‘Who’s he?’
‘You see. The name means nothing to you. He had his first play on at the Regal and it flopped. I was awfully sorry for him. I ran into him again last night, but only for a minute. I suppose that’s the last time I shall ever see him, and I’ve never met anyone I liked so much at first sight. We got on like long-lost brothers.’
‘Good-looking?’
‘Not a bit. He does a lot of boxing, and that’s apt to impair the appearance. But I’ll tell you something for your files, young Mabel. Looks aren’t everything. A cauliflower ear doesn’t matter if it covers a warm heart, which I could see Joe Pickering had. He hated being interviewed, but he remained perfectly courteous throughout, even when I was being most inquisitive about his private affairs.’
‘Don’t you feel awkward, butting in on perfect strangers and asking them about their religion and do they love their wives and what their favourite breakfast cereal is?’
‘You get hardened, like a surgeon.’
‘Sammy says interviewers ought to be drowned in a bucket. Oh well,’ said Mabel, her interest in that branch of the literary world waning, ‘carry on if you enjoy it. What do you think I ought to do? What would you do if you were me? About Charlie?’
‘You can’t go by what I’d do,’ said Sally. ‘I’m the meek, yielding type. I’d tell myself I had promised to honour and obey the poor fish, so why not get started. I suppose a lot depends on the man. Is Charlie one of those tough domineering characters who thump the desk and shout “Listen to me. Once and for all…“?‘
‘Oh no, he’s not a bit like that. He says “Anything that will make me happy”.’
‘But he wants you to chuck your job?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then chuck it, honey, chuck it. A man like that is worth making a sacrifice for.’
‘I think I will.’
‘Do. It means, of course, that your life will lose a little in the way of entertainment, but what of it? I always say that when you’ve seen one Gentleman of the Press having delirium tremens, you’ve seen them all. Your Charlie sounds a pretty good egg. The unselfish type. Just the sort of man I’d like to marry myself.’
‘Why don’t you get married, Sally? You’d probably have the time of your life.’
‘No one has asked me, not recently. I was once engaged, but it didn’t jell.’
‘You quarrelled? Misunderstanding, and both too proud to explain?’ said Mabel, who read stories in women’s papers like Sally’s, when not working or watching newspaper men have delirium tremens. ‘Who was he? A curate?’
‘Why a curate?’
‘Your father was a vicar. You must have been up to your knees in curates. Or was it the doctor?’
‘What makes you think that?’
‘There couldn’t have been a wide selection in a one-horse place like Much Middlefold. Was it—?’
‘The landlord of the village pub? The odd-job man? The school master? No, it wasn’t. It was a baronet, my girl, and a seventh baronet at that. Father used to coach a few assorted young men for Diplomatic Service exams and that sort of thing, and Jaklyn was one of them. So we met. ‘
‘That’s an odd name.’
‘Family name. Handed down through the ages.’
‘Did you break it off?’
‘No, he did. He said it would be years before we could afford to get married, and it wasn’t fair to ask me to wait.’
‘Then he hadn’t any money?’
‘No, the sixth Bart had spent it all, backing losers.’
‘Is he in London?, Do you ever see him?’
‘Who’s asking questions now? Yes, he’s in London, and I see him occasionally. We sometimes go to the theatre.’
‘I suppose you’ve got over it all right?’
‘Oh, completely.’
Mabel rose and stretched herself. She said she must be getting back to her room.
‘Letters to write?’
‘I don’t write letters on my day off. The Sunday papers to read. There’s a terrific murder in the News of the World.’
Left alone, Sally fell into a reverie. It was not often that she found herself thinking of Jak Warner these days, and now that Mabel’s inquisitiveness had brought him back into her mind it was with some surprise that she realised that in stating so confidently that his spell had ceased to operate she had been in error. A good deal of the old affection, she discovered, still lingered. A man may not be an object of admiration to severe male critics like Mac the stage-doorkeeper, but if he combines singular good looks with a smooth tongue and a pathetic wistfulness it is not easy for a warm-hearted girl to erase him entirely, particularly if she still sees him from time to time.
