The Forgotten Story (9 page)

A long silence followed. Tom Harris knew how to argue his point. He carried too many big guns for the girl. Anthony felt that he should not have allowed the conversation to begin, that now it had begun he should exert himself to break it off. But he could not. He still laboured under the disadvantages of childhood. These were adults, arguing out their own problems between themselves. They had forgotten him. He could not muster the necessary self-importance to interfere.

‘We can't turn life back,' Patricia said in a low voice. ‘We can't just go back and start afresh as if nothing had happened, nothing been said.'

‘I'm not asking you to go back in the same way. I'm asking you to come back and live with
me
.'

In the distance, through a gap in the houses, the St Anthony light winked at them and disappeared.

‘But you see, Tom,' she said very quietly, ‘I don't love you.'

They crossed the street. They were nearly home.

‘Oh,' said Tom.

‘I'm sorry. I didn't really want to put it as bluntly as that.'

They reached the steep little street and turned down it.

‘How long have you known this?'

‘Since – since soon after I came home.'

‘Any
particular
reason?'

‘No …'

They came to a stop just out of range of the lighted windows of JOE VEAL'S.

‘Then I think,' said Harris, ‘that you might perhaps change your mind again. That I might be able to persuade you to change your mind.'

‘Now you're merely being odious,' said Pat.

‘I'm sorry,' he said. ‘That wasn't my intention.'

She said: ‘I must go now. Dad is still far from well. In any case, it's my duty to stay with him.'

He took the hand she had offered. ‘Is it also your duty to go out with Ned Pawlyn?'

She quickly took her hand back. She stood very still for a moment. When she spoke again her voice was quite changed.

‘I suppose that's the sort of remark I might have expected.'

‘Certainly it is; if those are the sort of men you go out with.'

‘Good night,' she said. ‘Thank you for bringing us home.' He said, ‘Some of them may be good fellows; I don't know. But

I took a dislike to Ned Pawlyn. I think I might come to dislike

him more. The low forehead shows a lack of intelligence. I'm

surprised that you should find him interesting.'
She had left them and entered the shop. Anthony found himself

alone with their escort. They looked at each other.
‘Good night, Anthony,' said Harris.
‘Good night,' said Anthony, raising his cap.
Then he too pushed open the door of the shop.

The light indoors was so bright by comparison with the feeble lighting of the streets that for a few seconds the boy could see very little. All he could make out was that Patricia was not there and that his uncle occupied his usual position behind the counter.

Then to his great astonishment he perceived that it was the wrong uncle.

He rubbed his eyes, but the man opposite him refused to change or disappear.

‘Where's Uncle Joe?' he got out at last.

‘Upstairs with a pain in his tum,' said Uncle Perry. ‘Behold his deputy; as large as life and twice as efficient.'

All the remarks of Mr Treharne came flooding back into his head. He looked round again for Pat.

‘Is he bad?' he asked in a voice instinctively pitched in a lower key.

‘He'll be all right in an hour or two, me boy. Just one of his “do's”.' Uncle Perry seemed in the best of spirits.

‘Where's Pat?' the boy asked.

‘Gone upstairs to see her Dad.'

‘Oh.' Anthony glanced down at the savoury dishes set out on the counter. ‘Are there many people inside?'

‘Business is a bit slack.' Uncle Perry pushed back his hair and waved a carving fork. ‘Now, sir; what can I do for you, sir? What would you like tonight, sir?'

Anthony glanced round, but he was the only person in the shop.

‘A little bit off the rump?' said Uncle Perry. ‘ Guaranteed tasty and never been sat on; just the thing for you, sir.' He picked up a carving knife and prodded each of the dishes in turn. ‘Now here we have a fine chicken. Chicken, did I say? Well, an old hen. May I offer you the guts of an old hen? Guaranteed to stretch
and
stretch. Very suitable for violin strings. No? Then a little roast swine? Can't I offer you some swine? The poor thing died last week, we don't know of what, so it
had
to be cured. Ha, ha! Or a duck's gullet? Help yourself, me boy, no waiting: Pay only if pleased. A five per cent discount for quiet eaters!'

Anthony tried to smile; then he tried not to smile.

‘Uncle Perry; do you think Uncle Joe is seriously ill?'

