The Financiers
That night as Easton walked home through the rain he felt very
depressed. It had been a very bad summer for most people and he had
not fared better than the rest. A few weeks with one firm, a few days
with another, then out of a job, then on again for a month perhaps,
and so on.
William Easton was a man of medium height, about twenty-three years
old, with fair hair and moustache and blue eyes. He wore a stand-up
collar with a coloured tie and his clothes, though shabby, were clean
and neat.
He was married: his wife was a young woman whose acquaintance he had
made when he happened to be employed with others painting the outside
of the house where she was a general servant. They had `walked out’
for about fifteen months. Easton had been in no hurry to marry, for
he knew that, taking good times with bad, his wages did no average a
pound a week. At the end of that time, however, he found that he
could not honourably delay longer, so they were married.
That was twelve months ago.
As a single man he had never troubled much if he happened to be out of
work; he always had enough to live on and pocket money besides; but
now that he was married it was different; the fear of being `out’
haunted him all the time.
He had started for Rushton & Co. on the previous Monday after having
been idle for three weeks, and as the house where he was working had
to be done right through he had congratulated himself on having
secured a job that would last till Christmas; but he now began to fear
that what had befallen Jack Linden might also happen to himself at any
time. He would have to be very careful not to offend Crass in any
way. He was afraid the latter did not like him very much as it was.
Easton knew that Crass could get him the sack at any time, and would
not scruple to do so if he wanted to make room for some crony of his
own. Crass was the `coddy’ or foreman of the job. Considered as a
workman he had no very unusual abilities; he was if anything inferior
to the majority of his fellow workmen. But although he had but little
real ability he pretended to know everything, and the vague references
he was in the habit of making to `tones’, and `shades’, and `harmony’,
had so impressed Hunter that the latter had a high opinion of him as a
workman. It was by pushing himself forward in this way and by
judicious toadying to Hunter that Crass managed to get himself put in
charge of work.
Although Crass did as little work as possible himself he took care
that the others worked hard. Any man who failed to satisfy him in
this respect he reported to Hunter as being `no good’, or `too slow
for a funeral’. The result was that this man was dispensed with at
the end of the week. The men knew this, and most of them feared the
wily Crass accordingly, though there were a few whose known abilities
placed them to a certain extent above the reach of his malice. Frank
Owen was one of these.
There were others who by the judicious administration of pipefuls of
tobacco and pints of beer, managed to keep in Crass’s good graces and
often retained their employment when better workmen were `stood off’.
As he walked home through the rain thinking of these things, Easton
realized that it was not possible to foresee what a day or even an
hour might bring forth.
By this time he had arrived at his home; it was a small house, one of
a long row of similar ones, and it contained altogether four rooms.
The front door opened into a passage about two feet six inches wide
and ten feet in length, covered with oilcloth. At the end of the
passage was a flight of stairs leading to the upper part of the house.
The first door on the left led into the front sitting-room, an
apartment about nine feet square, with a bay window. This room was
very rarely used and was always very tidy and clean. The mantelpiece
was of wood painted black and ornamented with jagged streaks of red
and yellow, which were supposed to give it the appearance of marble.
On the walls was a paper with a pale terra-cotta ground and a pattern
consisting of large white roses with chocolate coloured leaves and
stalks.
There was a small iron fender with fire-irons to match, and on the
mantelshelf stood a clock in a polished wood case, a pair of blue
glass vases, and some photographs in frames. The floor was covered
with oilcloth of a tile pattern in yellow and red. On the walls were
two or three framed coloured prints such as are presented with
Christmas numbers of illustrated papers. There was also a photograph
of a group of Sunday School girls with their teachers with the church
for the background. In the centre of the room was a round deal table
about three feet six inches across, with the legs stained red to look
like mahogany. Against one wall was an old couch covered with faded
cretonne, four chairs to match standing backs to wall in different
parts of the room. The table was covered with a red cloth with a
yellow crewel work design in the centre and in each of the four
corners, the edges being overcast in the same material. On the table
were a lamp and a number of brightly bound books.
