Living Alone

  CHAPTER IV

  THE FORBIDDEN SANDWICH

  While Sarah Brown's unenviable leisure was spent in acting as slave tocommittees, she had at the same time a half-time profession which, whenshe was well enough to follow it, brought twenty shillings a week to herpocket. She was in the habit of sitting every morning in a small office,collecting evidence from charitable spies about the Naughty Poor, and,after wrapping the evidence in mysterious ciphers, writing it down verybeautifully upon little cards, so that the next spy might have thebenefit of all his forerunners' experience. Sarah Brown never thoughtabout the theory of this work, because the different coloured inks andthe beautiful writing pleased her so.

  There are people to whom a ream of virgin paper is an inspiration, whofind the first sharpening of a pencil the most lovable of all labours,who see something almost holy in the dedication of green and redpenholders to their appropriate inks, in whose ears and before whoseeyes the alphabet is like a poem or a prayer. Touch on stationery andyou touched an insane spot in Sarah Brown's mind. Her dream of a perfectold age was staged in a stationer's shop in a quiet brown street; thereshe would spend twilit days in stroking thick blotting-paper, in drawingdogs--all looking one way--with new pen-nibs, in giving advice in ahushed voice to connoisseur customers, who should come to buy a diary ora book-plate or a fountain-pen with the same reverence as they now showwho come to buy old wine.

  Therefore Sarah Brown's hand had found ideal employment on a charityregister. As for her mind, it usually shut its eye during office hours.Her Dog David liked the work too, as the hearth-rug was a comfortableone, and Charity, though it may suffer long in other directions, israther particular about its firing.

  On the Monday after her change of home, Sarah Brown found that theglory had gone out of the varied inks, and even a new consignment ofindex-cards, exquisitely unspotted from the world, failed to arouse herenthusiasm. This was partly because the first name in the index that shelooked up was that of Watkins, Thelma Bennett, single, machinist. Theciphers informed the initiated that Watkins had called on the WarAssociation, to ask for Help and Advice, See Full Report. Sarah Brownfelt sad and clumsy, and made two blots, one in green on the Watkinscard, and the other in ordinary Stephens-colour on the card of one Tonk,chocolate-box-maker, single, to whom a certain charity was obstinatelygiving a half-pint of milk daily, regardless of the fact that last monthshe had received a shilling's-worth of groceries from the Parish.

  The air of that office rang with the name of Tonk that morning. Hardlyhad the industrious Sarah Brown finished turning the blot upon her cardinto the silhouette of a dromedary by a few ingenious strokes of thepen, when the lady representing the obstinate charity came in, her lipsshaped to the word Tonk.

  "Tonk," she said. "Late of Mud Street. She has changed her address. I amthe Guild of Happy Hearts. She still comes to fetch her half-pint ofmilk daily, and only yesterday I learnt from a neighbour that she hadleft Mud Street three weeks ago. It really is disgraceful the way thesepoor people conceal important facts from us. Have you her new address?"

  "Our last address for Tonk was 12 Mud Street," answered Sarah Browncoldly. "But we have already notified you three times that the woman isnot entitled to milk from the Happy Hearts, as she has been havingparish relief, as well as an allotment."

  "Tonk is--hm--hm," said the Happy Heart delicately in an undertone, sothat the blushing masculine ear of the Dog David might be spared. "AfterBaby Week, you know, we feel bound to help all hm--hm women as far as wecan, regardless of other considerations--"

  "Really you oughtn't to. Tonk is posing as a singlechocolate-box-maker." Sarah Brown was rapidly becoming exasperated witheverybody concerned, but not least with the evidently camouflaging Tonk.

  "She has a soldier at the Front," said the Happy Heart. "I am sorry tosay that she will not promise to marry him, even if he does come home.But even so--"

  Sarah Brown wrote down on Miss Tonk's card the small purple cipher thatstood for hm--hm. "I will make enquiries about her address," she said.

  But that was not the last of Tonk. Presently the red face of theRelieving Officer loomed over the index.

  "In the case of Plummett--" he began loudly.

