Twopence Coloured (19 page)

T
HE train-call being for seven, Jackie had had only four hours’ sleep when the sympathetic little emigrant stole in with the last cup of tea she was destined to give Jackie on this earth, and touched her arm softly and told her the time. This was five forty-five, and at twenty-past six Jackie was outside the front of the Hippodrome waiting for a tram. The town was hidden in a raw, wet Sunday mist, and was an evil, gleaming, sodden old town, with very few wayfarers. The tram contained two women (who wore shawls over their heads) and was a clanging, bumpy tram. Lime Street Station contained various porters and trucks (which seemed to clatter about more in the roof than down below) and was deserted in appearance. Then one began to encounter odd actors and actresses, who walked briskly about, and were nervously cheerful.

Five third-class compartments of the train were labelled “Reserved,” in red letters, and at the bottom of each label was inscribed, in pencil and a very scrawling hand, “Man of Steel Co.” Jackie got a corner seat with her back to the engine, and watched the rest arriving. They were not long in doing this. The actual men of steel came last, one each side of Mr. Carters, and they went into a first-class compartment by themselves. One of the men of steel was clearly not listening to Mr. Carters, as he came up the platform, but scanning the train in search of a friend, at whom he smiled gaily. That smile had to last a day’s journeying, and succeeded in doing so, though the journey was dull.

The men went apart from the women, and remained apart. They were soon, indeed, unapproachable, and very male indeed. They were never at a loss for conversation (as could
be dimly heard from next door) — an inexhaustible stream of theatrical reminiscence, army reminiscence, and smut (reminiscent or inventive) buoying up their spirits all the way to Euston. Occasionally one of them came and stood in the ladies’ doorway, conversing, with the Siegfriedian glow of his manhood upon him, for ten minutes or so; but this was a favour and a condescension. Only at the end, when Johnnie broke his back trouser-button, and came in for what he named a Delicate Little Surgical Operation at the hands of his wife, was there any general intercourse. And then there was great amusement. Johnnie could only expect to get Pricked if he didn’t sit still, and Johnnie could not sit still while they were all standing there drying him up like that… There! … The men were unanimously dismissed as Big Babies.

After a rushed two hours in London, in which Jackie made a flying visit to West Kensington to get some clothes, she boarded the train for Brighton at Victoria. In this there were no corridors, and no reservations, and she escaped from her fellow-professionals. She travelled down with two
commercial
travellers and an old lady, and they were very
pleasant
and restful to the eyes. Also the ears.

*

At Brighton Station she put up her suitcases at the
cloakroom
, and with a few addresses in her bag, walked forth into the town in search of rooms, for which she had neglected to write. It was a windy, grey-and-yellow, showery summer’s day, and from Queen Street she had a glimpse and scent of her old Brighton sea. This was flecked with foam and of a rough muddied azure colour. The sight of it depressed her. It had no air of having noticed her absence, and had no welcome for her now. Moreover, this was a curious return to the town of her birth….

She found a room in Over Street, which was a rather dreamy slum a few hundred yards from the King’s Theatre. She had not sufficient spirit to go further, though she was far from satisfied by the size and appearance of the
apartments
revealed to her. Also the landlady promised her an immediate cup of tea, and said that Dad would go to the
station and fetch her bags. This settled it. Tea was brought: a cipher-like and subservient head of the family clicked the front door behind him as he went off to the station; and Mrs. Gribble had a long conversation with Jackie as she sat and drank. They discussed Mrs. Gribble’s little daughter. Mrs. Gribble’s little daughter had a keen knowledge of the French tongue (which was more than her parents had), could play the piano (but here she took after her mother), and was having dancing lessons twice a week. She was, in fact, a clever little girl —— That clever. Jackie went further — from what she could hear she thought her prodigious. Mrs. Gribble admitted that she was Surprised, sometimes. Only the other day, for instance, when Dad saw her getting out her books when she came back from school, he spoke to her.

“You’re always reading at them books, Eileen,” he said. “Don’t you ever want to go out and play with the other children?” What did Mrs. Gribble’s little daughter reply? Jackie could not guess. The answer was astonishing. “Ah,” replied Mrs. Gribble’s little daughter, “When
I
grow up I
want
to
be
able
to
help
my
Mum
and
Dad.”
Nothing very much, but there you were. Then only yesterday Mrs. Gribble herself had spoken to her. “Do you want to go on the Stage when you’re grown up, Eileen?” she had asked. Mrs. Gribble’s little daughter had thought about that for the moment, like. “Well,” said Mrs. Gribble’s little daughter at last.
“I
don’t
want
to
go
on
the
Stage
unless
it
helps
my
Mummie.”
Now how was one to read that? Nothing much in it, perhaps, but Mrs. Gribble meant that it wasn’t All children that spoke like that now, was it? She meant that it wasn’t quite Usual, was it? Jackie, by numerous
affirmatives
and nods, made it quite clear that it was NOT. “Ah, well — Queer little things — children,” proclaimed Mrs. Gribble. But this was too modest. Queer little things
perhaps
, was the effect of Jackie’s rejoinder — but how about CLEVER little things? — how about little geniuses in the family? — how about infant prodigies? Jackie had obviously alighted in a house of destiny. “Oh, well, she certainly is
different,” said Mrs. Gribble, and left her lodger on the best of terms.

