“There’s a nice little place on the left.”
“Would you care to come and have something with me?” said Dinny, moved by impulse, or by something hungry in the woman’s face.
“Why! I would,” said the woman. “Fact is, I came out without anything. It’s nice to have company, too.” She turned up the King’s Road and Dinny turned alongside. It passed through her mind that if she met someone it would be quaint; but for all that she felt better.
‘For God’s sake,’ she thought, ‘be natural!’
The woman led her into a little restaurant, or rather public-house, for it had a bar. There was no one in the eating-room, which had a separate entrance, and they sat down at a small table with a cruet-stand, a handbell, a bottle of Worcester sauce, and in a vase some failing pyrethrums which had never been fresh. There was a slight smell of vinegar.
“I COULD do with a cigarette,” said the woman.
Dinny had none. She tinkled the bell.
“Any particular sort?”
“Oh! Gaspers.”
A waitress appeared, looked at the woman, looked at Dinny, and said: “Yes?”
“A packet of Players, please. A large coffee for me, strong and fresh, and some cake or buns, or anything. What will you have?”
The woman looked at Dinny, as though measuring her capacity, looked at the waitress, and said, hesitating: “Well, to tell the truth, I’m hungry. Cold beef and a bottle of stout?”
“Vegetables?” said Dinny: “A salad?”
“Well, a salad, thank you.”
“Good! And pickled walnuts? Will you get it all as quickly as you can, please?”
The waitress passed her tongue over her lips, nodded, and went away.
“I say,” said the woman, suddenly, “it’s awful nice of you, you know.”
“It was so friendly of you to come. I should have felt a bit lost without you.”
“SHE can’t make it out,” said the woman, nodding her head towards the vanished waitress. “To tell you the truth, nor can I.”
“Why? We’re both hungry.”
“No doubt about that,” said the woman; “you’re going to see me eat. I’m glad you ordered pickled walnuts, I never can resist a pickled onion, and it don’t do.”
“I might have thought of cocktails,” murmured Dinny, “but perhaps they don’t make them here.”
“A sherry wouldn’t be amiss. I’ll get ’em.” The woman rose and disappeared into the bar.
Dinny took the chance to powder her nose. She also dived her hand down to the pocket in her ‘boned body’ where the spoils of South Molton Street were stored, and extracted a five-pound note. She was feeling a sort of sad excitement.
The woman came back with two glasses. “I told ’em to charge it to our bill. The liquor’s good here.”
Dinny raised her glass and sipped. The woman tossed hers off at a draught.
“I wanted that. Fancy a country where you couldn’t get a drink!”
“But they can, of course, and do.”
“You bet. But they say some of the liquor’s awful.”
Dinny saw that her gaze was travelling up and down her cloak and dress and face with insatiable curiosity.
“Pardon me,” said the woman, suddenly: “You got a date?”
“No, I’m going home after this.”
The woman sighed. “Wish she’d bring those bl-inkin’ cigarettes.”
The waitress reappeared with a bottle of stout and the cigarettes. Staring at Dinny’s hair, she opened the bottle.
“Coo!” said the woman, taking a long draw at her ‘Gasper,’ “I wanted that.”
“I’ll bring you the other things in a minute,” said the waitress.
“I haven’t seen you on the stage, have I?” said the woman.
“No, I’m not on the stage.”
The advent of food broke the ensuing hush. The coffee was better than Dinny had hoped and very hot. She had drunk most of it and eaten a large piece of plum cake before the woman, putting a pickled walnut in her mouth, spoke again.
“D’you live in London?”
“No. In Oxfordshire.”
“Well, I like the country, too; but I never see it now. I was brought up near Maidstone—pretty round there.” She heaved a sigh with a flavouring of stout. “They say the Communists in Russia have done away with vice—isn’t that a scream? An American journalist told me. Well! I never knew a budget make such a difference before,” she continued, expelling smoke as if liberating her souclass="underline" “Dreadful lot of unemployment.”
“It does seem to affect everybody.”
“Affects me, I know,” and she stared stonily. “I suppose you’re shocked at that.”
“It takes a lot to shock people nowadays, don’t you find?”
“Well, I don’t mix as a rule with bishops.”
Dinny laughed.
“All the same,” said the woman, defiantly, “I came across a parson who talked the best sense to me I ever heard; of course, I couldn’t follow it.”
“I’ll make you a bet,” said Dinny, “that I know his name. Cherrell?”
“In once,” said the woman, and her eyes grew round.
“He’s my uncle.”
“Coo! Well, well! It’s a funny world! And not so large. Nice man he was,” she added.
“Still is.”
“One of the best.”
Dinny, who had been waiting for those inevitable words, thought: ‘This is where they used to do the “My erring sister” stunt.’
The woman uttered a sigh of repletion.
“I’ve enjoyed that,” she said, and rose. “Thank you ever so. I must be getting on now, or I’ll be late for business.”
Dinny tinkled the bell. The waitress appeared with suspicious promptitude.
“The bill, please, and can you get me THAT changed?”
The waitress took the note with a certain caution.
“I’ll just go and fix myself,” said the woman; “see you in a minute.” She passed through a door.
Dinny drank up the remains of her coffee. She was trying to realise what it must be like to live like that. The waitress came back with the change, received her tip, said “Thank you, miss,” and went. Dinny resumed the process of realisation.
“Well,” said the woman’s voice behind her, “I don’t suppose I’ll ever see you again. But I’d like to say I think you’re a jolly good sort.”
Dinny looked up at her.
“When you said you’d come out without anything, did you mean you hadn’t anything to come out with?”
“Sure thing,” said the woman.
“Then would you mind taking this change? It’s horrid to have no money in London.”
The woman bit her lips, and Dinny could see that they were trembling.
“I wouldn’t like to take your money,” she said, “after you’ve been so kind.”
“Oh! bosh! Please!” And, catching her hand, she pressed the money into it. To her horror, the woman uttered a loud sniff. She was preparing to make a run for the door, when the woman said:
“D’you know what I’m going to do? I’m going home to have a sleep. My God, I am! I’m going home to have a sleep.”
Dinny hurried back to Sloane Street. Walking past the tall blinded houses, she recognised with gratitude that her love-sickness was much better. If she did not walk too fast, she would not be too soon at Mount Street. It was dark now, and in spite of the haze of city light the sky was alive with stars. She did not enter the Park again, but walked along its outside railings. It seemed an immense time since she had parted from Stack and the dog in Cork Street. Traffic was thickening as she rounded into Park Lane. To-morrow all these vehicles would be draining out to Epsom Downs; the Town would be seeming almost empty. And, with a sickening sensation, it flashed on her how empty it would always feel without Wilfrid to see or look forward to.
She came to the gate by the ‘jibbing barrel,’ and suddenly, as though all that evening had been a dream, she saw Wilfrid standing beside it. She choked and ran forward. He put out his arms and caught her to him.
The moment could hardly be prolonged, for cars and pedestrians were passing in and out; so arm-inarm they moved towards Mount Street. Dinny just clung to him, and he seemed equally wordless; but the thought that he had come there to be near her was infinitely comforting.