Part 43

Mr. Golspie laughed too, companionably. They strolled round the deck, on which Miss Lena Golspie, in a fur coat and with a scarlet scarf about her neck, soon made an appearance, to the delight of several of the younger male passengers and ship’s officers, who had been waiting for this moment, after hoping, with the despair born of many previous disappointments, that she was not merely a fleeting vision, one of those lovely creatures who come aboard for an hour or two and then depart, leaving the whole ship under a shadow. She joined her father and was introduced to Mr. Sugden (not an impressionable man), and then wandered away, to stare with disdainful interest at the other ships and to gather out of the corners of her brilliant eyes a good deal of exciting preliminary information about her fellow passengers. The scene before her--the ship had stopped now in that unaccountable fashion that ships have--seemed to her very ugly and dull, and it was incredible that this dirty water and drab messiness should be the beginning of a voyage to South America, of which her fancy entertained the liveliest and most exciting pictures, chiefly derived from the films. After that awful night with the boy from the office, she had been only too glad to leave London, which seemed to her, on the whole, a stupid place, but she could hardly believe now that in a fortnight or so she would be staring at South American young men with black side-whiskers and absurd hats. She was annoyed with the ship for stopping like this, as if it had nothing better to do than loiter about these dingy sheds and flat boats full of barrels, and when one of the officers hung about, looking as if he wanted to pour out information, she gave him a haughty glance and walked away.

Her father and his new acquaintance, having finished their cigars, leaned over the rail, and decided that they were ready for lunch. Meanwhile, they talked idly.

“I don’t blame you,” said Mr. Sugden. “I don’t like London myself--never did. I had a year there once. Didn’t like it at all. I couldn’t get on with the Londoners--too much of this haw-haw-haw stuff and the striped trousers and black coat and white spat business. Didn’t suit me, I can tell you. They thought they were smart, too.”

“They’re not--most of ’em,” said Mr. Golspie. “I soon found that out.”

“So did I,” the other continued in his curiously flat mournful voice, “and when I did find it out and told ’em as much, they didn’t like it. No, they didn’t like it.” Mr. Sugden did not go on to explain why they should have liked it. He merely repeated several times more that they didn’t like it. But he was yawning rather than talking.

“Well, I’ve just had about four or five months of it,” said Mr. Golspie, indifferently, “and that was quite enough for me. They’re half dead, most of ’em--half dead. No dash. No guts. I want a place where everybody’s alive, where there’s something doing.”

“Where were you in London?”

“What--working? Well, my headquarters were in a funny little street--I don’t suppose you’ve heard of it--down in the City it is.”

“I know the City fairly well.”

“I wonder if you know this place. I’d never heard of it before. Angel Pavement.”

“Angel Pavement? No, I never heard of that. You win. Well, I must say I’m ready for my lunch. I think I’ll slip down and wash my hands. Well, _well_, well, we-ell.” He sang these, at the same time stifling a yawn. “Meet any angels there?”

“What, in Angel Pavement? I can’t say I did.”

“Not on view, eh?”

“Not while I was there. I met somebody who nearly turned into one, but not quite. No, they were all just human, and they hadn’t got too dam’ much of that. I was sorry for the poor devils--some of ’em.”

“All I’m sorry for just now is my inside,” said Mr. Sugden, with great deliberation. “It’s crying out for a piece of steak nicely done and a few chips. Hello, there go the Customs chaps. We ought to be moving again soon. And--my word!--it’s time they thought about a bit o’ lunch. Look at the time. Let’s go down.”

“Listen. That’s it,” said Mr. Golspie. “Come on. Oh, I’ll get hold of that daughter of mine.”

When they returned after lunch, they found that they had left the docks behind and were now in the river. There was a new chill freshness in the air and a vague hint of the sea. On one side, the last of Woolwich was straggling past, with a misty Shooters Hill behind; and on the other side there were some old piers and a gas works.

“Better take a last look at London,” said Mr. Golspie to his daughter, as they walked round the deck. “There it is, see?”

“There’s nothing to see,” said Lena, looking back at the glistening streaky water and the haze and shadows beyond. “Not worth looking at.”

“All gone in smoke, eh? I mean the proper London. As a matter of fact, we’re not out of London yet. That’s right, isn’t it?”

“Not quite out of it yet,” replied Mr. Sugden, “but you’ve seen all there is to see. I think I’ll go down and have my little afternoon snooze.”

A string of barges passed them, moving slowly on to the very heart of the city. A gull dropped, wheeled, flashed, was gone, and with it went what little sun there was. The gleam faded from the face of the river; a chill wind stirred; the distant banks, a higgledy-piggledy of little buildings and green patches, retreated; and even the smoky haze of London city slipped away from them, thinning out into grey sky. “Well, the sun’s gone in,” said Mr. Golspie, “so I’ll go in, too.” Somewhere a steamer hooted twice out of the ghostliness. He gave a last look, then turned away. “And that’s that.”

THE END