The Collected Stories

  ‘An everyday story of country folk,’ said a voice on Mr Jeffs’ old wireless, and Mr Jeffs rose and carried the plate from which he had eaten to the sink. He wiped his hands on a tea-cloth and climbed the stairs to the telephone.

  Sir Andrew was in Africa, a woman said, and might not be back for a month. It was far from certain when he would return, but it would be a month at least. Mr Jeffs said nothing more. He nodded to himself, but the woman in Sir Andrew Charles’ house, unaware of this confirmation, reflected that the man was ill-mannered not to acknowledge what she was saying.

  Mr Jeffs made a further note in his notebook, a reminder to telephone Sir Andrew in six weeks’ time. As it happened, however, this note was unnecessary, because three days later Mr Jeffs received a telephone call from Mrs Hammond’s husband, who asked him if he still had the table. Mr Jeffs made a pretence of looking, and replied after a moment that he rather thought he had.

  ‘In that case,’ said Mrs Hammond’s husband, ‘I rather think I would like to buy it back.’

  Mr Hammond announced his intention of coming round. He contradicted himself by saying that it was really a friend of his who wanted the table and that he would bring his friend round too, if that was all right with Mr Jeffs.

  ‘Bring whomsoever you wish,’ said Mr Jeffs. He felt awkward in advance: he would have to say to Mr Hammond or to Mr Hammond’s friend that the price of the table had doubled itself in three days. He would not put it like that, but Mr Hammond would recognize that that was what it amounted to.

  Mr Jeffs was in the kitchen, drinking tea, when they called. He blew at the mug of tea, not wishing to leave it there, for he disapproved of waste. He drank most of it and wiped his lips with the tea-cloth. The door-bell sounded again and Mr Jeffs hastened to answer it.

  ‘I am the nigger in the woodpile,’ said a Mrs Galbally, who was standing with Hammond. ‘It is I who cause all this nonsense over a table.’

  ‘Mrs Galbally hasn’t ever seen it,’ Hammond explained. ‘She, too, answered our advertisement, but you, alas, had snaffled the treasure up.’

  ‘Come into the house,’ said Mr Jeffs, leading the way to the room with the table in it. He turned to Mrs Galbally, pointing with one hand. ‘There it is, Mrs Galbally. You are quite at liberty to purchase it, though I had earmarked it for another, a client in Africa who has been looking for that very thing and who would pay an exceedingly handsome price. I am just warning you of that. It seems only fair.’

  But when Mr Jeffs named the figure he had in mind neither Mrs Galbally nor Hammond turned a hair. Hammond drew out a cheque-book and at once inscribed a cheque. ‘Can you deliver it?’ he asked.

  ‘Oh yes,’ said Mr Jeffs, ‘provided it is not too far away. There will be a small delivery charge to cover everything, insurance in transit, etcetera. Four pounds four.’

  Mr Jeffs drove his Austin van to the address that Hammond had given him. On the way, he reckoned what his profit on this journey of three-quarters of an hour would be: a quarter of a gallon of petrol would come to one and three; subtracting that from four guineas, he was left with four pounds two and ninepence. Mr Jeffs did not count his time: he considered it of little value. He would have spent the three-quarters of an hour standing about in his large house, or moving himself to keep his circulation going. It was not a bad profit, he decided, and he began to think of Mrs Galbally and Hammond, and of Mrs Hammond who had mistaken him for a window-cleaner. He guessed that Hammond and Mrs Galbally were up to something, but it was a funny way in which to be up to something, buying antique tables and having them delivered.

  ‘They are conducting an affair,’ said Mr Jeffs to himself. ‘They met because the table was up for sale and are now romantic over it.’ He saw the scene clearly: the beautiful Mrs Galbally arriving at the Hammonds’ house, explaining that she had come about the table. Perhaps she had made a bit of a scene, reminding the Hammonds that she had previously telephoned and had been told to come. ‘And now I find the table is already disposed of,’ said Mrs Galbally in Mr Jeffs’ imagination. ‘You should have telephoned me back, for God’s sake! I am a busy creature.’

  ‘Come straight in, Mrs Galbally and have a glass of brandy,’ cried Hammond in Mr Jeffs’ mind. ‘How can we make amends?’

  ‘It is all my fault,’ explained Mrs Hammond. ‘I’ve been quite hopelessly scatty, placing our beautiful table in the hands of a Jewish trader. A Mr Jeffs whom Ursula in her foreign ignorance ordered to wash down the kitchen windows.’

