That bright April morning, David’s spirits were high as he sat by the window in his rooms, glancing through the paper. It was Saturday. He was looking forward to a morning spent on the new Low-Temperature Report, a recent process it was proposed to incorporate in the Power section of the scheme, when, unexpectedly, a diversion occurred. The telephone rang.
He did not immediately answer it, for usually Mrs. Tucker went first, but as the ringing continued he dropped his paper and descended to the half-landing where he picked up the receiver. Straightaway Sally’s shrill, throaty voice came over the wire — he recognised it at once.
“Hello, hello,” she said, “you must be awful busy. I’ve been trying to get you for the last five minutes.”
Smiling into the receiver he exclaimed:
“Sally!”
“So you knew me?”
“You’re unmistakable.”
They both laughed and he said:
“Where are you?”
“I’m at Stanton’s Hotel, you know, near the British Museum, and Alf is along with me.”
“But what in all the world are you doing up here?”
“Well, as a matter of fact, Davey,” she answered, “I’m going to be married. So I thought I’d take dad for a bit of a trip to London before I got hitched up. The Pigeon Show’s on at the Crystal Palace and dad did want to see it.”
“Why, that’s great news, Sally,” he declared, both surprised and pleased. “Who is he? Have I met him?”
“I don’t know, David.” Her voice was happy, a shade self-conscious. “He’s Dick Jobey of Tynecastle.”
“Dick Jobey,” he exclaimed. “Why, Sally, that’s a great match.”
A silence; he could feel that she was gratified; then she said:
“I want to see you, David. And Alf does too. Will you have a bite with us to-day? Listen. We’ve arranged to go to the Crystal Palace this afternoon, but come along and have an early lunch with us at the hotel. Come now, David.”
He reflected: Saturday and the Report could wait.
“All right,” he cried. “I’m with you. I’ll be along shortly after twelve. Yes, I know Stanton’s, Sally. I’ll be there.”
He came away from the telephone still smiling — there was something incorrigibly light-hearted about Sally which never failed to cheer him.
At half-past eleven he took the underground for Museum Station and walked along Thackeray Street towards Stanton’s, a quiet, unostentatious hotel in Woburn Square. It was a bright morning; a sense of spring was in the air, the trees of the Square were already in leaf and a gay chirruping of sparrows came from in front of a seat within the Square Gardens where an old man sat feeding them with crumbs. The passing taxicabs had a gay note, too, as though they rejoiced in the fineness of the day. He arrived at the hotel a few minutes before noon but Alf and Sally were waiting for him in the lounge. They greeted him affectionately.
It was some years since David had seen Alf Sunley but Alf was not greatly changed. His moustache was perhaps more tobacco stained and ragged, and his face more sallow, and the crick in his neck more pronounced, but he was still the same friendly, common, doggedly unassertive little man. He wore a new black suit for the occasion, very stiff and new and rather big for him, and a new made-up tie, and his boots were probably new for they squeaked whenever he moved.
But Sally had changed. Taking after her mother, perhaps, she had turned round as a barrel, little bracelets of plumpness were on her wrists and her face was frankly fat. She smiled at David’s hastily concealed surprise.
“Yes, I’ve put on a bit, haven’t I? But never mind. Let’s go and have some lunch.”
They had lunch. They sat at one of the tables in the quiet restaurant while the sun shone in on them and they had cold meat and salad. The cold meat and salad tasted good and the rhubarb tart which came afterwards was good too. Sally ate a hearty lunch and enjoyed it. She had a bottle of Guinness all to herself. Her plump little face flushed, and her figure seemed almost to expand with the excellence of the meal. When she had finished she drew a satisfied breath and shamelessly eased her waistbelt. David smiled across at her.
“So you’re getting married. I thought something like that would happen one day?”
“Dick’s a good chap,” Sally sighed contentedly. “Not much to say, but one of the best. I can tell you I’m lucky. You see, David, I’m getting a bit sick of the road. I’ve been goin’ round the Payne-Gould circuit till I’m giddy. I’m sick of summer pierrots and winter pantos. And besides, I’m putting on weight something terrible. In a couple of years I’d only be fit for the fairy queen. An’ I’d a sight rather have Dick than the demon king. I want to settle down and be comfortable.”
He gazed at her quizzically, remembering the terrible strivings of her early youth, the passionate desire for fame upon the boards.
“But what about that great ambition, Sally?”
She smiled comfortably.
“That’s got a bit of fat on it too, lad. You’d ’ve liked me how they make them in the story books. With my name in big lights in Piccadilly.” She stopped laughing and shook her head; then lifting her eyes she looked at him steadily. “It’s one in a million does that, David. I’m not her. I’ve got a bit of talent maybe, but that’s the end of it. Don’t you think I haven’t found out by now. Put me against the real thing and I don’t exist.”
“Oh. I don’t know, Sally…” he remonstrated.
“You don’t,” she answered with something of her old fierceness. “Well, I do. I’ve tried it and I know where I get off. We all start out with great ideas as to where we’re going, Davey, but it’s precious few that gets there. I’m lucky to have found a half-way stop that suits me.”
There was a silence. Sally recovered herself immediately, yet, though the fire died out of her eyes, she remained unusually serious. She began to play with her spoon, abstractedly, drawing circles with the handle upon the tablecloth. Her face was overcast as if something had recurred to her and now lay upon her mind. Suddenly, as though taking a decision, she glanced at Alf, who lay back in his chair, bowler hat over his eyes, sleepily using the wooden toothpick he had just shaped from a match.
“Alf,” she remarked meditatively, “I want to have a word with David. Take a stroll round the Square for a couple of minutes.”
“Eh?” Alf sat up, taken by surprise. He stared at her.
“You’ll find David and me here when you come back,” insisted Sally.
Alf nodded. Sally’s word was always law. He rose and readjusted his hat. As she watched him go Sally reflected:
“He’s a good sort, Alf, a regular treat. Thank God, I can get him away from his white lead now. I’m buying him a bungalow at Gosforth. Dick’s told me to go ahead. I’m settling Alf there and letting him breed homers to his heart’s content.”
David had an odd sense of warmth within his breast. It was his nature always to be moved by the evidence of generosity or kindness in others. And he felt these qualities shining in Sally’s affection for her father, the little man in the black misfitting suit and squeaky boots and made-up tie.
“You’re a brick, Sally,” he said. “You’ve never hurt anyone in all your life.”
“I don’t know about that.” She was still unsmiling. “I think perhaps I’m going to hurt you now.”
“Why, what’s the matter?” he inquired in surprise.
“Well,” she paused, opened her bag and slowly drew out a letter. “I’ve got something to tell you. I hate to, David. But I must, you’d hate me if I didn’t.” Another pause. “I’ve heard from Jenny.”