Some of these things, as the couch and the chairs, Easton had bought
second-hand and had done up himself. The table, oilcloth, fender,
hearthrug, etc, had been obtained on the hire system and were not yet
paid for. The windows were draped with white lace curtains and in the
bay was a small bamboo table on which reposed a large Holy Bible,
cheaply but showily bound.
If anyone had ever opened this book they would have found that its
pages were as clean as the other things in the room, and on the
flyleaf might have been read the following inscription: `To dear Ruth,
from her loving friend Mrs Starvem with the prayer that God’s word may
be her guide and that Jesus may be her very own Saviour. Oct. 12.
19–’
Mrs Starvem was Ruth’s former mistress, and this had been her parting
gift when Ruth left to get married. It was supposed to be a keepsake,
but as Ruth never opened the book and never willingly allowed her
thoughts to dwell upon the scenes of which it reminded her, she had
forgotten the existence of Mrs Starvem almost as completely as that
well-to-do and pious lady had forgotten hers.
For Ruth, the memory of the time she spent in the house of `her loving
friend’ was the reverse of pleasant. It comprised a series of
recollections of petty tyrannies, insults and indignities. Six years
of cruelly excessive work, beginning every morning two or three hours
before the rest of the household were awake and ceasing only when she
went exhausted to bed, late at night.
She had been what is called a `slavey’ but if she had been really a
slave her owner would have had some regard for her health and welfare:
her `loving friend’ had had none. Mrs Starvem’s only thought had been
to get out of Ruth the greatest possible amount of labour and to give
her as little as possible in return.
When Ruth looked back upon that dreadful time she saw it, as one might
say, surrounded by a halo of religion. She never passed by a chapel
or heard the name of God, or the singing of a hymn, without thinking
of her former mistress. To have looked into this Bible would have
reminded her of Mrs Starvem; that was one of the reasons why the book
reposed, unopened and unread, a mere ornament on the table in the bay
window.
The second door in the passage near the foot of the stairs led into
the kitchen or living-room: from here another door led into the
scullery. Upstairs were two bedrooms.
As Easton entered the house, his wife met him in the passage and asked
him not to make a noise as the child had just gone to sleep. They
kissed each other and she helped him to remove his wet overcoat. Then
they both went softly into the kitchen.
This room was about the same size as the sitting-room. At one end was
a small range with an oven and a boiler, and a high mantelpiece
painted black. On the mantelshelf was a small round alarm clock and
some brightly polished tin canisters. At the other end of the room,
facing the fireplace, was a small dresser on the shelves of which were
nearly arranged a number of plates and dishes. The walls were papered
with oak paper. On one wall, between two coloured almanacks, hung a
tin lamp with a reflector behind the light. In the middle of the room
was an oblong deal table with a white tablecloth upon which the tea
things were set ready. There were four kitchen chairs, two of which
were placed close to the table. Overhead, across the room, about
eighteen inches down from the ceiling, were stretched several cords
upon which were drying a number of linen or calico undergarments, a
coloured shirt, and Easton’s white apron and jacket. On the back of a
chair at one side of the fire more clothes were drying. At the other
side on the floor was a wicker cradle in which a baby was sleeping.
Nearby stood a chair with a towel hung on the back, arranged so as to
shade the infant’s face from the light of the lamp. An air of homely
comfort pervaded the room; the atmosphere was warm, and the fire
blazed cheerfully over the whitened hearth.
They walked softly over and stood by the cradle side looking at the
child; as they looked the baby kept moving uneasily in its sleep. Its
face was very flushed and its eyes were moving under the half-closed
lids. Every now and again its lips were drawn back slightly, showing
part of the gums; presently it began to whimper, drawing up its knees
as if in pain.
`He seems to have something wrong with him,’ said Easton.
`I think it’s his teeth,’ replied the mother. `He’s been very
restless all day and he was awake nearly all last night.’
`P’r'aps he’s hungry.’
`No, it can’t be that. He had the best part of an egg this morning
and I’ve nursed him several times today. And then at dinner-time he
had a whole saucer full of fried potatoes with little bits of bacon in
it.’
Again the infant whimpered and twisted in its sleep, its lips drawn
back showing the gums: its knees pressed closely to its body, the
little fists clenched, and face flushed. Then after a few seconds it
became placid: the mouth resumed its usual shape; the limbs relaxed
and the child slumbered peacefully.