Magic moments of those days at Much Middlefold returned to her. Moonlight walks in the meadows. Kisses in the shadows. Drifting down the river in the old vicarage punt. By the time Mabel returned she had fallen into a mood which in anybody else she would have classified as mushy and getting deeper and deeper into that foolish condition.
Mabel’s entry acted as a corrective. She had flung the door open with a violence that made the window rattle and was advancing into the room with wrought-up squeaks. She was waving a paper.
‘Look at this, Sally! ‘
‘Look at what?’
‘It’s about you.’
‘What’s about me?’
‘Read this. Where my thumb is.’
Sally took the paper, and instantaneously the past with its moonlight walks and kisses vanished as if turned off with a switch. She had no need to call on Mabel’s thumb for guidance. The moment she scanned the page her own name leaped at her.
‘Golly!’ she said, and Mabel’s comment that she might well say ‘Golly’ was unquestionably justified.
If, the advertisement stated, Miss Sarah Fitch, formerly of Much Middlefold in the county of Worcestershire, will call at the offices of Nichols, Erridge, Trubshaw and Nichols, 27 Bedford Row, she will learn of something to her advantage; and if a girl was not entitled to say ‘Golly’ on reading that, it would be difficult to see what would entitle her to say ‘Golly’.
Mabel’s emotion had reached new heights.
‘You know what that means, Sally. Somebody’s left you a packet.’
Sally had begun to recover from the first dazed illusion that she had been hit over the head with something hard and heavy.
‘They couldn’t have.’
‘They must have. It always means that when lawyers put in that bit about learning to advantage.’
‘But it’s impossible.’
‘Why?’
‘Who could have left me anything?’
Mabel had not read women’s papers for nothing. ‘Your grandfather,’ she said with confidence. ‘He disinherited your mother for marrying a clergyman when he had got it all lined up for her to marry the Earl of Something. It’s happening all the time.’
‘Not this time. My grandfather has always been particularly fond of my father.’
‘Oh,’ said Mabel, disappointed.
‘And what’s more he’s still alive. I had a letter from him yesterday.’
‘Oh,’ said Mabel.
‘And even if he wasn’t, he wouldn’t be leaving people money. He hasn’t a bean except his pension. If you ask me, it’s probably a practical joke. It’s the sort of thing some of the girls where I work would think funny.’
‘But if it was that, they would have cut the thing out and shown it to you.’
‘That’s true.’
‘Anyway, you’ll go and see these Bedford Row people?’
‘Oh, I’ll go. I’ve enough curiosity for that. I’ll go on Tuesday morning. I’m not seeing Mr Llewellyn till the evening.’
‘Why not tomorrow?’
‘I can’t tomorrow. I’ll be down at Valley Fields. My old Nanny lives there, and I’ve orders from home to go and see her every week. I missed last time, so I shall have to go twice this week. But don’t worry. Nichols, Erridge, Trubshaw and Nichols will still be
there on Tuesday.’
Chapter Five
An early hour on Tuesday found Joe Pickering on his way to see his friend Jerry Nichols.
He walked pensively and in a manner more suggestive of a somnambulist than of a vigorous young man in full control of his limbs. Pedestrians with whom he collided nursed bitter thoughts of him, but had they had the full facts at their disposal, they would have realised that he was more to be pitied than censured, for on waking on Sunday morning he had discovered that on the previous night he had fallen in love at what virtually amounted to first sight, and this naturally disturbed his mind and affected his steering.
His predicament was one he would never have permitted to the hero of any of the stories he wrote in the evening after the day’s work at the office was done, for he was, though unsuccessful, an artist. Love at first sight, he felt austerely, was better left to those who catered for the Mabel Potters of this world— Rosie M. Banks, for instance, authoress of Marvyn Keene, Clubman, and Leila J. Pinkney (Scent o’ the Blossom and Heather o’ the Hills).
