. He was, however, still in serious occupation merely of the next stair further down. Indeed, so far as she knew he had remained quite stationary. He again caught her eye, looking at her without embarrassment, pleasure, or disgust. She kept on coming in and out, and he continued to look at her. It struck her (but not apparently him) as being a singular mode of making an acquaintance.
His journey was ultimately brought to a successful close in a chair on the fire side of the table, and all was in readiness for the evening repast. This was always of a sparse nature, consisting most often of boiled eggs and a little ham or tongue, in conjunction with brown bread and butter. In fairness to his waistcoat, which would otherwise have shared his supper, it was necessary to tie a large napkin around the Doctor’s neck. His beard, left out in the cold, but no more immune, was wipeable by another napkin which was tenderly placed on his lap.
Apart from such infinitesimally shamefaced details, the presence of this remarkable old dodderer in the room worked an austere and bracing effect upon the service. Voices were deferentially lowered, and it was felt that, whereas all confabulations between Marion and the girl had hitherto been conducted as it were behind-scenes, now the curtain was up. ‘Very well,’ she whispered, nodding and smiling. ‘We’ll ring when we want you, Jenny.’
The removal of the dish cover was a little sensation. The girl had done them omelettes. ‘She said she wanted to,’ said Marion. ‘So I let her.’
Bella was the first to taste hers, and she pronounced it next thing to a miracle of cooking. And the sauté potatoes (an unforeseen embellishment) were deemed as good. Both ladies munched away, taking more salt, deciding a little pepper would be the thing, passing it affably, and in general betraying a highly self-conscious approach to their food.
This did not apply to the Doctor, upon whose drooping mouth and forsaken look, omelettes, like new maids (and, one might be sure, floods and earthquakes) were impotent to make any impression.
‘Looks as though we may be able to live decently at last,’ said Marion, and Bella agreed.
The faith that they were certain to live decently in the near future had furnished these two women with the self-respect they needed for ages – ever since, in fact, old age, advancing poverty, and an acuter servant problem had set them going down the steep decline leading to Mrs. Brackett. The true realization that they had not been living decently in the near past, however, only assailed them on occasions such as these. They then faced the truth frankly and fearlessly, and with the exaltation of spirit of all converts.
‘When I think of that woman . . .’ said Bella.
‘Don’t talk about her,’ said Marion. But she did not mean this. She loved to talk about Mrs. Brackett. As a saved sinner loves to talk of his sins, she loved to talk about her.
‘No. We won’t,’ said Bella, rigidly. But she did not mean it, either.
When Marion rang the bell, Jenny immediately appeared, and in perfect silence began to collect the plates. Obviously a morsel of Praise must be doled out at this juncture, but the timing and execution thereof was left to Marion. Everything was left to Marion, and in the manipulation of Praise, as in all else, she was an adept. She restrained herself until Jenny had gone out with the tray and returned again with the cheese.
‘I thought those omelettes were beautifully done, Jenny,’ she said, smiling up at her.
Jenny, again without blushing, again assumed the countenance of one who blushes. ‘Were they, madam,’ she said. ‘They make a nice Change, don’t they?’
This rejoinder was in the best traditions of a cook’s modesty. It engendered a feeling that variety alone had been aimed at, and drew the attention away from the cleverness of the performance itself.
‘Yes,’ said Marion. ‘I don’t know where you learnt to cook like that, I’m sure.’
‘It was my aunt – taught me most, madam,’ replied Jenny, and left the room.
‘And so pretty!’ whispered Bella.
‘I know,’ said Marion. ‘That’s what’s so strange.’
Shortly afterwards they rang again, and Jenny entered to clear away. The old gentleman was tactfully released from his napkin by Marion, and rose, not without assistance. The door was opened for him, and he paused. Then slowly he set out upon the long expedition – the last of the day. Later Marion would go up and help him into bed.
The curtains were now drawn, and the electric light was switched on. They plied the girl with sundry questions concerning herself as she cleared away. She answered in the same modest, naïve, pleased tones – amiably expansive and yet never garrulous – and an atmosphere of bright accord grew and flowered apace. It was obvious that they liked her, and that she liked them, and if there was any evidence to show that this girl was not, as had been instinctively foreseen, a Treasure, it had yet to reveal itself. At last a peak of intimacy and cheerfulness was reached.
‘I expect you have some young man eating his heart out for you, haven’t you, Jenny?’ asked Bella.
Jenny looked at the table-cloth with a faint smile as she cleared the things.
‘Oh well. I expect there will be soon.’
‘I daresay, madam. But I always think there’s plenty of time for that, don’t you, madam?’
The ladies laughed at this and prophesied that it would not be long. Jenny left the room.
If that was not a Treasure’s way of looking at things, what was? Indeed, was it not the remark not merely of a Treasure, but of an adorned Treasure – might they not even dare to aver an Old Fashioned Treasure? In low tones they debated the delicious mystery of the girl.
At last a foreboding that she was tempting Providence (an ever-vigilant and revengeful monster of whom she lived in nervous dread) beset Marion.
‘We’ll have to see what to-morrow brings forth,’ she said, and casually took up the newspaper and began to read, as though striving not to attract Providence’s attention to what she had already let fall. Bella did the same with her book.
They were not aided in this nonchalant pastime, however, by innumerable clinking testimonies to fervid industry floating through the hatch from the kitchen. After Mrs. Brackett, the newcomer’s air of irresistible thoroughness simply cried out for notice.
She gave at least twenty minutes more to the kitchen than Mrs. Brackett had ever given, and then was heard mounting the stairs. She was evidently going to straighten the bedrooms and turn down the coverlets. During the long reign of Mrs. Brackett and her daily forerunners, this service had dropped out of use and been practically forgotten.
‘Did you ask her?’ whispered Bella, and Marion confessed that she had not.
‘My dear!’ said Bella, and even Marion was moved. Positively, instead of they shaming the child, the child had shamed them!
The pleasure they felt at this gratuitous assumption of a duty coincided, however, with a slightly hunted look upon the faces of both – a look brought into being by a fear of exposure derived from an automatic misgiving that they had ‘left something out.’ But a moment of rapid mental retrospection relieved their souls, and soon after Jenny came downstairs and was safely in the kitchen again. Rather curiously, complete silence fell.