`Don’t you think he’s getting thin?’ asked Easton. `It may be fancy,
but he don’t seem to me to be as big now as he was three months ago.’
`No, he’s not quite so fat,’ admitted Ruth. `It’s his teeth what’s
wearing him out; he don’t hardly get no rest at all with them.’
They continued looking at him a little longer. Ruth thought he was a
very beautiful child: he would be eight months old on Sunday. They
were sorry they could do nothing to ease his pain, but consoled
themselves with the reflection that he would be all right once those
teeth were through.
`Well, let’s have some tea,’ said Easton at last.
Whilst he removed his wet boots and socks and placed them in front of
the fire to dry and put on dry socks and a pair of slippers in their
stead, Ruth half filled a tin basin with hot water from the boiler and
gave it to him, and he then went to the scullery, added some cold
water and began to wash the paint off his hands. This done he
returned to the kitchen and sat down at the table.
`I couldn’t think what to give you to eat tonight,’ said Ruth as she
poured out the tea. `I hadn’t got no money left and there wasn’t
nothing in the house except bread and butter and that piece of cheese,
so I cut some bread and butter and put some thin slices of cheese on
it and toasted it on a place in front of the fire. I hope you’ll like
it: it was the best I could do.’
`That’s all right: it smells very nice anyway, and I’m very hungry.’
As they were taking their tea Easton told his wife about Linden’s
affair and his apprehensions as to what might befall himself. They
were both very indignant, and sorry for poor old Linden, but their
sympathy for him was soon forgotten in their fears for their own
immediate future.
They remained at the table in silence for some time: then,
`How much rent do we owe now?’ asked Easton.
`Four weeks, and I promised the collector the last time he called that
we’d pay two weeks next Monday. He was quite nasty about it.’
`Well, I suppose you’ll have to pay it, that’s all,’ said Easton.
`How much money will you have tomorrow?’ asked Ruth.
He began to reckon up his time: he started on Monday and today was
Friday: five days, from seven to five, less half an hour for breakfast
and an hour for dinner, eight and a half hours a day – forty-two hours
and a half. At sevenpence an hour that came to one pound four and
ninepence halfpenny.
`You know I only started on Monday,’ he said, `so there’s no back day
to come. Tomorrow goes into next week.’
`Yes, I know,’ replied Ruth.
`If we pay the two week’s rent that’ll leave us twelve shillings to
live on.’
`But we won’t be able to keep all of that,’ said Ruth, `because
there’s other things to pay.’
`What other things?’
`We owe the baker eight shillings for the bread he let us have while
you were not working, and there’s about twelve shillings owing for
groceries. We’ll have to pay them something on account. Then we want
some more coal; there’s only about a shovelful left, and -’
`Wait a minnit,’ said Easton. `The best way is to write out a list of
everything we owe; then we shall know exactly where we are. You get
me a piece of paper and tell me what to write. Then we’ll see what it
all comes to.’
`Do you mean everything we owe, or everything we must pay tomorrow.’
`I think we’d better make a list of all we owe first.’
While they were talking the baby was sleeping restlessly, occasionally
uttering plaintive little cries. The mother now went and knelt at the
side of the cradle, which she gently rocked with one hand, patting the
infant with the other.
`Except the furniture people, the biggest thing we owe is the rent,’
she said when Easton was ready to begin.
`It seems to me,’ said he, as, after having cleared a space on the
table and arranged the paper, he began to sharpen his pencil with a
table-knife, `that you don’t manage things as well as you might. If
you was to make a list of just the things you MUST have before you
went out of a Saturday, you’d find the money would go much farther.
Instead of doing that you just take the money in your hand without
knowing exactly what you’re going to do with it, and when you come
back it’s all gone and next to nothing to show for it.’
His wife made no reply: her head was bent over the child.
`Now, let’s see,’ went on her husband. `First of all there’s the
rent. How much did you say we owe?’
`Four weeks. That’s the three weeks you were out and this week.’
`Four sixes is twenty-four; that’s one pound four,’ said Easton as he
wrote it down. `Next?’
`Grocer, twelve shillings.’