  ‘The table has brought nothing but embarrassment,’ said Hammond, pouring out a fair quantity of brandy. ‘Have this, Mrs Galbally. And have a nut or two. Do.’

  ‘I had quite set my heart on that table,’ said Mrs Galbally in Mr Jeffs’ mind. ‘I am disappointed unto tears.’

  ‘A table for Mrs Galbally,’ said Mr Jeffs to a woman with a shopping basket who was leaving the block of flats.

  ‘Oh yes?’ said the woman.

  ‘Which floor, please? I have been given this address.’

  ‘No one of that name at all,’ said the woman. ‘I never heard of no Galbally.’

  ‘She may be new here. Is there an empty flat? It tells you nothing on these bells.’

  ‘I’m not at liberty,’ said the woman, her voice striking a high pitch. ‘I’m not at liberty to give out information about the tenants in these flats. Not to a man in a closed van. I don’t know you from Adam.’

  Mr Jeffs recognized the woman as a charwoman and thereafter ignored her, although she stood on the steps, close to him, watching his movements. He rang one of the bells and a middle-aged woman opened the door and said, when Mr Jeffs had inquired, that everyone was new in the flats, the flats themselves being new. She advised him quite pleasantly to ring the top bell, the one that connected apparently with two small attic rooms.

  ‘Ah, Mr Jeffs,’ said the beautiful Mrs Galbally a moment later. ‘So you got here.’

  Mr Jeffs unloaded the table from the van and carried it up the steps. The charwoman was still about. She was saying to Mrs Galbally that she would clean out the place for six shillings an hour whenever it was suitable or desired.

  Mr Jeffs placed the table in the smaller of the two attic rooms. The room was empty except for some rolled-up carpeting and a standard lamp. The door of the second room was closed: he imagined it contained a bed and a wardrobe and two brandy glasses on a bedside table. In time, Mr Jeffs imagined, the whole place would be extremely luxurious. ‘A love-nest,’ he said to himself.

  ‘Well, thank you, Mr Jeffs,’ said Mrs Galbally.

  ‘I must charge you an extra pound. You are probably unaware, Mrs Galbally that it is obligatory and according to the antique dealers’ association to charge one pound when goods have to be moved up a staircase. I could be struck off if I did not make this small charge.’

  ‘A pound? I thought Mr Hammond had –’

  ‘It is to do with the stairs. I must honour the rules of the antique dealers’ association. For myself, I would easily waive it, but I have, you understand, my biennial returns to make.’

  Mrs Galbally found her handbag and handed him a five-pound note. He gave her back three pounds and sixteen shillings, all the change he claimed to have.

  ‘Imagine it!’ exclaimed Mrs Galbally. ‘I thought that cleaning woman must be your wife come to help you carry the thing. I couldn’t understand why she was suddenly talking about six shillings an hour. She’s just what ‘I’m looking for.’

  Mr Jeffs thought that it was rather like Mrs Hammond’s au pair girl making the mistake about the window-cleaner. He thought that but he did not say it. He imagined Mrs Galbally recounting the details of the episode at some later hour, recounting them to Hammond as they lay in the other room, smoking cigarettes or involved with one another’s flesh. ‘I thought she was the little Jew’s wife. I thought it was a family business, the way these people often have. I was surprised beyond measure when she mentioned about cleaning.’

  Naturally enough, Mr Jeffs thought that
he had seen the end of the matter. A Louis XVI console table, once the property of Mrs Hammond’s grandmother, was now the property of her husband’s mistress, or the joint property of husband and mistress, Mr Jeffs was not sure. It was all quite interesting, Mr Jeffs supposed, but he had other matters to concern him: he had further furniture to accumulate and to sell at the right moment; he had a living to make, he assured himself.

  But a day or two after the day on which he had delivered the table to Mrs Galbally he received a telephone call from Mrs Hammond.

  ‘Am I speaking to Mr Jeffs?’ said Mrs Hammond.

  ‘Yes, this is he. Jeffs here.’

  ‘This is Mrs Hammond. I wonder if you remember, I sold you a table.’

  ‘I remember you perfectly, Mrs Hammond. We were amused at an error.’ Mr Jeffs made a noise that he trusted would sound like laughter. He was looking at the ceiling, without smiling.

  ‘The thing is,’ said Mrs Hammond, ‘are you by any chance still in possession of that table? Because if you are I think perhaps I had better come round and see you.’

