Twenty Thousand Streets Under the Sky

  ‘They’re more worried,’ said Mr. Eccles, ‘with High Heels than Heaven – eh?’

  ‘I suppose they are,’ said Ella, smiling. Let him go on. Let him go on. . . .

  ‘I say – I should make an awfully good Preacher, shouldn’t I?’ said Mr. Eccles, and started on another tack.

  CHAPTER XXV

  ‘5 Amprey Gardens,

  N.W.3.

  ‘Mrs. Sanderson-Chantry thanks Miss Dawson for her letter, and would be obliged if she would call to talk the matter over at the above address between 2 and 3.15 on Friday afternoon.

  ‘E. SANDERSON-CHANTRY.’

  ELLA COULD NOT help feeling a little chilled, indeed a little snubbed, by this briefly scribbled postcard which came two mornings later. After all the fuss and carrying on between the several Mrs. So-on-and-so-forths, she had somehow been led to anticipate a warmer and more welcomingly confiding acknowledgment of her letter. And what a funny way of putting things, in the third person and present tense like that, as though relating a story, or like a broadcasting announcer describing a sort of athletic event in progress, with themselves as the chief combatants. And no ‘yours faithfully’ or ‘yours truly’ or anything – no human note at all. Just E. (what did E. stand for?) Sanderson-Chantry – as much as to say that was enough for anybody. But she supposed this was the way ‘Ladies’ were compelled by their own rigid laws to conduct matters – ‘Ladies’ having a whole host of ascetic rituals unfathomable by the uninitiated – and so she would not let herself become despondent.

  Again, it was very awkward – the way in which 2 to 3.15 had been regally and arbitrarily fixed upon as the time for her call, as unless she took an aeroplane it was physically impossible to get up to Hampstead by 3.15 on a Friday, when she didn’t finish her work in ‘The Midnight Bell’ till three, and had to dress and all. But ‘Ladies,’ who toiled not nor spun, nor did any work save the work of working others, were notoriously incapable of understanding what it meant really to be a working person.

  However, quashing these unfruitful grumblings at the gods, and feverishly utilizing the half hour she had off for lunch for the purposes of washing, dressing and making herself seemly in the critical eyes of ‘Ladies’ – Ella contrived to leave ‘The Midnight Bell’ at two minutes past three in full war array – if war array was the right expression to use in describing her intensely studied moderation as regards clothes, cosmetics, and demeanour, in trying to look like a natural-born genius as a nurse-maid for children in India.

  It is in nearly all cases impossible for servants, or wage-slaves of any kind, to seek happier conditions of slavery free of charge, and the heavy tax of fourpence (eightpence there and back) was exacted by the Underground Railway on her way to N.W.3. But Ella (seriously as this cut into her weekly earnings – which, if she was to Put anything By amounted only to six shillings weekly, and her clothes had to come out of that) regarded this blindly as an Investment, and made no demur.

  But even when she had arrived at Hampstead, and asked the way shyly from passer-by to passer-by, she had enormous trouble in locating Amprey Gardens, which was reached up hill and down dale, that was to say up all the wrong hills and down all the futile dales, in the mazy northern suburb. But at last she found herself getting warmer, and amongst the Ampreys, and her heart beat faster as she saw ‘Amprey Gardens’ itself written up in a superior road with trees and houses lying back from the pavement in spruce front gardens.

  She found Number Five, but was now in such a state of fright that she had to walk on a little way to collect herself – an affliction of the nerves common to wage-slaves, with only their labour power to sell, and the consciousness of their insignificance and powerlessness before their aloof and comfortable masters.

  However, at last her footsteps were scrunching up the gravel path, and she was standing in the porch listening to the lingering tinkle of the bell at the back of the still house.

  A silent, beastly moment, if ever there was one, and not much improved by the opening of the door – this by a fellow wage-slave, dressed in the neat insignia of wage-slavery, a cap and apron, but not very friendly or understanding in her manners. Hidden rivalry and circumspection, rather than fellow-feeling, most often exists between wage-slave and wage-slave in circumstances such as these, possibly because of their sensitiveness to the dangerous surplus of willing wage-slaves on the market, and possibly because certain fortunate wage-slaves come to acquire some of the aloof and clannish airs of their lords above.