Easton looked up in astonishment.
`Twelve shillings. Why, didn’t you tell me only the other day that
you’d paid up all we owed for groceries?’
`Don’t you remember we owed thirty-five shillings last spring? Well,
I’ve been paying that bit by bit all the summer. I paid the last of
it the week you finished your last job. Then you were out three weeks
- up till last Friday – and as we had nothing in hand I had to get
what we wanted without paying for it.’
`But do you mean to say it cost us three shillings a week for tea and
sugar and butter?’
`It’s not only them. There’s been bacon and eggs and cheese and other
things.’
The man was beginning to become impatient.
`Well,’ he said, `What else?’
`We owe the baker eight shillings. We did owe nearly a pound, but
I’ve been paying it off a little at a time.’
This was added to the list.
`Then there’s the milkman. I’ve not paid him for four weeks. He
hasn’t sent a bill yet, but you can reckon it up; we have two
penn’orth every day.’
`That’s four and eight,’ said Easton, writing it down. `Anything
else?’
`One and seven to the greengrocer for potatoes, cabbage, and paraffin
oil.’
`Anything else?’
`We owe the butcher two and sevenpence.’
`Why, we haven’t had any meat for a long time,’ said Easton. `When
was it?’
`Three weeks ago; don’t you remember? A small leg of mutton,’
`Oh, yes,’ and he added the item.
`Then there’s the instalments for the furniture and oilcloth – twelve
shillings. A letter came from them today. And there’s something
else.’
She took three letters from the pocket of her dress and handed them to
him.
`They all came today. I didn’t show them to you before as I didn’t
want to upset you before you had your tea.’
Easton drew the first letter from its envelope.
CORPORATION OF MUGSBOROUGH
General District and Special Rates
FINAL NOTICE
MR W. EASTON,
I have to remind you that the amount due from you as under, in
respect of the above Rates, has not been paid, and to request that
you will forward the same within Fourteen Days from this date. You
are hereby informed that after this notice no further call will be
made, or intimation given, before legal proceedings are taken to
enforce payment.
By order of the Council.
JAMES LEAH.
Collector, No. 2 District.
District Rate …………………….. £- 13 11
Special Rate ……………………… 10 2
________
£1 4 1
The second communication was dated from the office of the Assistant
Overseer of the Poor. It was also a Final Notice and was worded in
almost exactly the same way as the other, the principal difference
being that it was `By order of the Overseers’ instead of `the
Council’. It demanded the sum of £1 1 5 1/2 for Poor Rate within
fourteen days, and threatened legal proceedings in default.
Easton laid this down and began to read the third letter -
J. DIDLUM & CO LTD.
Complete House Furnishers
QUALITY STREET, MUGSBOROUGH
MR W. EASTON,
SIR:
We have to remind you that three monthly payments of four shillings
each (12/- in all) became due on the first of this month, and we
must request you to let us have this amount BY RETURN OF POST.
Under the terms of your agreement you guaranteed that the money
should be paid on the Saturday of every fourth week. To prevent
unpleasantness, we must request you for the future to forward the
full amount punctually upon that day.
Yours truly,
J. DIDLUM & CO. LTD
He read these communications several times in silence and finally with
an oath threw them down on the table.
`How much do we still owe for the oilcloth and the furniture?’ he
asked.
`I don’t know exactly. It was seven pound odd, and we’ve had the
things about six months. We paid one pound down and three or four
instalments. I’ll get the card if you like.’
`No; never mind. Say we’ve paid one pound twelve; so we still owe
about six pound.’
He added this amount to the list.
`I think it’s a great pity we ever had the things at all,’ he said,
peevishly. `It would have been better to have gone without until we
could pay cash for them: but you would have your way, of course. Now
we’ll have this bloody debt dragging on us for years, and before the
dam stuff is paid for it’ll be worn out.’
The woman did not reply at once. She was bending down over the cradle
arranging the coverings which the restless movements of the child had
disordered. She was crying silently, unnoticed by her husband.
