Part 19

Half an hour afterwards, Mr. Golspie, wearing an enormous ulster, looked in on them. “You won’t see me for a week or two,” he announced cheerfully. “Keep it going. Shoulders to the wheel! Full steam ahead, as people say--though why they say it, God only knows, because nobody in a ship ever said it--doesn’t mean anything. Make ’em all pay up, Smeeth. Keep your eye on that cut rate with the Anglo-Baltic, Turgis. Just remember me in your prayers, you girls, if you do pray. Do you pray, Miss Matfield? Never mind, tell me another time. And, Stanley----”

“Yes, sir,” said Stanley, springing to attention.

“Run down and get me a taxi, sharp as you can. Good-bye, everybody.”

When they had all said good-bye, too, and he had gone and they had heard the outer door slam behind him, in the sudden quiet that followed, the whole office had appeared to shrink and darken a little. Miss Matfield, aware of this, resented it, and, compressing her lips, threw herself into what work she had on hand with a sort of grey determination, never looking up and only speaking when compelled to answer a question. By lunch time she felt so discontented that, instead of spending the usual ninepence or so at the little teashop not far away, she went further afield, to a superior place just off Cannon Street, and had cutlet and peas, apple tart and cream, and a cup of coffee, paying her half-crown manfully. After that she was more cheerful and more honest. She had been depressed because though all kinds of things seemed to be happening to other people, nothing was happening to her. It was hard luck losing Evelyn Ansdell. It was hard luck losing Mr. Golspie, if only for a week or two. She could not say yet whether she really liked the man, but at least he made Angel Pavement more amusing. It would be terribly flat now without him. Everything, it seemed, was sinking into dullness. Well, she must make an effort and think of something amusing to do. When she returned to the office, quarter of an hour late, as usual, she was cheerful and comparatively friendly with everybody.

Perhaps the little gods who look after these minor affairs decided that she must be encouraged, for at once they found something amusing for her to do. Shortly after three, Mr. Smeeth took a telephone message and then called Miss Matfield to him.

“That was Mr. Golspie, Miss Matfield,” he began, in his pleasantly fussy and important way. “He says they’re sailing later than he thought, about five or so, and he wants you to go down to the ship and take down a few important letters he’s just remembered about. And you’ve also got to take that sample book--it’s in the private office--he forgot it. I haven’t got Mr. Dersingham’s permission for you to go, and I can’t get it, because he’s out, but of course it’s all right. I accept all responsibility. You don’t mind going, do you?”

“I’d love it,” cried Miss Matfield. “But where exactly do I go?” Mr. Smeeth adjusted his eyeglasses and then examined the slip of paper he had been carrying. “You go to Hay’s Wharf, that’s on the south side of the river between London Bridge and the Tower Bridge, you go over London Bridge and turn straight to the left to get there. And the ship’s the _L-e-m-m-a-l-a, Lemmala_. Can you remember that, Miss Matfield? And he says, ‘Take a taxi,’ so I’d better give you half a crown out of the petty cash for that--I’ll have to put it down as travelling expenses. Now you get your notebook and pencil and your things on, and I’ll get that sample book out of the private office for you. It’ll be a little jaunt for you, something out of the common, won’t it? Stanley’d give his ears to go, wouldn’t you, Stanley? Oh, he’s not there. Where is that lad?”