  There rushed into Mr Jeffs’ mind the vision of further attic rooms, of Mrs Hammond furnishing them with the table and anything else she could lay her hands on. He saw Mrs Hammond walking down a street, looking at beds and carpets in shop windows, her elbow grasped by a man who was not her husband.

  ‘Hullo, Mr Jeffs,’ said Mrs Hammond. ‘Are you there?’

  ‘Yes, I am here,’ said Mr Jeffs. ‘I am standing here listening to you, madam.’

  ‘Well?’ said Mrs Hammond.

  ‘I’m sorry to disappoint you about the table.’

  ‘You mean it’s sold? Already?’

  ‘I’m afraid that is the case.’

  ‘Oh God in heaven!’

  ‘I have other tables here. In excellent condition and keenly priced. You might not find a visit here a waste of time.’

  ‘No, no.’

  ‘I do not as a rule conduct my business in that way: customers coming into my house and that. But in your case, since we are known to one another –’

  ‘It wouldn’t do. I mean, it’s only the table I sold you I am possibly interested in. Mr Jeffs, can you quickly give me the name and address of the person who bought it?’

  This question caught Mr Jeffs off his guard, so he at once replaced the telephone receiver. Mrs Hammond came through again a moment or so later, after he had had time to think. He said:

  ‘We were cut off, Mrs Hammond. There is something the matter with the line. Sir Andrew Charles was twice cut off this morning, phoning from Nigeria. I do apologize.’

  ‘I was saying, Mr Jeffs, that I would like to have the name and address of the person who bought the table.’

  ‘I cannot divulge that, Mrs Hammond. I’m afraid divulgences of that nature are very much against the rules of the antique dealers’ association. I could be struck off for such a misdemeanour.’

  ‘Oh dear. Oh dear, Mr Jeffs. Then what am I to do? Whatever is the answer?’

  ‘Is this important? There are ways and means. I could, for instance, act as your agent. I could approach the owner of the table in that guise and attempt to do my best.’

  ‘Would you, Mr Jeffs? That is most kind.’

  ‘I would have to charge the customary agent’s fee. I am sorry about that, Mrs Hammond, but the association does not permit otherwise.’

  ‘Yes, yes, of course.’

  ‘Shall I tell you about that fee, how it’s worked out and what it may amount to? It’s not much, a percentage.’

  ‘We can fix that up afterwards.’

  ‘Well, fine,’ said Mr Jeffs, who meant when he spoke of a percentage thirty-three and a third.

  ‘Please go up to twice the price you paid me. If it seems to be going higher I’d be grateful if you’d telephone for instructions.’

  ‘That’s the usual thing, Mrs Hammond.’

  ‘But do please try and keep the price down. Naturally.’

  ‘I’ll be in touch, Mrs Hammond.’

  Walking about his house, shaking his body to keep his circulation in trim, Mr Jeffs wondered if tables nowadays had a part to play in lovers’ fantasies. It was in his interest to find out, he decided, since he could accumulate tables of the correct kind and advertise them astutely. He thought for a while longer and then entered his van. He drove it to Mrs Galbally’s attic room, taking a chance on finding her there.

  ‘Why, Mr Jeffs,’ said Mrs Galbally.

  ‘Yes,’ said Mr Jeffs.

  She led him upstairs, trailing her curiosity behind her. She is thinking, he thought, that I have come to sell her another thing or two, but she does not care to order me out in case she is wrong, in case I have come to blackmail her.

  ‘Well, Mr Jeffs, what can I do for you?’

  ‘I have had a handsome offer for the Louis XVI table. Or a fairly handsome offer. Or an offer that might be turned into an exceedingly handsome offer. Do you take my meaning?’

  ‘But the table is mine. Are you telling me you wish to buy it back?’

  ‘I am saying something of the kind. I received hint of this offer and thought I should let you know at once. “I will act as Mrs Galbally’s agent,” I said to myself, “in case she is at all tempted to dispose of the article at one and a half times what she paid for it.’ ”

  ‘Oh, but no, Mr Jeffs.’

  ‘You are not interested?’

  ‘Not at all, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Suppose my client goes up to twice the price? How would you feel about that? Or how would Mr Hammond feel about that?’

  ‘Mr Hammond?’

  ‘Well, I am not quite certain who owns the article. That is why I mention the gentleman. Perhaps I should have contacted him. It was Mr Hammond who gave me the cheque.’