Jackie’s bedroom was at the back, looking out on to a yard which was two yards square. In the house on her immediate right there lived a couple with five children, whose heads were intermittently and audibly banged by the aforesaid couple (which caused them to cry); and in the house to her left were two prostitutes, who did not rise from bed until the evening, and who were the quietest and least assuming lodgers in an aggressive and banging neighbourhood. Jackie did not like the neighbourhood at all, silent as it was on Sunday, and after tea she took a walk.

She walked out to Hove in a purple sunset over a
dove-grey
sea, and she glimpsed her old house in First Avenue.

The fact that this was occupied by strangers amused her fancy. She had an unalterable impression that those strangers were pitiable amateurs and pretenders as regards that house. Fancy thinking it was their own! What did they know about it? She was so ashamed for their presumption and innocence that she felt quite agreeably disposed towards them. It was, after all, not their fault.

The King’s Gardens, too, seemed to wear an almost pitiable presumption…. For there were many new faces along those lawns and in those shelters — those lawns where she had spent a decade and more. She could afford to feel lofty…. She had been a success along those lawns — a legend, almost…. But there were many old faces, she observed as well; and she could not feel so lofty towards these gardens as she had felt towards her house. There was just a touch of the expelled angel, here….

But she was glad she was here no longer. She was sure she was glad. There was something blank and unawakened about that life of leisure, she decided. And if she had not met Richard! To have dwelt unknowingly here, and not to have met Richard. How pitiable would she herself have been then!

In this purple sunset over this dove-grey sea, existence was strangely softened. She walked back to Brighton and
had a meal at Booth’s. Here none of the waiters recognized her — though none were changed since the days her father used to bring her here. She was glad they did not. She had fish, and an ice, and coffee, and sat in a far corner where she excited little comment. It was dark and raining when she came out, and the sea was up. On reaching her slum she encountered the two prostitutes next door (who looked at her strangely): and from her front room she heard the sound of the piano, which was being vigorously played. She rattled her key in the door, and there was a sound of scampering. She was struck by the innocence and wickedness of life — the ingenuousness and rat-like pleasures of the poor.

She refused all offers of supper and went straight to bed. The poor did at least comprehend the laws of a comfortable bed — they probably had need to do so. She was dreamily, downily and exquisitely comforted. The last thing she heard was the crash of the sea in the dark.

There was another rehearsal for Richard next morning, on the stage of the King’s. This stage was quaintly small — almost doll-like after that of the Liverpool Hippodrome, but it was for all that a stage of normal size. In the middle of the rehearsal he came over to her.

“I say,” he said, as though slightly aggrieved. “Aren’t you coming over to Southshore?”

“How do you mean?” asked Jackie. “I’ll come over if you like.”

“I mean to stay,” he said.

“Stay?” said Jackie…. She met his eyes in a startled pause.

“Mr. Gissing!” cried the hook-nosed young man, and “One moment,” he said, and left her to perform.

In a quarter of an hour he returned.

“Well?” he said.

“But how could I?” asked Jackie.

“Easily, Jackie. I’m very sorry. This is me.”

In half an hour he returned.

“All fixed?”

“But how
can
I? I can’t.”

“What’s your address?”

She told him.

“You, Mr. Gissing!” cried the hook-nosed young man.

“I’ll call for you,” he said, and departed.

When the rehearsal ended he retired upstairs under the superintendence of Mr. Carters, the hook-nosed young man and a lady identified as the wardrobe mistress, and it was clear that he was seeing about his clothes for the evening. She did not see how she could wait about, and she went back to her rooms for lunch.

She could eat little of her lunch — which was a pungent stew. She wondered whether she was to stay in all the afternoon, in case he arrived.

He arrived before she had finished eating.

“A gentleman come to see you,” said Mrs. Gribble,
agreeably
, and tactfully vanished. He looked around the room with sarcasm.

“What
do
you think you’re doing, Jackie?”

“What’s the matter?”

“How on earth did you get this? Why didn’t you come to me? I’ve got dozens of addresses.” He sat down on the sofa.

“Have you had your lunch?” asked Jackie.

“No. Can I have some?”

“I should think so,” said Jackie, looking vaguely at him.

“Shall I go — or you?”

“You go,” said Jackie….

“What’s her name?”

“Gribble.”

“Mrs.?”

“Yes.”