Yes, it was a little jaunt for her. It was great fun. First, Moorgate Street, the Bank, then King William Street, went rattling past the taxi window; then came London Bridge, with leaden gleams of the river far below on either side; then a slow progress along a narrow street on the other side, a turn to the left up a street still narrower, a mere passage, at the end of which the taxi had to stop altogether. She dodged up another dark lane, asked a pleasant large policeman if she was going the right way, and finally found herself at the water’s edge, where men were busy loading and running about with papers and shouting to one another. There, about fifty yards further down, was the _Lemmala_, a steamship with one tall thin funnel, not very large and rather dingy but nevertheless a fine romantic sight. A flag she had never seen before drooped from its little mast. As she drew nearer, she heard some of the men shouting down from the deck, and they were speaking in a language she had never heard before, a tremendously foreign language. Up to that moment, business had been for her an affair of clerks and desks and telephones and stupid letters that always began and ended in the same dull way, but now, in a flash, she suddenly realised that it was all very romantic. It was as if Mr. Dersingham had stalked into the office in Elizabethan costume. The wood they sold in Angel Pavement came in boats like this, indeed in this very ship, and at the other end, where the veneers began, there was quite a different sort of life going on, huge forests, thick snow and frosts all winter, wolves on the prowl, bearded men wearing high boots, women in strange bright shawls, scenes out of the Russian Ballet. Miss Matfield, like most members of the English middle classes, was incurably romantic at heart, and now she was genuinely thrilled, and could hardly have been more astonished and delighted if a few nightingales had suddenly burst into song in one of the dark archways. London was really marvellous, and the wonder of it rushed up in her mind and burst there like a rocket, scattering a multi-coloured host of vague but rich associations, a glittering jumble of history and nonsense and poetry, Dick Whittington and galleons, Muscovy and Cathay, East Indiamen, the doldrums far away, and the Pool of London, lapping here only a stone’s throw from the shops and offices and buses.

She had arrived now at the foot of a gangway that came down steeply from the rusty side of the _Lemmala_. She looked up, hesitating. Somebody was calling. It was Mr. Golspie above, and he was waving her up. When she reached the head of the gangway he was there, waiting for her.

“We’ve a couple of hours at least before she moves,” he explained, piloting her along the deck, then up a short flight of stairs to the deck above, “but I shan’t keep you so long, y’know. Awkward if she moved off and you were still aboard, eh? Have to take a trip then, eh?”

“I don’t know that I’d mind very much,” she told him, looking about her on the upper deck. “It would be rather amusing.”

“Oh, you wouldn’t have a bad time at all, so long as you weren’t seasick. These fellows here would make a great fuss of you, I can tell you.”

“Well, that would be rather a nice change.”

“Would it now?” He grinned. “Well, we won’t kidnap you this time. We’ll go in here.” And he led the way into a little saloon, quite neat and cheerful. On the table, which was covered with a hideously bright cloth, were some cigars, a mysterious tall bottle of a shape she had never seen before, and several small glasses. Some newspapers and illustrated papers, printed in fantastic characters, were scattered about, and these helped more than anything else, unless it was the tall bottle, to make it all seem very foreign. Yet through the windows at each side she could see the roofs and spires, the familiar smoky mass, of London.

“Ah, I’d better look after that sample book,” said Mr. Golspie. “Now then, you sit down there, Miss Matfield, with your notebook.”

She sat down and tried to pull the chair nearer to the table, but of course it would not move, or at least would only swing round. She was forgetting that she was on board a ship. It was all very odd and delightful.

The letters were not difficult and were all more or less alike, and in half an hour they had done. Once or twice, while they were at work, various faces, foreign faces, had peeped in at them, had nodded, smiled, and then disappeared. The only other interruptions were occasional shouts and hootings outside.

“I think that’s all,” said Mr. Golspie, lighting a cigar and pouring himself out a drink from the tall bottle. “But just you read through what you’ve done while I try to think if there’s anything else. There’s plenty of time. D’you smoke? That’s right. Well, have a cigarette. Here, have one of these.” And he threw over a very fancy cardboard box, from which she took a long cigarette that was half stiff paper, like a Russian. It was a fine romantic cigarette and she enjoyed it.