  ‘The table is mine. A gift. I would rather you didn’t contact Mr Hammond.’

  ‘Well, that is that, then. But since I have acted in your interest in this matter, Mrs Galbally, thinking that I should report the offer to you without delay and involving myself in travelling expenses etcetera, I’m afraid I shall have to charge you the usual agent’s fee. It is the ruling of the antique dealers’ association that a fee be charged on such occasions. I feel you understand?’

  Mrs Galbally said she did understand. She gave him some money, and Mr Jeffs took his leave.

  In his house Mr Jeffs considered for a further hour. Eventually he thought it wise to telephone Mrs Hammond and ascertain her husband’s office telephone number. He went out on to the street with a piece of paper in his hand which stated that he was deaf and dumb and wished urgently to have a telephone call made for him. He handed this to an elderly woman, pointing to a telephone booth.

  ‘May I know your husband’s office telephone number?’ said the woman to Mrs Hammond. ‘It’s a matter of urgency.’

  ‘But who are you?’

  ‘I am a Mrs Lacey, and I am phoning you on behalf of Sir Andrew Charles of Africa.’

  ‘I’ve heard that name before,’ said Mrs Hammond, and gave the telephone number of her husband’s office.

  ‘You say you have been to see Mrs Galbally,’ said Hammond. ‘And what did she say?’

  ‘I don’t believe she fully understood what was at stake. I don’t think she got the message.’

  ‘The table was a gift from me to Mrs Galbally. I can hardly ask for it back.’

  ‘This is an excellent offer, Mr Hammond.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t dispute that.’

  ‘I was wondering if you could use your influence with Mrs Galbally, that’s all. If you happen to be seeing her, that is.’

  ‘I’ll ring you back, Mr Jeffs.’

  Mr Jeffs said thank you and then telephoned Mrs Hammond. ‘Negotiations are under way,’ he said.

  But two days later negotiations broke down. Hammond telephoned Mr Jeffs to say that the table was to remain the property of Mrs Galbally. Mr Jeffs, sorrowfully, decided to drive round to tell Mrs Hammond, so that he could collect what little was owing him.
He would tell her, he decided, and that would surely now be the end of the matter.

  ‘I’m afraid I have come up against a stone wall,’ he reported. ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Hammond, about that, and I would trouble you now only for what is owing.’

  He mentioned the sum, but Mrs Hammond seemed not to hear clearly. Tears rolled down her cheeks and left marks on the powder on her face. She took no notice of Mr Jeffs. She sobbed and shook, and further tears dropped from her eyes.

  In the end Mrs Hammond left the room. Mr Jeffs remained because he had, of course, to wait for the money owing to him. He sat there examining the furniture and thinking it odd of Mrs Hammond to have cried so passionately and for so long. The au pair girl came in with a tray of tea for him, blushing as she arranged it, remembering, he imagined, the orders she had given him as regards the windows. He poured himself some tea and ate two pieces of shortbread. It was very quiet in the room, as though a funeral had taken place.

  ‘Whoever are you?’ said a child, a small girl of five.

  Mr Jeffs looked at her and endeavoured to smile, forcing his lips back from his teeth.

  ‘My name is Mr Jeffs. What is your name?’

  ‘My name is Emma Hammond. Why are you having tea in our house?’

  ‘Because it was kindly brought to me.’

  ‘What is the matter with your mouth?’

  ‘That is how my mouth is made. Are you a good little girl?’

  ‘But why are you waiting here?’

  ‘Because I have to collect something that your mother has arranged to give me. A little money.’

  ‘A little money? Are you poor?’

  ‘It is money owing to me.’

  ‘Run along, Emma,’ said Mrs Hammond from the door, and when the child had gone she said:

  ‘I apologize, Mr Jeffs.’

  She wrote him a cheque. He watched her, thinking of Hammond and Mrs Galbally and the table, all together in the attic rooms at the top of the big block of flats. He wondered what was going to happen. He supposed Mrs Hammond would be left with the child. Perhaps Mrs Galbally would marry Hammond then; perhaps they would come to this house and bring the table back with them, since Mrs Galbally was so attached to it, and perhaps they would take on the same au pair girl, and perhaps Mrs Hammond and the child would go to live in the attic rooms. They were all of a kind, Mr Jeffs decided: even the child seemed tarred with her elders’ sophistication. But if sides were to be taken, he liked Mrs Hammond best. He had heard of women going berserk in such circumstances, taking their lives even. He hoped Mrs Hammond would not do that.