He strode fearlessly outside.

“Mrs. Gribble!” he cried. She came thudding up the basement stairs. “Got any lunch?”

“No more stew, sir. Got some tongue, sir,”

“Can I have some tongue?”

“Certainly, sir.”

She felt that he was being a little cruel with Mrs. Gribble. Poor Mrs. Gribble was only a landlady now, and the genius of her little daughter seemed to have shot down at a hideous rate — almost to normality. She was conscious of betraying Mrs. Gribble. When the tongue was brought, Mrs. Gribble was openly betrayed.

“I’m taking Miss Mortimer over to Southshore to-night, Mrs. Gribble,” he said. “Will that be all right — if she pays for the week’s rooms, and the meals she’s had?”

“Yes, sir. That’ll be very nice, thank you, sir.”

“But I can’t,” said Jackie, when Mrs. Gribble had left the room. “Who’s going to be there?”

“Only my brother.”

“But I can’t. Really I can’t.”

There was a pause.

“Seduction?” he asked. He was helping himself to tongue.

“No. Not seduction. But I can’t. Is there no one else there?”

“There’s a housekeeper, and two sort of wenches, and a gardener. And me. Besides, he’s got everything ready for you.”

“Is he expecting me?”

“Of course he is.”

Twenty minutes later they were on their way to the station. Jackie was to call back for her bags that evening, after the show. Mrs. Gribble, if she called at the theatre that night, would find three tickets waiting for her. The third one (Jackie expressed the hope in parting) would be for the phenomenon.

Southshore Station was a countrified little station from three to four miles from Brighton, and about a mile from the beach, which was fringed with a colony of bungalows. For these bungalows the village was celebrated, and in these bungalows were gramophones, gaiety, and insecure
domestici
ties
: but otherwise it was a sleepy village, lulled by the flat hills behind. These hills belonged to Charles Gissing.

Silence was a thing which could almost be touched with the hand as Jackie and Richard emerged from the thudding little waiting-room and the hissing of the engine, and made their way, under his mute guidance, to Knottley Lodge. She had forgotten this silence of villages. And she had forgotten green, sun-dappled lanes; and she had forgotten curates on bicycles, and labourers with implements, and local grandees with walking-sticks — she had forgotten the whole thing. Or at least she had not properly apprehended their existence. She had always been such a creature of the town. Richard seemed to take it all very much for granted. They spoke little on their way. She felt very peaceful.

She became very scared when they reached the house, which was behind a high old wall in one of the aforesaid shady lanes, and which they entered by a high, green
back-gate
. They entered an old stable-yard in which there was a motorcycle, a fair-sized car, much spilt and multi-coloured oil, and one chicken. This chicken he seized, without a tremor, and placed it in its proper sphere, which was in a chicken-run behind — which was at the edge of the large field, which
contained
two remarkably lifeless cows in the distance. He then took her back again, and through another gate, into a kitchen-garden. Here there was an aged gardener with a grey beard, bending over his work. With this gardener Richard now entered upon a discussion of strawberries. This gardener was deaf. Just because he was deaf, this gardener had no reason for thinking everybody else was deaf as well; but he did do so. He bellowed at his employer’s brother, like Jove, whom he would have closely resembled if he had only been a bit larger and cleaner. Unhappily he had no roof to his mouth, either. Just because he had no roof to his mouth he had no reason for thinking that the noises he made could be interpreted by those accustomed to noises made with roofs; but he did think this, too. He was, in fact, a shameless gardener. Jackie was sure he could be heard all over Sussex. It also struck her that he was being deaf on purpose; for
he had little wads of cotton-wool in his ears, as though he had made up his contrary mind not to hear, from the beginning. Jackie was not sure that she liked him until, at the end of the discussion, she found him mysteriously, but with the utmost goodwill, smiling upon her. She returned the smile, and breathed enormous relief. He was on her side after all. And in this peaceful countryside, and amid these technical
discussions
on strawberries in private kitchen-gardens, to have the fearful force of this senile personality on one’s own side, was half the battle…. They smiled again before they parted — diffidently, enchanted — an incomprehensible
sympathy
and understanding filling the soul of each. There was no longer any seriousness in strawberries. Then they left him, and passing through a door in the wall of the kitchen-garden, came out on to a narrow, sloping lawn with a quantity of trees and a great deal of roses and forget-me-nots. The roses increased in profuseness as they got nearer the house, which was white and low, and with a rose-covered veranda. Jackie’s soul hesitated before plunging into this wealth of beauty. That would come later, when she had time. At present Brother filled and weighed down the warm air to the
exclusion
of all else. They came to the front-door, which was wide open, and like all such front-doors — honeysuckle and
incredibly
dusty old pull-bell. They were in the dining-room. “I’ll go and find him,” said Richard; but at that moment they heard a scrunching on the gravel path outside, and he was with them.