For months past – in fact ever since the child was born – she had been
existing without sufficient food. If Easton was unemployed they had
to stint themselves so as to avoid getting further into debt than was
absolutely necessary. When he was working they had to go short in
order to pay what they owed; but of what there was Easton himself,
without knowing it, always had the greater share. If he was at work
she would pack into his dinner basket overnight the best there was in
the house. When he was out of work she often pretended, as she gave
him his meals, that she had had hers while he was out. And all the
time the baby was draining her life away and her work was never done.
She felt very weak and weary as she crouched there, crying furtively
and trying not to let him see.
At last she said, without looking round:
`You know quite well that you were just as much in favour of getting
them as I was. If we hadn’t got the oilcloth there would have been
illness in the house because of the way the wind used to come up
between the floorboards. Even now of a windy day the oilcloth moves
up and down.’
`Well, I’m sure I don’t know,’ said Easton, as he looked alternatively
at the list of debts and the three letters. `I give you nearly every
farthing I earn and I never interfere about anything, because I think
it’s your part to attend to the house, but it seems to me you don’t
manage things properly.’
The woman suddenly burst into a passion of weeping, laying her head on
the seat of the chair that was standing near the cradle.
Easton started up in surprise.
`Why, what’s the matter?’ he said.
Then as he looked down upon the quivering form of the sobbing woman,
he was ashamed. He knelt down by her, embracing her and apologizing,
protesting that he had not meant to hurt her like that.
`I always do the best I can with the money,’ Ruth sobbed. `I never
spend a farthing on myself, but you don’t seem to understand how hard
it is. I don’t care nothing about having to go without things myself,
but I can’t bear it when you speak to me like you do lately. You seem
to blame me for everything. You usen’t to speak to me like that
before I – before – Oh, I am so tired – I am so tired, I wish I could
lie down somewhere and sleep and never wake up any more.’
She turned away from him, half kneeling, half sitting on the floor,
her arms folded on the seat of the chair, and her head resting upon
them. She was crying in a heartbroken helpless way.
`I’m sorry I spoke to you like that,’ said Easton, awkwardly. `I
didn’t mean what I said. It’s all my fault. I leave things too much
to you, and it’s more than you can be expected to manage. I’ll help
you to think things out in future; only forgive me, I’m very sorry. I
know you try your best.’
She suffered him to draw her to him, laying her head on his shoulder
as he kissed and fondled her, protesting that he would rather be poor
and hungry with her than share riches with anyone else.
The child in the cradle – who had been twisting and turning restlessly
all this time – now began to cry loudly. The mother took it from the
cradle and began to hush and soothe it, walking about the room and
rocking it in her arms. The child, however, continued to scream, so
she sat down to nurse it: for a little while the infant refused to
drink, struggling and kicking in its mother’s arms, then for a few
minutes it was quite, taking the milk in a half-hearted, fretful way.
Then it began to scream and twist and struggle.
They both looked at it in a helpless manner. Whatever could be the
matter with it? It must be those teeth.
Then suddenly as they were soothing and patting him, the child vomited
all over its own and its mother’s clothing a mass of undigested food.
Mingled with the curdled milk were fragments of egg, little bits of
bacon, bread and particles of potato.
Having rid his stomach of this unnatural burden, the unfortunate baby
began to cry afresh, his face very pale, his lips colourless, and his
eyes red-rimmed and running with water.
Easton walked about with him while Ruth cleaned up the mess and got
ready some fresh clothing. They both agreed that it was the coming
teeth that had upset the poor child’s digestion. It would be a good
job when they were through.
This work finished, Easton, who was still convinced in his own mind
that with the aid of a little common sense and judicious management
their affairs might be arranged more satisfactorily, said:
`We may as well make a list of all the things we must pay and buy
tomorrow. The great thing is to think out exactly what you are going
to do before you spend anything; that saves you from getting things
you don’t really need and prevents you forgetting the things you MUST
have. Now, first of all, the rent; two weeks, twelve shillings.’
He took a fresh piece of paper and wrote this item down.
`What else is there that we must pay or buy tomorrow?’
`Well, you know I promised the baker and the grocer that I would begin
to pay them directly you got a job, and if I don’t keep my word they
won’t let us have anything another time, so you’d better put down two
shillings each for them.
`I’ve got that,’ said Easton.