  It was half a minute before a coolly stared-at Ella could make her rights and business clear, and then she was reluctantly and silently escorted into a drawing-room on the left of the hallway, and surlily left.

  The door was not quite closed on her, and as she looked around, marvelling at the pictures and ornaments of the chintzy room, she could hear and sense the life of the house around her.

  This consisted of a succession of curious and rather violent Bumps from above, betokening the presence of a Man in the house – the dim clatter of washing-up in the basement, and the sound of doors being opened and closed furtively. She had evidently caused rather a crisis in a minor and mysterious way.

  Finally a door burst open somewhere; heavy footsteps ran thumping down the stairs, and a Man’s raised voice was heard shouting ‘Rosie! Rosie! . . . Will you keep this door shut!’ and a door was slammed.

  The next moment Ella’s own door was flung with desperate anger open, and she found herself glaring terror-stricken into the outraged eyes of a tall, good-looking gentleman with a moustache.

  ‘Oh – I’m sorry,’ said the tall good-looking gentleman, and had shut the door on her and vanished completely in a flash.

  Rather a funny way of meeting a tall good-looking gentleman with a moustache, she reflected. . . . The Master she presumed. She wished the Mistress would come, as this suspense was getting on her nerves.

  About five minutes later the Mistress appeared, with apologies for the delay. Also with a large brown dog preceding her. Which dog at once began to bark the house down, and to spring lickingly upon Ella in a very insecure and dubiously welcoming way. ‘Down, Buster, Down!’ cried its mistress – a tall, hatchet-faced, lady-like lady with grey hair. ‘Down! . . . Bustah! . . . Bustah! . . .’

  ‘He’s always like this,’ she explained, but it wasn’t much consolation to hear that.

  It was quite a minute or two before the animal was under any form of control, and then they began to discuss the matter in hand. But somehow the life had been taken out of their powers of concentration by the dog, who was grasped firmly but still rebellious, and they could not get down to the thing with very great intimacy or seriousness.

  However, in the cool and indifferent manner of her class, Mrs. Sanderson-Chantry described the various advantages (‘Bustah! – Don’t!’) and disadvantages of the post, mentioned Ella’s aunt (‘Don’t, Bustah!’), sketched the salary and the sort of duties which Ella hypothetically would be called upon (‘Bustah! Will you stop!’) to undertake, and so led gracefully on to the snag, which was that there was Another Girl (‘Bustah!’) whom Mrs. Sanderson-Chantry had as good as engaged as far back as three weeks ago, before she had even heard of Ella – only this Girl hadn’t yet been able to decide whether or not she could come. Mrs. Sanderson-Chantry had always Wanted this girl, and she couldn’t very well let her down if she still wanted to come – weally, could she? Mrs. Sanderson-Chantry spoke in rather an affected voice, but Ella decided that she was a Very Nice woman at heart. It is to the advantage of wage-slaves wistfully to form an early opinion that their prospective masters and mistresses are Very Nice, and they generally manage to subdue and shape their subconscious impressions to this gratifying conclusion.

  ‘So you see it’s weally wather impossible – Bustah! Bustah! Lie down Bustah! – impossible,’ went on Mrs. Sanderson-Chantry, ‘to make a Weal Decision at the moment. Lie down, will you!’

  ‘Did you know when you might be knowing, Madam?’ said Ella. She was having
a certain amount of difficulty in bringing out her ‘Madams,’ having had no practice with this lately – her service at ‘The Midnight Bell’ requiring only the familiar ‘Guv’nor’ or ‘Mrs.’ to the powers that were. But she well knew that it was a very different proposition when you were on parade before a Real Lady like this, and she brought the word out with due solemnity every time she spoke.

  ‘Oh – I should think in a few days at the most. I’m going to write to her again to-night as a matter of fact.’

  ‘Then perhaps you could let me know, Madam, when you hear.’

  ‘Oh yes, of course I will. Bustah! Bad dog! Personally I don’t think’ said Mrs. Sanderson-Chantry, ‘I don’t think that she’s really likely to come. And then, of course. . . .’