  "In the case of Tonk--" interrupted Sarah Brown, to whom, in her presentmood, Plummett could only have been a last straw. She hated theRelieving Officer unjustly, because he knew she was deaf and raised hisvoice, with the best intentions, to such a degree that the case paperson the index were occasionally blown away. "We have already notified youthree times that Tonk is having a half-pint of milk daily from theHappy Hearts, as well as an allotment from a soldier."

  "We stopped the groceries," roared the Relieving Officer. "But in thecase of Plummett--"

  "In the case of Tonk--" persisted Sarah Brown. "She has moved from MudStreet, can you tell me her last address?"

  "She is living in a sort of private charitable institution, somewhere onthe outskirts of the district--Mitten Island, I fancy. I don't know theexact address, because we have stopped the groceries, she paying no rentnow. In the case of Plummett, I thought you might be interested to knowthat she got a month this morning for assaulting the SanitaryInspector--pulling his nose, I hear. She told the magistrate it struckher as being a useless nose if it didn't notice anything wrong with herdrains. The children came into the House this morning."

  "What is Tonk's Christian name?" asked Sarah Brown, who had been achanged woman since Mitten Island was mentioned.

  "I forget. Some flower name, I think. Probably Lily or Ivy. In the caseof M'Clubbin, the woman is said to have fallen through a hole in thefloor of the room she and her three children slept in. She was admittedinto the Infirmary last night, and her furniture will be sold to pay herrent--"

  "It begins with P," said Sarah Brown. "P. Tonk, unmarried wife, ofMitten Island...."

  The Relieving Officer went away, for it was dinner-time. Sarah Brownabsently unwrapped the little dinner which she had brought hanging by athin string from a strangled finger. Mustard sandwiches with just aflavouring of ham, and a painfully orthodox 1918-model bun, made ofstubble. Sarah Brown almost always forgot the necessity of food untilshe was irrevocably in the 'bus on her way to work. But this morning, asshe had taken her seat with David in the bouncing ferry-boat, there hadbeen a panting rustling noise behind her, and Harold the Broomstick hadswept a little packet of sandwiches into her lap. He had disappearedbefore she had been able to do more than turn over in her mind thequestion whether or no broomsticks ever expect to be tipped.

  Now I could not say with certainty whether the witch, in making up thispacket of sandwiches, had included the contents of one of her own littlepackets of magic. Sarah Brown would have been very susceptible to such adrug; her mind was always on the brink of innocent intoxication. Perhapsshe was only half a woman, so that half a joy could make her heart reeland sing, and half a sorrow break it. She was defenceless againstimpressions, and too many impressions make the heart very tired.Therefore, I think, she was a predestined victim of magic, and it seemsunlikely that the witch should have missed such an opportunity todispense spells.

  After the first bite at the first sandwich, Sarah Brown was conscious ofa Joke somewhere. This feeling in itself was akin to delirium, for thereare no two facts so remote as a Joke and a Charity Society. The officetable confronted Sarah Brown, and she wondered that she could ever haveseen it as anything but a butt. She wondered how she had been able tosit daily in front of that stout and earnest index without poking it inthe ribs and making a fool of it. The office clock, alone among clocks,had never played a practical joke. The sad fire below it, conscious of aMission, was overloaded with coal and responsibility.

  The second bite, ten minutes later, caused Sarah Brown to be tired anddistrustful of a room that had no smile. Her eyes turned to seek thehidden Joke beyond the limits of that lamentable room. There was aspring-coloured tree in the school-ground opposite, and above the tree arough blue and silver sky contradicted all the doctrines preached inoffices.
There was in the wind something of the old raw simplicity andmirth that always haunts the sea, and penetrates inland only on rarespring days. The high white clouds crossed the sky like galleons, likeold stories out of the innocent Eden-like past of the sea, before shelearnt the ways of steam and secret killing. Old names of ships came toSarah Brown's mind ... Castle-of-Comfort ... Cloud-i'-the-Sun....

  "I am doing wrong," said Sarah Brown. She took a third bite.

