Part 29

Outside the office it was as bad, if not worse. She had her presents to buy, which meant frantic rushes to the shops during lunchtime or the short space left to her in the evening before they closed. They were packed out with people, and, of course, you could never find the things you wanted, and if you went late, the assistants, who had not drawn a proper breath for several hours, hated the sight of you and would not help. At last the army of advertising managers, copy writers, commercial artists, colour printers, window dressers, bill posters, which had been screaming “Buy, buy. Christmas is coming. Buy, buy, buy” for weeks and weeks, was charging to victory. London was looting itself. Those damp dark afternoons seemed to rain people down into the shopping streets; whole suburbs burst upon Oxford Street, Holborn, Regent Street; the shops themselves were full, the pavements were jammed, and the vehicles on the crowded road could hold no more. Never before had Miss Matfield seen so many boxes of figs and dates, obscenely naked fowls, cheeses, puddings in basins, beribboned cakes, and crackers, so much morocco and limp leather and suede and pig-skin, so many calendars, diaries, engagement books, bridge-scorers, fountain-pens, pencils, patent lighters, cigarette-holders, dressing-cases, slippers, handbags, manicure sets, powder-bowls, and “latest novelties.” There were several brigades of Santa Clauses, tons and tons of imitation holly, and enough cotton-wool piled in the windows and dabbed on the glass to keep the hospitals supplied for the next ten years. Between those festive windows and a line of hawkers, street musicians, beggars, there passed a million women dragging after them a million children, who, after a brief space in some enchanted wonderland were dazed, tired, peevish, wanting nothing but a rest and another bun. From a million bags, bags of every conceivable shape and colour, money, wads of clean pound notes straight from the bank, dirty notes from the vase on the mantelpiece, half-crowns and florins from the tin box in the bedroom, money that had come showering down out of the blue, money that had been stolen, money that had been earned, begged, hoarded up, was being pushed over counters and under little glass windows and then conjured into parcels, parcels, parcels, with whole acres of brown paper and miles of string called into service every few minutes. Hundreds of these parcels, especially the huge three-cornered ones, seemed to find their way into every bus that Miss Matfield, after waiting and running forward and returning and waiting again, contrived to board. She felt like a shivering and bruised ant. Never had she hated London so much. She wanted to scream at it. When she got back to the Club, the only thing she wished to do was to have a long hot soak in the bath, and of course it was precisely the thing that everybody else wanted to do too, so she would find herself hanging about, still waiting, after waiting to leave the office, waiting to get a bus, waiting to be served in the shop, waiting at the cash desk, waiting for her parcel, waiting for another bus; and then Kersey would come up and say: “Going out to-night, Matfield? No? Well, you can’t expect to go out every night, can you, dee-ar?” Hell!

Mr. Golspie left for Paris--lucky man--on the morning of Christmas Eve; Mr. Dersingham wished them all a merry Christmas and departed early; Mr. Smeeth gave them all an extra week’s money, brightened up a little, and hoped they would have a very good time. Miss Matfield, after working miracles, arrived at Paddington, a Paddington that suggested that some invading army had already reached the Bank and that shells were falling into Hyde Park and that the seat of government had already been transferred to Bristol, and she was just in time to get three-quarters of a seat and no leg space in the 5.46. The lights of Westbourne Park and Kensal Green, such as they were, blinked at her and then were gone. Thank God she was done with this nightmare of a London for a few days! Perhaps Christmas at home this time would be amusing. At any rate, it would be reasonable and quiet, and her father and mother would be glad to see her, and she would be glad to see them. As the train gathered speed, shrugging off the outer western suburbs, she thought of her parents with affection, and for a little time felt nearer the child she had once been, the child who had thought her father and mother so wonderful and had found Christmas the most radiant and magical season than she had done for many a month. She closed her eyes; her mouth gradually lost its discontented curve; her whole face softened. Angel Pavement would hardly have recognized her.

III

“Hello, Matfield! What sort of a Christmas did _you_ have?”

“Oh, the usual thing, you know--rather feeble.”

“Do anything special?”