“Can’t think of anything else,” said Mr. Golspie, puffing out a cloud of smoke. “Just run through that lot quickly, will you?” She did, and there was only one change to be made. “I’ll sign some sheets now for you,” he continued, “and then you can take ’em back with you to the office. I brought plenty of the firm’s stationery with me. Always do, wherever I am. That’s the worst of being on your own. Have to buy your own stationery. It’s a thing I hate doing. Funny, isn’t it? I’d spend money like water on all sorts of silly rubbish and never turn a hair, but I hate spending money on paper. Expect you’re the same, aren’t you, about something?”

“Pencils,” replied Miss Matfield promptly. “I loathe and detest having to buy pencils. If I can’t borrow or steal one, and actually have to go to a shop and pay money for one of the wretched things, I simply hate it.”

“Ah, we’re all a queer lot, even the best-looking of us,” Mr. Golspie ruminated while he signed the blank sheets. “We’re all both crooks and old washerwomen rolled into one, though I expect you’ll tell me that _you_ aren’t, eh?”

“No, I shan’t. I know exactly what you mean.”

If they were on the very edge of a pleasant sympathetic talk, as it appeared at that moment, then Mr. Golspie only yanked them miles away at one swoop with his next remark. “Well, if you do,” he said, “you know more than I do. And that’s a nuisance.” He looked up, having finished with the sheets. “Here, you’re shivering.”

“Am I? I didn’t know I was. But I am rather cold now,” she admitted. She was still wearing her thick coat, but the little saloon was not warmed and there was a nipping air along the river.

“You’ve finished here now,” said Mr. Golspie, looking at her, “but if you’ll take my tip you won’t go like that, you’ll have a drink of something to warm you up first. Might get a cold before you could say ‘knife.’”

This was Mr. Golspie in a new and unsuspected vein. She could have laughed in his face.

“If the steward’s about,” he continued, “I could get some tea for you. These people aren’t great on tea but they can make it all right. Or coffee, if you’d rather have that. It just depends if he’s handy.” He got up, passing the signed sheets to her.

“Oh, don’t bother, Mr. Golspie. They’re probably all frightfully busy now, and I’d rather not, thanks. I can get some tea on my way back to the office.”

“Well, you must have something. You can’t leave the ship shivering like that. Have some of this stuff,” and he pointed to the tall bottle. “It’ll warm you up. I’m going to have some. You join me.” He poured out two small glasses of the colourless liquor.

“Shall I? What is it?”

“Vodka. It’s the favourite tipple in these ships.”

Vodka! She picked up the glass and put her nose to it. She had never tasted vodka before, never remembered ever having seen it before, but of course it was richly associated with her memories of romantic fiction of various kinds, and was tremendously thrilling, the final completing thrill of the afternoon’s adventure. At once she could hear herself bringing the vodka into her account of the adventure at the Club. “And then, my dear,” it would run, “I was given some vodka. There I was, in the cabin, swilling vodka like mad. Marvellous!”

“Come along, Miss Matfield,” said Mr. Golspie, looking at her over his raised glass. “Down it goes. Happy days!” And he emptied his glass with one turn of the wrist.

“All right,” she cried, raising hers. “What do I say? Cheerio?” Boldly she drained her glass, too, in one gulp. For a second or so nothing happened but a curious aniseedy taste as the liquor slipped over her palate, but then, suddenly, it was as if an incendiary bomb had burst in her throat and sent white fire racing down every channel of her body. She gasped, laughed, coughed, all at once.

“That’s the way, Miss Matfield. You put it down in great style. Try another. I’m going to have one. Just another for good luck.” He filled the glasses again.

She floated easily now on a warm tide. It was very pleasant. She took the glass, hesitated, then looked up at him. “I’m not going to be tight, am I? If you make me drunk I shan’t be able to type your letters, you know.”

“Don’t you worry about that,” he told her, grinning amiably and then patting her shoulder. “You couldn’t be soused on two glasses of this stuff, and you’ll be as sober as a judge by the time you get back to Angel Pavement. It’ll just make you feel warm and comfortable, and keep the cold out. Now then. Here she goes.”