  And then she felt the spirit of the Naughty Poor in the room; there waslaughter, as of the registered, in the ears of the Registrar. It is notreally permissible for the Naughty Poor to invade offices which exist todo them good. The way of charity lies through suspicion, but thesuspicion of course must be all on one side. We have to judge thecriminal unheard; if we called him as a witness in his case we mightbecome sentimental. The Charity Society may be imagined as keeping twolists of crimes, a short one for Registrars and Workers, and a very longone for the registered. High on the list of crimes possible toRegistrars and Workers is Sentimentality. It is sentimental to feelpersonal affection for a Case, or to give a child of the Naughty Poor apenny without full enquiry, or to say "A-goo" to a grey pensive babyeating dirt on the pavement, or to acknowledge the right of a Case toask questions sometimes instead of answering them, or to disapprove ofspying and tale-bearing, or to believe any statement made by any onewithout an assured income, or to quote any part of the New Testament, orin fact to confuse in any way the ideas of charity and love. Christ,who, by the way, unfortunately omitted to join any reputablephilanthropic society, commanded seekers of salvation to be poor and todespise themselves. But this was sentimental, and the Charity Societydecrees that only the prosperous and the self-respectful shall deserve ahearing.

  "I am sentimental," said Sarah Brown to her Dog David in a broken voice.She turned again to her enchanted sandwich.

  There was increased laughter in the air, and through it she heard thehoarse and happy shouting of the sparrows in the spring-coloured treeopposite. Sparrows are the ideal Naughty Poor, the begging friars, thegypsies of the air, they claim alms as a right and as a seal offriendship; with their mouths full of your crumbs they share with youtheir innocent and vulgar wit, they give you in return no I.O.U., and noparticulars for your case-paper. When they have got from you all thatyou will give, they wink and giggle and shake the dust of yourwindow-sill from off their feet.

  Sarah Brown opened the office window, and the air of the office began atonce to dance with life and the noise of children and birds. She thoughtperhaps these were magic noises, for she heard them so clearly. Shebroke her second sandwich upon the window-sill, and the sparrows crossedthe street and stood on the area railing in a row below her, allspeaking at once in an effort to convey to her the fact that a retreaton her part would be tactful.

  The sparrow obviously buys all his clothes ready-made, probably atJumble Sales, and he always seems to choose clothes made for a stouterbird. There is no reason why he should never look chic; he has a slimmerfigure than the bullfinch, for instance, who always manages to look sowell-tailored. It is just arrogance, pure Londonism, on the part of thesparrow, just that impudent socialistic spirit that makes it sodifficult for us to reform the Naughty Poor.

  Sarah Brown retreated one step. "I'm not going farther away. Either youeat that sandwich with me looking on, or you leave it."

  The sparrows whispered together for a moment, saying to each other, "Yougo first." They obviously knew that it was a charity window-sill, andwere afraid Sarah Brown might intend to rebuke them for not shuttingtheir beaks while chewing, or for neglecting to put any crumbs into theSavings Bank. But after a minute one sparrow moistened his beak andcame.... He ate, they all ate, and did not seek to escape as the door ofthe office opened and the witch came in. She went straight to the windowand picked up from among the stooping sparrows a piece of the brokensandwich, and ate it. The Dog David was making sure that there was nosurviving crumb on the floor to tell the tale of his mother'ssentimental weakness. Almost instantly, therefore, that sandwich was buta memory, a fading taste in about twenty beaks and two mouths. But stillthe window stood open, and the air danced, and the white reflections ofthe ship-like clouds lay on the oilcloth floor.

  Sarah Brown in the meanwhile, disregarding the witch, had returned tothe index, and had taken from its drawer a notification form. In thespace given for Name of Case she had written in her irreproachableprinting hand:

  "CHARITY, Cautionary Case, 12 Pan Street, Brown Borough. With referenceto the above case, I have to report that it seems unsatisfactory. Thereare indeed grave suspicions that the above name is only an alias, theaddress being also probably false, for the genuine Charity's place oforigin is said to be the home rather than the office. The presentregistrar is at a loss to identify with certainty this case. It wouldseem to be one of the Habits that haunt the world, collecting Kudosunder assumed names...."

  "It puzzles me," said the witch, looking out of the window, "why onenever sees two birds collide. If there were as many witches in the airas there are birds, I bet you twopence there would be constantaccidents. Do you think they have any sort of a rule of the road, or dothey indicate with their beaks--"

  "Witch," said Sarah Brown, "I have got to say something."