‘Ill? Belay there. We all get pains in the tum. You must have had pains in the tum. Were you seriously ill? Good grief, no.' Uncle Perry took from under the counter a large mug of beer and drained it. Presently all that was left was a thin white froth upon his lips, which he carefully licked off with a large flat tongue. Then he parted his lips in a smack.

At that moment three customers entered. There were explanations; Perry laughed and joked with them and at last succeeded in selling them three plates of beef.
Ping – crash!
went the till. He sliced off the beef inexpertly, narrowly missing his thumb in the process. With the point of the knife he pressed the bell which summoned little Fanny. She came limping in.

‘Three underdone beefs,' said Perry. ‘Three beefs full o'blood for three customers short of it. There you are, Fanny, my little pet. Why, what's the matter? Hurt your leg?'

‘Twisted my knee,' said Fanny. ‘ Twisted it on them dark stairs …'

‘Elliman's Embrocation,' said Perry. ‘ Elliman's is the stuff. Makes excellent gravy. Rub it well in, my pet. Look, I'll rub it for you. An expert at massage. The Sultan of Kuala would have decorated me for what I did for his fourth wife, but I couldn't stay. Is it swollen? Let me see.'

Fanny blushed and giggled and picked up the three plates and fled.

Uncle Perry opened another bottle of beer.

‘They're all the same, me boy. They all like a little bit of fuss. From countess down to scullerymaid; black or white, red or yellow. Stap me if they don't!'

‘The play was all about a Marquis tonight,' said Anthony.

‘Lor' bless me, yes, if you haven't been off gallivanting to a play tonight like a young lord yourself, while I've been working my fingers to the bone. To the bone.' Uncle Perry scratched the back of his neck with the points of the carving fork and eyed the boy speculatively. ‘What did you think of it? Don't tell me. I guess you enjoyed it. Lucky young tinker. Not that this is much in my line, this food business. I wouldn't demean myself by touching it if it wasn't for obliging a brother.'

‘It was called
The Last of His Line
,' said Anthony. ‘ It –'

‘Not that I couldn't turn my hand to anything if I chose,' said Perry. ‘In 'Frisco in the winter of ' 89 for two weeks I helped a Chinaman to run his restaurant. Friend of mine, he was; I never believe in this colour bar.'

‘The play had a Chinaman in it,' said Anthony. ‘At least, I think it was only a white man pretending to be a Chinaman, but –'

‘Now there was a man for you,' said Uncle Perry, tilting his chair back and putting his feet on the counter. His head disappeared for a few moments into the beer mug. ‘There was a cook. None of these fat, flabby joints sawn straight off a dripping bullock. He used to buy
innards
, me boy,
yards
of 'em, and serve ' em up as anything you asked for: grilled pigeon, lark's breast, noodles, bamboo shoots. And they all tasted different. And if there was fungus growing on what he bought, so much the better; he'd make it into soup. He was a genius. None of this undercooked,
recognisable
stuff that'd turn anyone's stomach. No wonder your Uncle Joe's ill. No wonder he can't eat. Sitting here day after day with his nose bending over slices of sheep and diseased ducks. Poo, how they stink! They almost spoil a man's thirst.'

‘Thank you, Perry,' said a voice. ‘You will not need to spoil it any longer.'

Smoky Joe stood on the threshold of the little shop holding carefully to the door. He was fully dressed but his face was an ashen grey. His sharp eyes were watery and bloodshot and he spoke with difficulty. Behind him in the darkness of the passage was Patricia.

Uncle Perry put down his mug and put down his feet.

‘Well, Joe, me bonny boy! I was just saying to our Anthony it was time you were down again. I knew you'd be down again soon. Welcome back to the old grindstone!'

‘It's high time I came,' said Joe.

‘Well, I've been doing my best, Joe. Haven't I, boy? Not a dissatisfied customer. Is there, boy? I've sold half your beef and a bit of duck.
And
given the right change. To a penny. Behold Matthew at the seat of custom. Always ready to do my bit when the proprietor's off his food.'

‘With a mug of beer and your feet on the counter,' said Joe between tight lips. ‘A fine business this would soon be with a drunken man at the till.'