“Happy days!” cried Miss Matfield, smiling at him, and once more there came the aniseedy taste, the incendiary bomb, the racing white fire, and the final warm tide.

“Now I like you, Miss Matfield,” he told her, with a full stare of approval. “That was done in real style, like a good sport. You’ve got some character, not like most of these pink little ninnies of girls you see here. I noticed that right at the start. I said to myself, ‘That girl’s not only got looks, but she’s got character, too.’ I wish you were coming with us.”

“Thank you.”

“Well, it’s a real compliment. Though I don’t know that you’d like it. It’ll be perishingly cold, and by to-morrow she’ll be rolling like the devil all the way across the North Sea, and she’ll start rolling again when we get into the Baltic. I know her of old. How d’you feel now?”

“Marvellous!” And she did. She rose and gathered her things together. “Not too sober, though.”

When they went out on to the upper deck, she stopped and looked down the river. Daylight had dwindled to a faint silver above and an occasional cold gleam on the water, and at any other time she would probably have been depressed or half frightened by the leaden swell of the river itself, the uncertain lights beyond, and the melancholy hooting, but now it all seemed wonderfully mysterious and romantic. For a minute or so, she lost herself in it. She was quite happy and yet she felt close to tears. It was probably the vodka.

“Sort of hypnotises you, doesn’t it?” said Mr. Golspie gruffly, at her elbow.

“It does, doesn’t it?” she said softly. At that moment, she decided that she liked Mr. Golspie and that he was an unusual and fascinating man. She also felt that she herself was fascinating, really rather wonderful. Then she gave a quick shiver.

“Hello, you’re not starting again?” he said, humorous but concerned too, and he took hold of her arm and drew her closer to his side. They stayed like that for a few moments. She did not mind being there. All that she felt was a sudden sense of warmth and safety.

She stepped aside, and announced that she must go. He made no effort to detain her, said nothing, but simply led the way back to the lower deck and the gangway. There he stopped and held out his hand.

“Very pleased to have met you, Miss Matfield,” he said, taking her hand and, for once, smiling rather than grinning.

“I hope you have a good trip, Mr. Golspie,” she told him hurriedly, “and it isn’t too cold and the crossing isn’t too bad.” Then, without knowing why, she added: “And don’t forget to come back.”

He gave a sudden deep laugh. “Not I. You’ll be seeing me again soon. I’ll be back in Angel Pavement before you can turn round.” And he gave her hand a huge squeeze, then released it.

She turned round once and waved, though it was almost impossible to see if he was still there, then hurried down the narrow lane, which brought her gradually back into the ordinary world. By the time she crossed London Bridge again and looked through the bus window, there was hardly anything to be seen of that other world, only a glimmer of lights. By the time she was back at her table, holding her notebook up to the nearest shaded electric light, that other world was infinitely remote and might never have existed outside a daydream in the November dusk. Yet there, on the very paper she slipped behind the typewriter roller, was the sign that it was there, the sprawling _J. Golspie_ of the signature. And it was queer now to think that he would be coming back, returning from his tall bottle and rolling ship and the snow and forests of the Baltic place, to walk through that swing door there, not a yard from Smeeth’s elbow. It was queer and it was also rather exciting, which was more than could be said of the 13 bus and the lounge at the Burpenfield and her room there and the aspirin and the hot water. She sent the typewriter carriage flying along. It gave a sharp _ping_.