“No, just stodged and sat about and yawned. Stayed in bed every morning for breakfast and never got up till nearly lunch time. That was about the best thing that happened. What about you?”

“Oh, awful!” replied the other girl, Miss Preston, who worked at the Levantine Bank, but based her claim to attention at the Club on the fact that her brother, under another name, was a well-known actor. He had visited the Club twice, and each time Preston’s reputation had soared. “The minute I got home I started the vilest cold, and then Archie--my brother, you know, the actor--had promised to come for Christmas, but wired at the last second that he couldn’t.”

“Hard luck!” cried Miss Matfield, but not with much conviction. You had to give out so much sympathy at the Burpenfield that you were apt to become very mechanical, and if something really terrible and tragic had happened there, if, for example, half a dozen girls had gone down with ptomaine poisoning, the other girls would probably have been struck dumb, having over-worked so long all the possible expressions of pity and horror.

Now they were all discussing their holidays. The youngish ones, who had probably enjoyed themselves thoroughly, were mostly going about crying “Vile! Absolutely ghastly, my dear!” The oldish ones, the lonely hot water bottle enthusiasts, who had probably had nothing but a mocking shadow of a Christmas, were busy pretending, with a strained creaking brightness, that they had had a wonderful time. The members in between these two groups, such as Miss Matfield, gave fairly truthful accounts. The entrance hall, the lounge, the stairs and the corridors above, all buzzed with these descriptions. The Burpenfield Club was returning to its normal life. With admirable forethought, Miss Tattersby had pinned up half a dozen new notices all written in her most exclamatory and sardonic style, and already these notices, especially a very bitter and tyrannical one about washing stockings and handkerchiefs, were feeding the mounting flames of talk. “My dear, but _have_ you seen Tatters’ latest?” they cried, along the landings and in and out of their little bedrooms.

Miss Matfield went up to her little room, found a space on the wall for two framed Medici prints she had brought back from home, cleared out of her tiny bookshelf several books she had borrowed and forgotten to return, and put in their place some books she had contrived to borrow during the holidays. There were two travel books and three novels or romances, and all three stories had for their settings such places as Borneo and the South Seas. This was not a mere coincidence. Miss Matfield liked her fiction to be full of jungles, coral reefs, plantations, lagoons, hibiscus flowers, the scent of vanilla, schooners on the wide Pacific, tropical nights. So long as the young man was first shown to her dressed in white and lounging on a verandah, while a noiseless brown figure brought him something long and cool to drink, she was ready to follow his love story to the end. If the story had no love in it but had the right exotic setting, she would read it, but she preferred a fairly strong love interest. She had not bad taste, and if the story was written for her by Joseph Conrad, so much the better; but she was ready to endure if not to delight in authors of a very different cut from Conrad if they would only give her the jungles and lagoons and coral reefs and mysterious brown faces. The worst story about Malaysia was preferable to the best story about Marylebone. She did all her reading on the bus to and from the office, in some teashop at lunch time, and in bed, and as her one desire was to escape from any further consideration of buses, teashops, and girls’ club bedrooms, these stories of the other end of the world, strange, savage, beautiful, might have been specially created for her; indeed, many of them were. She never admitted that she had a passion for these exotic and adventurous tales. She did homage to them negatively by looking through other and very different novels, novels about London and Worcestershire, and then sneering heavily at them. A long acquaintance with these heroes in bungalows and schooners and bars run by Chinese had gradually shaped and coloured her attitude towards men, though here again she admitted nothing and only paid these distant creatures a negative tribute, by criticizing adversely the fellows who were quite different and much nearer home. The idea of a man that warmed her secret heart was that of the strong, adventurous, roving male with a background of alien scenes, of little ships and fantastic drinking haunts. If she married him, she might want to domesticate him in that beautiful old country house in which she had spent so many imaginary Christmasses, but he would have to be that kind of man first, and not born in captivity.