Perry blinked and pushed the hair out of his eyes. ‘Come now, Joe; that's a malig – malignancy. If you think I'm drunk you're barking up the wrong tree. Like the little dog Fido in the song.' He laughed. ‘Why, if –'

‘Let Joe sit down,' said Patricia. ‘You don't seem to realise he's very ill. He should never have come down tonight.'

‘Well, it's not my doing that he's come,' said Perry, suddenly sulky. ‘ This isn't my business. God damn it! I might have been doing him an injury instead of a favour.'

‘No favour to me,' said Joe, sinking into his chair. ‘I manage my own affairs –'

‘When you're sick in bed, I suppose.'

‘When I am ill Patricia will manage them. She is my daughter.'

‘And I suppose you think I'm your brother and can be treated like dirt! Well, you're mistaken! I'm sick of this household and its airs. I'll not stand for it another week. Being treated as if I was a no-account! You can sit on your chair and rot, Brother Joe; you won't get any more help from me!'

Uncle Perry brushed past Anthony and the shop door slammed.

Patricia put her hand on the counter and kept her eyes down. With slow, painful movements Smoky Joe settled himself into his usual position, rearranging the plates and the carving knives, rang the till and stared at the money in the various compartments of the drawer.

‘Can I get you anything more, Dad?' Patricia asked.

‘No … But you'd best stay here with me a while yet. Maybe you'll be able to help.' Smoky Joe slowly raised his head and looked at Anthony. ‘Isn't it past your bedtime?'

‘Yes. We've been out, you know.'

‘That's no reason why you should stay up now, is it? Turning night into day will stop your growth. I'll be responsible to your father if you're pale and weakly when he sees you. Good night, boy.'

‘Good night, Uncle. Good night, Pat. Thanks awfully for taking me out tonight.'

Patricia smiled as he passed her.

But he did not immediately go to bed.

As he entered the kitchen the heat and the familiar smell of it struck him like something he had known all his life. Here was the big square raftered room lit by gas which flickered uncertainly in the steam. On the left was the dark hole and the four steps which led down to the scullery and pantry. Welsh dressers lined one wall; the great table in the middle of the room was piled with dishes and jars and a pastry board; aprons were piled upon a chair; a cupboard door was open showing cooking utensils. Two cabbages and a bowl of scalded milk occupied another table. From the rafters, where they were not likely to catch in the hair, hung a string of onions, several fly-catchers and a dozen tea-towels. Along the wall opposite the dressers the huge kitchen range roared and hissed.

Among all this confusion, presiding over it as if she were its chosen deity, Aunt Madge stood stirring a giant cooking pot. There was no one else in the room, and she stood there big and slow-moving and withdrawn, thinking her private thoughts, her hair piled, her features snub and insignificant, a boned collar, earrings, and a cameo brooch showing above the anonymous pink apron. She considered it vulgar to have a bare neck even when cooking.

She turned when she heard a footstep and looked over the top of her pince-nez to see who it was. Then she relinquished her spoon and took off the pince-nez to wipe away the steam.

‘A carrot,' she said. ‘I should like. The scullery. Fanny …'

He ran down the dark steps into the scullery and found little Fanny wading through a stack of dirty plates. He got the carrot and returned.

Aunt Madge took it and began to slice it into the pot.

‘You're cooking late tonight, Aunt Madge,' the boy said, reluctant to go upstairs, feeling too unsettled to sleep.

‘We have an order,' she said. ‘Men coming in. A ship. Who was that in the shop? Arguing …'

‘Uncle Joe's just come down again.'

‘Foolhardy. Was he shouting?'

‘No. You see, Uncle Joe … Uncle Perry was drinking beer behind the counter. Uncle Joe didn't seem to like it. Uncle Perry's gone out.'

‘Huff,' said Mrs Veal. ‘Too touchy. But Joe was very wrong. He shouldn't … So foolhardy. Must persuade him. A doctor.'

Anthony walked round the kitchen. There were no confidences between himself and his aunt; nevertheless all that he had heard this evening seemed to come bubbling to his lips. It worried him and he could no longer contain it.

‘I heard Mr Treharne talking tonight,' he said. ‘ You know, up at the Ship and Sailor. He said – he said that Uncle Joe was very … might not recover … He said …'