_Chapter Six_: MR. SMEETH GETS HIS RISE

I

Mr. Smeeth was happier than he had been for some time. The shadow of dismissal, unemployment, degradation, ruin, had gone, except in occasional dreams, when, after a bit of fried liver or toasted cheese had refused to be digested, he had found himself out of a job for ever and walking down vague dark streets with nothing on but his vest and pants. It had vanished from his waking hours. The firm had not only staved off bankruptcy, but it was doing a brisk trade--you might almost call it a roaring trade--in these new Baltic veneers and inlays. This meant that Mr. Smeeth had more and more columns of neat little figures to enter and then add up, and that no matter how hard he worked during the day he had to put in an extra half hour or so with the ledger and day books in the evening. He did not mind that, though sometimes when it was nearer seven than six and the electric light above his desk had been burning half the day and any real air there might have been in Angel Pavement during the morning had been used over and over again, well, he did find himself with a bit of a headache. Once or twice too he had that nasty little ticking sensation somewhere in his inside, but it never went on long, so he never said anything about it to anybody. If he had mentioned it to his wife, she would have dosed him with half a dozen different patent medicines and would have rushed out for half a dozen more. She did not care for doctors, but she loved patent medicines and would try one after another, not as an attempt to cure some definite ailment, for she could not claim to have one, but simply in the hope that there would be some mysterious magic in the bottle. Mrs. Smeeth called at the chemist’s in the same spirit in which she called on her fortune-telling friends. Mr. Smeeth was sceptical about both, though not so sceptical as he imagined himself to be.

Occasional little pains, however, were nothing compared with the relief of seeing the firm busy again. There had been times when he had almost hated going to the bank, for he felt that even the cashiers were telling one another that Twigg & Dersingham were looking pretty rocky, but now it was a pleasure again. “Just going round to the bank, Turgis,” he would say, trying not to sound too important. (Not that it mattered with Turgis, who really thought Mr. Smeeth _was_ important. But once or twice, when he had said something like this, he had caught a certain look, a kind of gleam, in Miss Matfield’s eye. With that young madam you never knew.) Then he would button up his old brown overcoat, which had lasted very well but would have to be replaced as soon as he got a rise, put on his hat, fill his pipe as he went down the steps, stop and light it outside the _Kwik-Work Razor Blade_ place, and then march cosily with it down the chilled and smoky length of Angel Pavement. Everywhere there would be a bustle and a jostling, with the roadway a bedlam of hooting and clanging and grinding gears, but he had his place in it all, his work to do, his position to occupy, and so he did not mind but turned on it a friendly eye and indulgent ear. The bank, secure in its marble and mahogany, would shut out the raw day and the raw sounds, and he would quietly, comfortably wait his turn, sending an occasional jet of fragrant _T. Benenden_ towards the ornamental grill. “Morning, Mr. Smeeth,” they would say. “A bit nippy, this morning. How are things with you?” And then, if there was time for it, one of them might have a little story to tell, about one of those queer things that happen in the City. Then back again in the office, at his desk, and very cosy it was after the streets. The very sight of the blue ink, the red ink, the pencils and pens, the rubber, the paper fasteners, the pad and rubber stamps, all the paraphernalia of his desk, all there in their places, at his service, gave him a feeling of deep satisfaction. He felt dimly too that this was a satisfaction that none of the others there, Turgis, the girls, young Stanley, would ever know, simply because they never came to work in the right spirit. His own two children were just the same. They were all alike now. Earn a bit, grab it, rush out and spend it, that was their lives.

“And it beats me, Mr. Dersingham,” he said to that gentleman, one morning, “who is going to be responsible in this lot, when the time comes. And the time must come, mustn’t it? I mean, they can’t be young and careless all their lives.”

“Don’t you worry, Smeeth. They’ll all settle down,” replied Mr. Dersingham, who felt that he stood between these two different generations, and also felt that anyhow he knew a lot more about everything than Smeeth. “I can remember the time, and not so long ago, when I felt just the same,” he continued, evidently under the impression that he was now a tremendously responsible person. “When the time comes, we take the responsibility all right. That’s the English way, you know, Smeeth.”

“I hope that is so, Mr. Dersingham,” said Mr. Smeeth doubtfully, “but this new lot does seem different, I must say. I know from my own two. Anything for tuppence, that’s their style, and let next week look after itself. It frightens me to hear them talk, though I say their mother’s always been a bit like that and they may have got it from her.”