It was not possible to change her room very much--though she always tried after being away--because it was far too small; it was like trying to re-arrange three or four toys in a boot-box; but now, as before, she did what she could. She had come back determined, as she told herself, to fight against the Burpenfield atmosphere. No more drooping and whining, no more waiting for something to turn up while you knew all the time it wouldn’t, no more wistful hanging about on the roadside of life! She would lead a real life of her own, full, adventurous, gay. This was not the first time--alas!--she had come back to the Club with such a resolution and had promptly tried to change her room about as an early outward sign of it; but now it was different; she was older, more experienced, and this time she meant it. Moreover, she had now a total of five pounds a week instead of four pounds ten, for they had given her a ten-shilling rise at the office, and though she had told her father, he had only congratulated her (with that tired smile and that faint irony which frequently accompany long experience of a general medical practice, that constant round of births and deaths), and had not proposed cutting down his allowance of six pounds a month. Any girl at the Burpenfield would have instantly appreciated the profound distinction between five pounds a week and four pounds ten shillings, for whereas on four pounds ten you have still to be careful, on five pounds you can really begin to splash about a bit.

“Well, if you ask me, Mattie,” said Miss Cadnam, who had looked in and had been promptly told about this new mood, “you’re absolutely _rolling_. I only get four, you know, including what I get from home, when they don’t forget, and I know if I suddenly got an extra pound, I’d simply break out in all directions. Do you know, Ivor only gets six pounds a week, that’s all. Don’t say anything, of course. He’d be furious if he knew I’d told anybody--men are awfully silly about things like that, aren’t they?--terribly secretive--but honestly that’s all he gets, and he seems to have an awful lot to spend.”

Miss Matfield shut a drawer with a bang, turned to face her visitor, and looked very determined. “I always think this time that’s coming now--the next two months or so--the foulest part of the whole year. Awful weather, cold and slush and everything, and Easter and spring a long time away, and nothing happening very much, and it’s just the time when, if you let yourself go, you get depressed beyond words.”

“I absolutely agree,” said Miss Cadnam earnestly.

“Well, I’ve made up my mind this time I’m not going to have it. If things don’t happen, I’ll _make_ them happen. If anybody asks me to go anywhere or do anything that’s at all decent, I shall accept. I shall go to theatres and concerts more, and if there’s any dancing about, I’m having it. By the way, mother’s given me what seems to me _rather_ a nice dress. I’ll show it to you. The only thing I’m not certain about is the length at the front. What do you think?”

There was a short interlude, during which the dress was held up, pulled down, examined, and finally approved.

“Anyhow, that’s _my_ programme, Caddie,” said Miss Matfield, after the dress had been put away again. “I’ve come to the conclusion that one gives in too much--I don’t mean that you do, my dear, because you’re one of the very few people here who definitely don’t--it’s something in the Burpenfield atmosphere that does it, sort of saps your initiative and makes you frightened--and if you let yourself drift here, it’s fatal. I’m not going to have it. And that’s to-day’s great thought and resolution, Caddie.”

“Good! I always come back feeling like that. You know, feeling I must start all over again _somehow_, whether it’s leading a gay life or leading a quiet life or what it is.”

There was a tap on the door, which opened to admit the head of Miss Morrison. “Hello, Matfield. Hello, Cadnam. Is this terribly private? Sure?” She came in. “This is to announce that I’ve changed my room and am now your neighbour, four doors down on the other side.”

“That’s Spilsby’s room,” said Miss Matfield.

“It was, but is Spilsby’s no longer. Spilsby is not coming back. She’s going to New Zealand or Australia, I forget which, and it’s just the place for her, whichever it is. I’ve discovered Spilsby’s secret vice--reading those American magazines that you can buy cheap at Woolworth’s and other places, you know the kind--Western Yarns with a Punch.”

“I know,” cried Miss Cadnam. “But not Spilsby?”

“Spilsby. She’d bought hundreds of them. I’ve just had them turfed out. You couldn’t move for them. All Westerns or the big wild North-West or the red-blooded Yukon, all bunches of gripping yarns with a punch. Spilsby was a red-blooded Western addict--Revolting! Are you sure you wouldn’t like some, Matfield, before they’re all gone? You look a bit fierce to-night.”