`Two and seven for the butcher. We must pay that. I’m ashamed to
pass the shop, because when I got the meat I promised to pay him the
next week, and it’s nearly three weeks ago now.’
`I’ve put that down. What else?’
`A hundred of coal: one and six.’
`Next?’
`The instalment for the furniture and floor-cloth, twelve shillings.’
`Next?’
`We owe the milkman four weeks; we’d better pay one week on account;
that’s one and two.’
`Next?’
`The greengrocer; one shilling on account.’
`Anything else?’
`We shall want a piece of meat of some kind; we’ve had none for nearly
three weeks. You’d better say one and six for that.’
`That’s down.’
`One and nine for bread; that’s one loaf a day.’
`But I’ve got two shillings down for bread already,’ said Easton.
`Yes, I know, dear, but that’s to go towards paying off what we owe,
and what you have down for the grocer and milkman’s the same.’
`Well, go on, for Christ’s sake, and let’s get it down,’ said Easton,
irritably.
`We can’t say less than three shillings for groceries.’
Easton looked carefully at his list. This time he felt sure that the
item was already down; but finding he was mistaken he said nothing and
added the amount.
`Well, I’ve got that. What else?’
`Milk, one and two.’
`Next?’
`Vegetables, eightpence.’
`Yes.’
`Paraffin oil and firewood, sixpence.’
Again the financier scrutinized the list. He was positive that it was
down already. However, he could not find it, so the sixpence was
added to the column of figures.
`Then there’s your boots; you can’t go about with them old things in
this weather much longer, and they won’t stand mending again. You
remember the old man said they were not worth it when you had that
patch put on a few weeks ago.’
`Yes. I was thinking of buying a new pair tomorrow. My socks was wet
through tonight. If it’s raining some morning when I’m going out and
I have to work all day with wet feet I shall be laid up.’
`At that second-hand shop down in High Street I saw when I was out
this afternoon a very good pair just your size, for two shillings.’
Easton did not reply at once. He did not much fancy wearing the
cast-off boots of some stranger, who for all he knew might have
suffered from some disease, but then remembering that his old ones
were literally falling off his feet he realized that he had
practically no choice.
`If you’re quite sure they’ll fit you’d better get them. It’s better
to do that than for me to catch cold and be laid up for God knows how
long.’
So the two shillings were added to the list.
`Is there anything else?’
`How much does it all come to now?’ asked Ruth.
Easton added it all up. When he had finished he remained staring at
the figures in consternation for a long time without speaking.
`Jesus Christ!’ he ejaculated at last.
`What’s it come to?’ asked Ruth.
`Forty-four and tenpence.’
`I knew we wouldn’t have enough,’ said Ruth, wearily. `Now if you
think I manage so badly, p’raps you can tell me which of these things
we ought to leave out.’
`We’d be all right if it wasn’t for the debts,’ said Easton, doggedly.
`When you’re not working, we must either get into debt or starve.’
Easton made no answer.
`What’ll we do about the rates?’ asked Ruth.
`I’m sure I don’t know: there’s nothing left to pawn except my black
coat and vest. You might get something on that.’
`It’ll have to be paid somehow,’ said Ruth, `or you’ll be taken off to
jail for a month, the same as Mrs Newman’s husband was last winter.’
`Well, you’d better take the coat and vest and see what you can get on
‘em tomorrow.’
`Yes,’ said Ruth; `and there’s that brown silk dress of mine – you
know, the one I wore when we was married – I might get something on
that, because we won’t get enough on the coat and vest. I don’t like
parting with the dress, although I never wear it; but we’ll be sure to
be able to get it out again, won’t we?’
`Of course,’ said Easton.
They remained silent for some time, Easton staring at the list of
debts and the letters. She was wondering if he still thought she
managed badly, and what he would do about it. She knew she had always
done her best. At last she said, wistfully, trying to speak plainly
for there seemed to be a lump in her throat: `And what about tomorrow?
Would you like to spend the money yourself, or shall I manage as I’ve
done before, or will you tell me what to do?’
`I don’t know, dear,’ said Easton, sheepishly. `I think you’d better
do as you think best.’