And yet it had unquestionably happened, however artistically wrong. He had met Sally Fitch only twice, but love, to quote Rosie M. Banks (A Kiss at Twilight, Chapter Three), had cast its silken fetters about him. The symptoms were unmistakable.
There is, of course, nothing to be said against love at first—or even second—sight, but if one is going to indulge in it, it is as well to know the name and address of the object of one’s devotion. Sally’s address was a sealed book to Joe, and though he remembered the Sally part, what followed after that he had completely forgotten. He had even forgotten the name of the paper for which she worked. And while it would no doubt have been possible for him to buy all the weeklies in London and read through them till he found the interview by Sally Whatever-her-name-was, it was more than likely that with his play such a failure the paper that employed her would not have bothered to print the interview.
It was in sombre mood, accordingly, that he arrived at the offices of Nichols, Erridge and Trubshaw. Fortunately his friend Jerry, an exuberant young man who always had cheerfulness enough for two, now seemed to be in even better spirits than usual. He gave the impression, one not shared by his visitor, that in his opinion everything was for the best in this best of all possible worlds. After preliminary greetings, marked for their warmth, he turned the conversation to the subject of his letter.
‘Did anything about it strike you, Joe?’
‘Only that it was very good of you to bother about me.’
‘Nothing peculiar, I mean?’
‘No. Was there anything?’
‘It was headed Nichols, Erridge, Trubshaw and Nichols.’
‘Well, isn’t that the name of the firm?’
‘Nichols, Erridge, Trubshaw and Nichols.’
Joe saw daylight, and his gloom noticeably diminished. He could rejoice in a friend’s good fortune.
‘Do you mean they’ve made you a partner?’
‘Just that. About as junior as it’s possible to be, but still a partner. Bigger salary, increased self-respect, admiration of my underlings, the lot.’
‘Well, that’s wonderful. Congratulations.’
‘Thanks. And thanks for not saying “Why?”. But I’ll tell you why. I think my father felt that the firm ought to have someone who talked like a human being instead of in the legal patois affected by himself, Erridge and Trubshaw, in order to put nervous clients at their ease.’
‘Putting anybody at their ease this morning?’
‘Only you and a girl who wrote that she would be turning up. But don’t let’s talk of my triumphs. Let’s get on to this Llewellyn thing.’
‘The good thing you mentioned in your letter?’
‘That’s the one. Splendid opening it looks to me. Of course, it’s a gamble. But what isn’t?’
‘Why is it a gamble?’
‘Because it means quitting your job, which would put you in a bit of a hole if Llewellyn decided that you weren’t the right man. There you would be without visible means of support, and it isn’t easy to get visible means of support these days. I don’t mind admitting that if I hadn’t had a father who’s one of London’s most prosperous legal sharks, I’d have been hard put to it to secure my three square meals a day.’
‘Could Llewellyn make up his mind in a week?’
‘I imagine so. Why a week?’
‘Because I’m in the middle of my annual fortnight’s vacation, so wouldn’t have to tender my resignation immediately.’
‘That’s good.’
‘It solved the immediate problem. And now perhaps you’ll tell me what Llewellyn wants and who the hell Llewellyn is.’
Jerry seemed surprised.
‘Haven’t you heard of Ivor Llewellyn?’
‘Never.’
‘The big motion picture man.’
‘Of course, yes. I’ve seen the name on the screen at the beginning of films. “A Superba-Llewellyn Production”.’
‘That’s right.’
‘But why does he want me, if he does want me? To do what?’
‘To act as a sort of resident bodyguard, I gathered.’
‘To guard him from what?’
‘He didn’t say. He became a bit coy when I approached that point. But if you go to 8 Enniston Gardens, where he lives, and say I sent you, I imagine he’ll tell you.’
‘Perhaps secret enemies are after him.’
‘Possibly.’
‘A man like that must have dozens.’
‘Hundreds.’