  Ella was extremely anxious to hear the end of this trailing sentence, since it sounded very much as though in that event she could look upon herself as practically as good as engaged – but she was not destined to hear this. For at this moment the dog Buster having espied, or imagined that it had espied, a tradesman entering the precincts, wrenched itself free from the grasp of its mistress, and with wild and deafening barks went rushing and slithering over to the window.

  ‘Bustah! Bustah! Come here, Bustah! Bustah! Come here! Bustah! Bustah!’ cried Mrs. Sanderson-Chantry, adding her own ear-splitting yells to the din and tumult already caused by the dog, and Ella felt that the atmosphere was no longer really ripe for pressing home any further enquiries, and signified by her look that she was ready to go.

  The dog had now rushed out of the door, with Mrs. Sanderson-Chantry in hot pursuit. And with Ella following, and with Mrs. Sanderson-Chantry screaming ‘Bustah! Bustah! Will you come here! Will you stop that noise! Bustah! BusTAH!’ – interspersed with a few polite repetitions of the fact that she would write to Ella, and that she was glad to have seen her, and did she know her way back all right – Ella took her leave, not feeling that she had made a very profound impression upon the Sanderson-Chantry household. ‘Bustah! . . . Bustah!’ were the last dim cries she heard as she turned around the corner.

  However, she had all the elation of one who has got over an interview, a light, hilarious feeling, rather like coming out of school, and on reflection she decided that it had all been Very Satisfactory. She was a Nice Lady, a Very Nice Lady, really, and she was sure the gentleman was nice too, only she happened to have caught him in a temper. He was probably having his afternoon nap. Yes – they were both nice, and she could see herself being very happy with them. And it did look as though she was approved of, if only that Other girl didn’t decide to go after all.

  She shot down the flying suspicion that this Other girl was a pure romantic fiction created by Mrs. Sanderson-Chantry in order to have a graceful line of escape, and again reassured herself that it was all Very Satisfactory. She would Love to be with them. Wage-slaves, as we have seen, are constrained to go on reassuring themselves like this.

  But they cannot keep the flag of their spirits flying all the time, and in the train going back, and having a sudden reminiscent vision of the hostile maid, the Sanderson-Chantrys, and Bustah, ‘Oh, if only I had some money!’ Ella said tensely to herself, thus revealing her underlying impressions of the interview.

  CHAPTER XXVI

  ‘OF COURSE,’ SAID Master Eric, who after a period of disinterest had condescendingly decided to help her again in the bar this morning. ‘If you can get the balls into the Anchor Position, you can go on scoring indefinitely.’

  He was discussing Billiards – in which evidently he was an adept. She had to admit, sacrilege as it was, that she was getting a little tired of this little boy. Oh no, that was going too far – she would say rather that children were naturally a little ‘wearing’ when you had troubles on your mind. And she didn’t think she had ever had quite so many little troubles and perplexities as at the moment.

  To begin with, her stepfather had lain in a critical condition for well over a week now, and there had even been talk of his recovery. Not very serious talk, but enough to justify redoubled energy in nursing (her mother would kill herself nursing him if she was not careful), and to throw everyone into a state of confusion and suspense. Ella did her utmost not to think about that five hundred pounds, but now that it had shown these minute symptoms of withdrawing itself from her orbit she found herself thinking about it more and more. That the hellishly sinful words ‘Buck up’ had ever entered her mind in connection with her thoughts concerning the ill man was one of the dark disgraces of her inner soul. All the same in that inner soul she knew perfectly well that she wished he would Buck Up, and she was verging upon the consoling but disingenuous theory frequently adopted by people in like circumstances, that it would be Best for him.

  Then there was India. She had had not a word from India, though four or five days had passed, and she was beginning to think that they were never going to write, and had decided against her. Finally, there was Mr. Eccles, to whom (in putting off meeting him) she had lied on that day she went up to Hampstead, and who had half-suspected this, and was also beginning to get a little angry and jealous over her enforced and frequent visits to Pimlico.