`Oh, I’ll manage all right, dear, you’ll see,’ replied Ruth, who
seemed to think it a sort of honour to be allowed to starve herself
and wear shabby clothes.
The baby, who had been for some time quietly sitting upon his mother’s
lap, looking wonderingly at the fire – his teeth appeared to trouble
him less since he got rid of the eggs and bacon and potatoes – now
began to nod and doze, which Easton perceiving, suggested that the
infant should not be allowed to go to sleep with an empty stomach,
because it would probably wake up hungry in the middle of the night.
He therefore work him up as much as possible and mashed a little of
the bread and toasted cheese with a little warm milk. Then taking the
baby from Ruth he began to try to induce it to eat. As soon, however,
as the child understood his object, it began to scream at the top of
its voice, closing its lips firmly and turning its head rapidly from
side to side every time the spoon approached its mouth. It made such
a dreadful noise that Easton at last gave in. He began to walk about
the room with it, and presently the child sobbed itself to sleep.
After putting the baby into its cradle Ruth set about preparing
Easton’s breakfast and packing it into his basket. This did not take
very long, there being only bread and butter – or, to be more correct,
margarine.
Then she poured what tea was left in the tea-pot into a small saucepan
and placed it on the top of the oven, but away from the fire, cut two
more slices of bread and spread on them all the margarine that was
left; then put them on a plate on the table, covering them with a
saucer to prevent them getting hard and dry during the night. Near
the plate she placed a clean cup and saucer and the milk and sugar.
In the morning Easton would light the fire and warm up the tea in
the saucepan so as to have a cup of tea before going out. If Ruth was
awake and he was not pressed for time, he generally took a cup of tea
to her in bed.
Nothing now remained to be done but to put some coal and wood ready in
the fender so that there would be no unnecessary delay in the morning.
The baby was still sleeping and Ruth did not like to wake him up yet
to dress him for the night. Easton was sitting by the fire smoking,
so everything being done, Ruth sat down at the table and began sewing.
Presently she spoke:
`I wish you’d let me try to let that back room upstairs: the woman
next door has got hers let unfurnished to an elderly woman and her
husband for two shillings a week. If we could get someone like that
it would be better than having an empty room in the house.’
`And we’d always have them messing about down here, cooking and
washing and one thing and another,’ objected Easton; `they’d be more
trouble than they way worth.’
`Well, we might try and furnish it. There’s Mrs Crass across the road
has got two lodgers in one room. They pay her twelve shillings a week
each; board, lodging and washing. That’s one pound four she has
coming in reglar every week. If we could do the same we’d very soon
be out of debt.’
`What’s the good of talking? You’d never be able to do the work even
if we had the furniture.’
`Oh, the work’s nothing,’ replied Ruth, `and as for the furniture,
we’ve got plenty of spare bedclothes, and we could easily manage
without a washstand in our room for a bit, so the only thing we really
want is a small bedstead and mattress; we could get them very cheap
second-hand.’
`There ought to be a chest of drawers,’ said Easton doubtfully.
`I don’t think so,’ replied Ruth. `There’s a cupboard in the room and
whoever took it would be sure to have a box.’
`Well, if you think you can do the work I’ve no objection,’ said
Easton. `It’ll be a nuisance having a stranger in the way all the
time, but I suppose we must do something of the sort or else we’ll
have to give up the house and take a couple of rooms somewhere. That
would be worse than having lodgers ourselves.
`Let’s go and have a look at the room,’ he added, getting up and
taking the lamp from the wall.
They had to go up two flights of stairs before arriving at the top
landing, where there were two doors, one leading into the front room -
their bedroom – and the other into the empty back room. These two
doors were at right angles to each other. The wallpaper in the back
room was damaged and soiled in several places.
`There’s nearly a whole roll of this paper on the top of the
cupboard,’ said Ruth. `You could easily mend all those places. We
could hag up a few almanacks on the walls; our washstand could go
there by the window; a chair just there, and the bed along that wall
behind the door. It’s only a small window, so I could easily manage
to make a curtain out of something. I’m sure I could make the room
look quite nice without spending hardly anything.’
Easton reached down the roll of paper. It was the same pattern as
that on the wall. The latter was a good deal faded, of course, but it
would not matter much if the patches showed a little. They returned
to the kitchen.