‘All wearing Homburg hats and raincoats.’
‘And armed with Tommy guns. Though, if you ask me, he just wants someone on the spot to say “Yes” to him. Anyway, he’ll pay a fat salary, so go and see him.’
‘I will. And thanks, Jerry.’
‘Not at all. I shall watch your future progress with considerable interest.’
‘If it simply means saying “Yes”, he couldn’t get a better man.’
The inter-office communication buzzed. Jerry leaped to it.
‘Yes, father? … Right away, father…. Expect me in half a jiffy, father. That was father, Joe. He wants to see me about something,’ said Jerry, and disappeared at a speed that seemed to suggest that when the head of the firm sent for junior partners, he expected quick service.
Joe remained plunged in thought. He was by nature an optimist, and the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune which up to the present had played such a large part in his life had not completely crushed the hope that, as his friend Mac had said, the sun would one of these days come smiling through. And this Llewellyn opening seemed to him to indicate that this was just what the sun had decided to do.
Mr Llewellyn’s reasons for requiring his services had still to be made clear. Possibly he wanted someone to dance before him as David danced before Saul, to entertain him with simple card tricks, or merely to be available to tell unwelcome callers that he was in conference, but, broadly speaking, he was plainly in need of a right-hand man, and in Joseph Pickering he would find that he had made the right selection. He saw himself so endearing himself to Mr Llewellyn, rendering himself so indispensable to Mr Llewellyn, that the latter would have no option but to bestow upon him one of the many lucrative jobs which were at the disposal of a magnate of his eminence. This would enable him, his finances placed on a sound basis, to marry the girl he loved and live happily ever afterwards.
He would first, of course, have to ascertain her name and where she lived, which might involve a certain amount of spadework, but this could be done with the aid of private detectives and bloodhounds.
Not a single flaw could he detect in the picture he had conjured up, and he closed his eyes, the better to enjoy it.
It was at this moment that the door opened noiselessly and Sally came in.
2
As Sally advanced into the room, she was feeling nervous, though she could not have explained why. Nothing to be nervous about, of course. Nichols and the rest o
f them had asked her to call, she had written to say she would be calling, and here she was. All perfectly straightforward. It was just that there is always something in a lawyer’s office which gives the lay visitor the uncomfortable feeling that, though things are all right so far, he may at any moment be accused of soccage in fief or something of that sort and find it difficult to clear himself.
It did not make it easier for Sally that the particular lawyer she was visiting appeared to be asleep, worn out no doubt with toiling over the intricate case of Popjoy versus the Amalgamated Society of Woolworkers. But she was a courageous girl, so she said ‘Good morning’, and Joe leaped as if the simple words had been a red-hot poker applied to the seat of his trousers.
Springing up and turning, he enabled Sally to see his face, and her relief on discovering an old acquaintance, where she had anticipated an elderly stranger with a cold eye and a dry cough, was great. It did not occur to her to look on Joe’s presence there as peculiar. He had told her he worked in a solicitor’s office, and this was presumably it.
‘Why, hullo,’ she said.
Joe was for a moment speechless. For the first time in the past two weeks he found himself thinking kindly of Fate. In the matter of three-act comedies Fate might have let him down with a thud, but it had certainly given of its best now. The miracle of having found this girl, first crack out of the box as it were, stirred him to his depths, and he stared at her dumbly. When he recovered speech, it was of a very inferior quality. He said:
‘Well, I’ll be…’
“‘Damned” is, I think, the word you are groping for. I suppose it is a coincidence.’
‘It’s the most amazing thing that has ever happened in the world’s history.’
It was not in Joe to be dumb or even incoherent for long. He was a resilient young man, and already he had begun to recover, and was feeling his customary effervescent self again. It amazed him that he could ever have been a prey to depression. For him at this juncture the sun was not merely smiling, it was wearing a broad grin, like a Cheshire cat.
‘Won’t you … sit down, as we say in the theatre?’ he said.