“She is,” said Miss Cadnam. “Aren’t you, Mattie? She’s just been telling me that she’s come back full of grand resolutions.”

“Ugh!” Miss Morrison looked disgusted. “Don’t tell me you’ve made up your mind to spend all your evenings learning Italian and German or something like that.”

“You’re quite wrong.”

“Quite.”

“Thank the Lord for that,” said Miss Morrison. “It would have been completely foul. Besides, you’re not young enough and not old enough, if you see what I mean, for that sort of thing. When I was a few years younger, I used to come back full of good intentions and ambition and tell myself I was going to learn commercial Spanish or qualify as an accountant or something equally crazy. You feel like that after the holidays. But what’s this new attitude?”

It was explained to her, and she listened with a dubious smile on her smooth pale face. “Ah, my children,” she said, “I like to hear you talk. I, too, have felt like that in my time. It won’t work.”

“In your time! Why, Morrison, I’m two years older than you at least,” cried Miss Matfield.

“And I’m nearly as old as you, Morrison,” said Miss Cadnam. “I’m getting terribly old.”

“It isn’t just the years, little ones. It’s the experience. You make me feel old with your charming youthful illusions. However, I’m all for you leading a dashing worldly life, Matfield. I’m all in favour of you going to the devil, for that matter. How do you do it, by the way? I used to hear an awful lot of vague talk about the temptations of a poor girl’s life in London. Where do they come in? Nobody ever tempts me. The only temptations I have are to steal some of my worthy employeress’s terribly expensive bath salts when I’m allowed to enter her bathroom to wash my hands, and--there must be something else--yes, not to give the bus conductor my penny when he doesn’t ask for it. What chance have I then to be really virtuous or to be wicked either? I admit, Matfield, that you’re different. You go down to the great City, to begin with, and meet mysterious men on romantic ships----”

“When was this?” cried Miss Cadnam. “Did you, Mattie, or is she making it up?”

“Quiet, child! You will understand in time. And then again, my dear Matfield, you have a _look_. I don’t say you look terribly marvellous, my dear----”

“I don’t pretend to,” Miss Matfield told her.

“But there’s a _something_--a hint, you might say, of dark, wild forces. I don’t suppose you have any, really, but there’s a _look_. That’s where you completely beat me. I haven’t that look at all, whereas if people only knew what I was _really_ like---- Well, never mind. But you have it, though if I were you--particularly now, when you’ve made up your mind to be a One--I should do my hair rather differently. You ought to have it out at the side more. I’ll show you what I mean. You watch, Cadnam, and see if you don’t agree.”

“Ye-es, I think you’re probably right,” said Miss Matfield finally.

“By the way,” said Miss Morrison, “there’s a dance here on New Year’s Eve. And as nobody has asked me anywhere else, I think I’ll go, and I might be able to persuade a couple of men I know vaguely to look in. They’re not very bright lads, but they’re energetic and harmless and better than nothing. What about you, Matfield? A dance at the Burpenfield is perhaps hardly a proper start on the downward path--but still, you never know.”

“Oh yes, I’ll be there,” said Miss Matfield. But she wasn’t.

IV

Many a time afterwards Miss Matfield wondered if Mr. Golspie deliberately engineered that staying late on New Year’s Eve. She never asked him and never made up her own mind about it. At the time, it seemed accidental enough. He had looked in at the office during the morning, had gone out quite soon and had not returned until six o’clock, when they were all busy clearing off the last odds and ends of work. Mr. Dersingham had already gone. Mr. Golspie arrived, shouted for her, and went into the private office.

“Sorry, Miss Matfield,” he began, “but I’ll have to ask you to do a bit of work for me at once.”

“What, now?”

“Yes, now. Don’t look at me like that, Miss Matfield--spoiling your handsome features. It can’t be helped, and an extra hour for once isn’t going to hurt you, is it?”

“I suppose not, Mr. Golspie. It’s only--well, it’s New Year’s Eve, isn’t it?”

“So it is. I’d clean forgotten. Old Year’s Night, we always used to call it. Still, there’ll be plenty of it left when we’ve finished.”