  With all these things on her mind she felt justified in finding Master Eric a little ‘wearing,’ though of course she would never be so Unkind as to show it. Though she had been feigning a certain knowledge of Billiards, she hadn’t the remotest conception what the Anchor Position was, and replied ‘Oh yes, that must be very clever.’

  ‘It’s not a question of being clever,’ said Master Eric. ‘Anybody can do it. I could do it.’

  ‘Oh yes.’

  ‘You’ve only got to get the balls into the right position.’

  ‘M’m. That’s the thing to do.’

  ‘How would you, for instance,’ asked Master Eric, ‘set about getting the balls into the Anchor Position?’

  ‘Well, I really don’t know.’

  ‘I suppose you know what the Anchor Position is?’

  ‘Well – I don’t think I do, really.’

  ‘But I thought you said you understood Billiards?’

  ‘Well, so I do. I’ve played it once or twice.’

  ‘And yet you don’t know what the Anchor Position is?’

  ‘No. I’m afraid I don’t.’

  ‘Do you know anything about Billiards?’

  ‘Yes. I’ve said I did.’

  ‘Do you know what a Nursery Cannon is, for instance?’

  ‘Well – let me see now. . . .’

  ‘It’s nothing to do with Children’s Nurseries, if that’s what you think,’ said Master Eric, quite unfairly attributing this fanciful conception to her, and then unjustly scorning her for it.

  ‘No. I didn’t think it would be.’

  ‘Then what is a Nursery Cannon?’

  Ella was anxiously hunting round in her mind for another evasive answer to this, when the situation was saved by the appearance of Bob, who had come to open the house (it had just struck eleven), and who told Master Eric that he was wanted by the Mrs. upstairs. Master Eric had therefore perforce to go, not without the threat that he would ‘come back and ask her later.’ But anyway the proper atmosphere for tying Ella up had gone for the moment, as the little beast was never able to show off in front of Bob, who could wipe the floor with him on Billiards, Football, Wireless, Chemistry or anything.

  About a quarter of an hour later there were five or six customers in the bar, including a stout red-faced, middle-aged gentleman in pince-nez and a bowler hat, whom she had never seen in the house before. But he was talking, in a rather aggressive and haughty voice, to one of the other customers, and she had decided that she liked neither the sound nor the look of him, and hoped that he would not develop into a permanent customer.

  Her surprise and resentment, therefore, was all the greater, when in passing his area of the bar to fetch a bottle, she heard a stentorian ‘Excuse me,’ and, turning, saw him staring impertinently at her.

  ‘Yes?’ she said, pretending that she t
hought he wanted to be served or something.

  ‘Are you the famous “Ella”?’ said the stout, red-faced gentleman, so that everybody could hear, and Ella’s heart missed a beat.

  ‘Yes,’ she said, enquiringly. ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Ah – I thought there was no mistake,’ he said. ‘You and I have a mutual friend, I think.’

  ‘Have we?’ said Ella, the blood rushing up to her cheeks as she realized what was coming. ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘Oh yes, we have. You think again,’ said the stout red-faced gentleman, looking at her in a patronizing, appraising and confidential manner which made her want to run out of the bar.

  ‘No. I don’t know what you mean,’ she said.

  ‘Don’t you really? Surely you do. And very good taste brother Eccles has, I must say.’

  Ella was so infuriated she could not trust herself to speak, and just gazed at him distraught. And broadcasting it in his horrible voice in front of the whole bar like this! By the grace of God Bob was not in the vicinity at the moment, but he might come into earshot at any moment, and then what was she going to do!

  ‘And she blushes very nicely, too, doesn’t she?’ said the red-faced gentleman, turning to the customer standing next to him, who had perceived Ella’s embarrassment, and was looking rather a fool himself.

  ‘I think,’ said Ella, ‘that you must be making some mistake.’

  ‘Oh no, there’s no mistake, believe me. I’ve been told all about it.’

  ‘Well – I –’

  ‘We’ve got to look into our old friends’ little indiscretions, you know,’ continued the red-faced gentleman, ‘just to see that they’re not being led on.’

  This was too much for Ella, and she cast all courtesy and restraint to a customer to the winds.

  ‘Well,’ she said, ‘I don’t think there’s any need to shout out about it all over the place – is there?’