`Do you think you know anyone who would take it?’ asked Ruth. Easton
smoked thoughtfully.
`No,’ he said at length. `But I’ll mention it to one or two of the
chaps on the job; they might know of someone.’
`And I’ll get Mrs Crass to ask her lodgers: p’raps they might have a
friend what would like to live near them.’
So it was settled; and as the fire was nearly out and it was getting
late, they prepared to retire for the night. The baby was still
sleeping so Easton lifted it, cradle and all, and carried it up the
narrow staircase into the front bedroom, Ruth leading the way,
carrying the lamp and some clothes for the child. So that the infant
might be within easy reach of its mother during the night, two chairs
were arranged close to her side of the bed and the cradle placed on
them.
`Now we’ve forgot the clock,’ said Easton, pausing. He was half
undressed and had already removed his slippers.
`I’ll slip down and get it,’ said Ruth.
`Never mind, I’ll go,’ said Easton, beginning to put his slippers on
again.
`No, you get into bed. I’ve not started undressing yet. I’ll get
it,’ replied Ruth who was already on her way down.
`I don’t know as it was worth the trouble of going down,’ said Ruth
when she returned with the clock. `It stopped three or four times
today.’
`Well, I hope it don’t stop in the night,’ Easton said. `It would be
a bit of all right not knowing what time it was in the morning. I
suppose the next thing will be that we’ll have to buy a new clock.’
He woke several times during the night and struck a match to see if it
was yet time to get up. At half past two the clock was still going
and he again fell asleep. The next time he work up the ticking had
ceased. He wondered what time it was? It was still very dark, but
that was nothing to go by, because it was always dark at six now. He
was wide awake: it must be nearly time to get up. It would never do
to be late; he might get the sack.
He got up and dressed himself. Ruth was asleep, so he crept quietly
downstairs, lit the fire and heated the tea. When it was ready he
went softly upstairs again. Ruth was still sleeping, so he decided
not to disturb her. Returning to the kitchen, he poured out and drank
a cup of tea, put on his boots, overcoat and hat and taking his basket
went out of the house.
The rain was still falling and it was very cold and dark. There was
no one else in the street. Easton shivered as he walked along
wondering what time it could be. He remembered there was a clock over
the front of a jeweller’s shop a little way down the main road. When
he arrived at this place he found that the clock being so high up he
could not see the figures on the face distinctly, because it was still
very dark. He stood staring for a few minutes vainly trying to see
what time it was when suddenly the light of a bull’s-eye lantern was
flashed into his eyes.
`You’re about very early,’ said a voice, the owner of which Easton
could not see. The light blinded him.
`What time is it?’ said Easton. `I’ve got to get to work at seven and
our clock stopped during the night.’
`Where are you working?’
`At “The Cave” in Elmore Road. You know, near the old toll gate.’
`What are you doing there and who are you working for?’ the policeman
demanded.
Easton explained.
`Well,’ said the constable, `it’s very strange that you should be
wandering about at this hour. It’s only about three-quarters of an
hour’s walk from here to Elmore Road. You say you’ve got to get there
at seven, and it’s only a quarter to four now. Where do you live?
What’s your name?’ Easton gave his name and address and began
repeating the story about the clock having stopped.
`What you say may be all right or it may not,’ interrupted the
policeman. `I’m not sure but that I ought to take you to the station.
All I know about you is that I find you loitering outside this shop.
What have you got in that basket?’
`Only my breakfast,’ Easton said, opening the basket and displaying
its contents.
`I’m inclined to believe what you say,’ said the policeman, after a
pause. `But to make quite sure I’ll go home with you. It’s on my
beat, and I don’t want to run you in if you’re what you say you are,
but I should advise you to buy a decent clock, or you’ll be getting
yourself into trouble.’
When they arrived at the house Easton opened the door, and after
making some entries in his note-book the officer went away, much to
the relief of Easton, who went upstairs, set the hands of the clock
right and started it going again. He then removed his overcoat and
lay down on the bed in his clothes, covering himself with the quilt.
After a while he fell asleep, and when he awoke the clock was still
ticking.
The time was exactly seven o’clock.