“Yes, that’s all right--only, I’d arranged to go to a dance to-night.”

“O-ho, the gay life, eh?” he boomed, grinning at her. “Now I remember, my daughter’s going to one to-night. One of these balloon, confetti, and false noses affairs, eh? Champagne at midnight, eh?”

“No such luck. It’s only a dance at the girls’ club where I live, a very modest affair.”

“Oh, a dance at a girls’ club, eh? That’s nothing. You’re as well off here with me as at a dance at a girls’ club. What time does it start?”

“About nine, I suppose.”

“I shan’t keep you here until nine, unless you want me to. Now you go back and finish what you were doing, and you can tell the rest of ’em they can go when they like, as far as I’m concerned. Then come back here, bring your notebook, and we’ll get down to it. I’ve some letters I must get off to-night. Somebody’s got to earn some money for this firm, y’know.”

When she returned to the private office, Mr. Golspie, meditating over a cigar and occasionally jotting down some figures, motioned her towards a chair and did not speak for several minutes. She heard the outer door bang behind the other people, going home, heard other doors banging and noisy footsteps on the stairs, and then everything suddenly sank into silence.

“Now then,” said Mr. Golspie, “let’s make a start. You can take the whole lot down at once, if you like, or you can take two or three, go and type ’em, then come back for more, just as you please. All I care about is that they go to-night.”

She took down several letters, then went to type them out while he looked at his figures and thought about the rest of them. It was very strange to be at work in the deserted general office, to go back to the private office and find Mr. Golspie there, almost lost in his cigar smoke, to return again to her machine under the solitary light. As the quarters of an hour slipped by, so many little noises from outside disappeared into the silence that at last she did not seem to be working in a place she knew at all. The instant the familiar and now cheerful clatter and _ping_ of her typewriter stopped, everything turned ghostly, until she found herself again in the private office, which was not at all ghostly. There was nothing spectral about Mr. Golspie.

“But what about copying them?” she cried, when they were all done, all signed, and ready for their envelopes.

“They can stay uncopied,” replied Mr. Golspie.

“But, you know, we always copy all letters.”

“Well, this time we don’t. It isn’t worth the bother. I know what I’ve said to these people, and they’re my letters, not Dersingham’s. Help me to put them into their envelopes and bring some stamps, then we’ve done. That’s the way. A good job of work, that, Miss Matfield. I’m much obliged. Most girls would have kicked up a fuss and then done the work dam’ badly just to show their independence. What time is it? Would you believe it?--nearly eight! I thought I was hungry.”

Miss Matfield had given a little cry of dismay.

“Hello, what’s the matter with you?”

“I’d no idea it was so late, though I feel terribly hungry, too. Dinner will be over at the Club when I get back there now, though I suppose I shall be in time to get something.”

“You’re hungry, too, are you? What did you have for lunch?”

“I never had much lunch, you see,” said Miss Matfield. “I had an egg and a roll and butter and a cup of coffee.”

“And then you had a cup of tea and a biscuit, and now it’s nearly eight and you feel hungry and you think if you run all the way back to your Club they’ll give you a bite of something there--that’s it, isn’t it? Well, that’s no good at all. That’s the way you girls do yourselves in. You don’t feed. It’s all wrong. If you don’t have at least one thumping big meal a day in this town at this time o’ the year, you might as well send for the doctor at once and have done with it. Now, Miss Matfield,” and he rose and put a hand on her shoulder, “you’re not one of those half-starved wizened little monkeys of creatures that pass for girls nowadays; you’re a fine upstanding girl, a real woman; and you can’t play those tricks with yourself. Now listen--you’re coming to feed with me. We’ve both been working; we’re both hungry; and we’re going to feed together.”

“Oh, are we?” It was all she could find to reply at the moment.

“If you want me to make a favour of it, I’ll do it,” he continued. “Here I am--on the last night of the year, too--going to have dinner all by myself, and here are you, as hungry as I am, and we’ve been working together, and you won’t join me to cheer me up a bit. How’s that?”

She laughed. “All right, I will. Thank you. Only I can’t go anywhere very marvellous, looking like this, you know.”