  "Oh, have you?" said the witch, a little disappointed at beinginterrupted. "Oh, well, I can sympathise, I know what that feels like.Get on and say it."

  The Dog David, who was really a good and attentive son to Sarah Brown,came and laid his chin, with an exaggerated look of interest, on herknee-cap.

  "Is it any use," said Sarah Brown, "fighting against the Habits in theworld, there are so many. Who set these strange and senseless deceiversat large? Religion which has forgotten ecstasy.... Law which hasforgotten justice.... Charity which has forgotten love.... Surely magichas suffered at the stake for saner ideals than these?"

  "Why, of course," said the witch impatiently. "Magic generally suffered_because_ it was so sane. I thought everybody knew that."

  "All habits. All habits," chanted Sarah Brown. "What is this Charity,this clinking of money between strangers, and when did Charity cease tobe a comforting and secret thing between one friend and another? DoesLove make her voice heard through a committee, does Love employ analmoner to convey her message to her neighbour?"

  "Not that I know of," sighed the witch. "Sarah Brown, how long do youwant me to keep quiet, while you say things that everybody surelyknows?"

  But Sarah Brown went on. "The real Love knows her neighbour face toface, and laughs with him and weeps with him, and eats and drinks withhim, so that at last, when his black day dawns, she may share with him,not what she can spare, but all that she has."

  The Dog David grunted a little, by way of rather dubious applause. SarahBrown, with her own voice printed loud and stark upon the retina of herhearing, felt a little abashed. But presently she added in a whisper:"Listen. I am a spy. I am a lover of specially recommended neighboursonly. I am here to help to give the black cloud Tyranny a rather dirtysilver lining. I am the False Steward, in the interest of theSuperfluously Comfortable. My Masters sit upon the King's Highway,taking toll in bitterness and humiliation from every traveller alongthat road. For surely comfort is every man's heritage, surely the happyyears should come to every man--not doled out, not meanly dependent onhis moral orthodoxy, but as his right. The fat philanthropist is adebtor, but he behaves like a creditor; he distributes obligations withhis gold, yet he has no right to the gold he gives. He makes his brotherbeg upon his knees for the life and the health and the dear opportunitythat should have been that brother's birthright."

  "You are possessed, dear Sarah Brown," said the witch. "Don't befrightened, it will soon pass off. I knew a girl who had an attack verymuch like this; while she was under its influence she made up a psalmpretty nearly as good as one of David's. Her mother was much alarmedabout her. But she recovered quite quickly, except that she left her jobas typist in a mind-improving institute and went to sea as astewardess."
r />   Sarah Brown talked on, louder and louder. "Too long I have been aservant in the house of this stranger, this greedy Charity; too longhave I sat--a silly proxy for the Too-Fortunate--in this narrowstiff-backed judgement-seat from ten till three daily. There is Love andApril outside the window, there is too much wind and laughter outside toallow of the forming of Habits. I have seen Love and the Spring onlythrough the glass of a charity office window, the rude voices ofchildren and sparrows and other inheritors of opportunity have beendulled for me by grey panes. The white ships ... Castle-of-Comfort ...Cloud-i'-the-Sun have sailed into port from the open sky without a cargofor me...."

  "Good God!" said Sarah Brown, pushing David from her. "What has happenedto me? I have become sentimental."

  The room seemed to her wild imagination to be full of the spirits ofparsons and social workers with flaming swords, pointing at the door.

  "Well, that's the end of that job," said the witch. "I'll tell you what,let's go and sit on the Swing-leg Seat on the Heath. The air there andthe look of Harrow church steeple'll do you good."

  "I am damned. I am a Cautionary Case," cried Sarah Brown, and she slunkbehind the witch through the frowning gate of her Eden of fair inks andsmooth white surfaces. She had shared with David the remains of herSandwich of Knowledge; she had left on the table her puny paperdefiance. David, except that he had required but little temptation, hadplayed Adam's part very creditably in the affair. For him Eden had beena soft warm place, and he was anxious to blame somebody--the woman forchoice--for the loss of his comfort. He followed her out into the cold,to become, as you shall hear, like Adam, a tiller of the soil.