Sally remained. Sally was not at Slattery’s. Sally had begun very brightly by being in the Tynecastle Telephone Exchange and all might still have been right with Sally had Sally stayed on at the telephone exchange. It was clean and classy work being in the Tynecastle Exchange, with all the advantages. Unfortunately dad had never got it out of his silly head that Sally had talent for the stage. Always taking her to music-halls, encouraging her to mimic the variety stars, sending her to tap-dancing, generally playing the fool. And as if this were not enough, he had actually persuaded Sally to enter for a Saturday night go-as-you-please at the Empire. They were low, these go-as-you-please competitions, all the rag-tag went in for them.
It was very sad, but Sally had won this go-as-you-please. Not only had she won the first prize but she had so knocked the low Saturday night gallery crowd that the management had given her an engagement for the whole of the following week. At the end of that week Sally had got the offer of a six-weeks’ tour on the Payne-Gould northern circuit.
Why, oh, why, asked Jenny sadly, had Sally been fool enough to take that offer? For Sally had taken the offer, chucked the classy exchange with all the advantages and done her six weeks’ circuit. That, of course, was the end of Sally, the finish, absolutely.
Sally had been out of a job four months now. No more circuit, no more offers, no more anything. As for the telephone exchange they wouldn’t even look at Sally again. Pity! But then the Exchange was classy and would never have you back if once you did the dirty on it. Yes, sighed Jenny, she’s done it for herself now I’m afraid, poor Sally!
Still it would be nice to have Sally through to stay, nice, and a kindness to the unfortunate girl. Perhaps Jenny had a complacent sense of patronage behind her sisterly benevolence. She always wanted to show people did Jenny.
Sally arrived in Sleescale towards the third week in November and was greeted with rapture by her sister. Jenny was delighted, hugging her dearest Sally, full of “well I nevers” and “isn’t this just like old times,” full of little confidences and ripples of laughter and showings to the newly furnished spare bedroom and running upstairs with hot water and clean towels and gay tryings on of Sally’s hat. Oh, my dear, isn’t it just! David was pleased: he had not seen Jenny so happy or excited for a long time.
But the rapture went out of it comically soon, the running upstairs soon became a bore, the ripples of laughter wore themselves out and all the beautiful novelty of dearest Sally faded and was finished. “She’s changed, David,” Jenny announced sadly towards the end of the first week, “she’s not the same girl at all, mind you I never did think much of…”
David did not find Sally changed except that she might be quieter and improved. Perhaps Jenny’s effusiveness made her subdued. Perhaps the thought that she was finished sobered Sally down. She had lost her pertness. There was a new thoughtfulness behind her eyes. She made herself useful running errands and about the house. She did not ask to be amused and all Jenny’s arrangements and display merely served to shut her up. Once or twice in the kitchen, seated on the plain deal table swinging her legs before the big fire she condescended, as Jenny put it, to come out of herself. Then she chattered away sixteen to the dozen, telling them in a frank and merry way of her experiences on the Payne-Gould tour, of the landladies, the managers, the “moth-eaten” dressing-rooms, of her own greenness and nervousness and mistakes. She had no pretentiousness. She could take off people beautifully but now she took off herself even better. Her best story was terribly against herself, of how she got the bird in Shiphead — Jenny simply loved to hear that story! — but Sally told it joyfully, without a trace of bitterness. She had a carelessness about herself. She never did up, never bothered about the kind of soap she used, always washed her face in cold water, she had very few clothes and, unlike Jenny who was always altering and stitching and pressing, keeping her clothes in the most beautiful condition, she took no care of them whatever. She had one brown tweed costume and wore it nearly all the time; as Jenny remarked, that thing was never off her back. But Sally’s method was to buy a suit, wear it out, then buy another one. She had no good clothes, Sunday hats, or adorable fancy underwear. She wore plain serge knickers and flat shoes. Her figure was short and rather tubby. She was very plain.
David enjoyed Sally quite a lot though Jenny’s increasing petulance began to worry him again. One evening, however, it was the first of December, when he came in from school Jenny met him with a return of her old animation.
“Guess who’s in Sleescale?” she demanded, smiling all over her face.
Sally, setting the table for David’s tea, said sadly:
“Buffalo Bill.”
“Be quiet,” Jenny said. “Just because you don’t happen to like him, Miss Impudence! But really though, David, you never would guess, honestly you’d never. It’s Joe!”
“Joe!” David repeated, “Joe Gowlan?”
“Mm-huh!” Jenny nodded brightly. “And, my, doesn’t he look well. You could have knocked me down with a feather when I met him in Church Street. Of course I wasn’t going to recognise him, not me, I wasn’t too pleased with Joe Gowlan the last time I saw him, but he came up and spoke to me nice as nice. He’s improved wonderful.”
Sally looked at her sister.
“Is it cold meat for David’s tea?” she said.
“No, no,” said Jenny absently, “just a plain tea to-night, we’ll keep the meat for supper. I’ve asked Joe to drop in, I knew you would want to see him, David.”
“Why, yes, of course.”
“Not that I’m all that anxious myself, mind you. But I did think I’d like to let Mr. Joe Gowlan see he’s not the only one that has got on. Believe me, with my blue china and the doyleys and cold meat and heated-up peas I’ll show Mr. Joe a thing or two. Pity it wasn’t the cod we had yesterday, I could have used the new ivorine fish slice. Never mind, though, I’ll borrow Mrs. Wept’s carvers, we’ll have a pretty nice display I can tell you.”
“Why don’t you hire a butler when you’re about it?” Sally said mildly.
Jenny coloured. The pleasantness left her face. She turned on Sally. She said:
“You’re an ungrateful little hussy, you are, to stand there and talk to me like that. I think I’ve done pretty well by you when it comes to the bit. The idea of you standing there criticising me because I ask a gentleman to supper in my own house. The idea! And after all that I’ve done for you. You go home, my lady, if you don’t like it.”
“I’ll go home, if you want to,” Sally said. And she went to get David’s tea.
Joe dropped in about seven o’clock. He wore his light brown suit, his watch-chain, that really impressive derby, and an air of affable simplicity. He was not loud, nor boisterous, nor full of brag, he was nothing that David might have feared. Joe had really been forced to come home and, though Joe could never look that way, Joe was quite a bit under the weather. In plain truth, Joe was still out of a job. He was turning over in his mind the idea of going back to Millington’s; after all hadn’t Stanley Millington promised to give him a lift up, hadn’t he now, the big sod? Yes, he would go to Millington’s all right. But not yet, not just yet. There was something else, something on Joe’s mind that Joe didn’t enjoy. Joe was worried about himself, worried about something. God, what a fool a fella could be, but maybe it wasn’t something, maybe it was nothing after all.
The general effect of this bodily and spiritual uncertainty was to throw an air of subdued virtue about Joe, to establish him as a man who had at last returned to see his aged father and was modestly reticent about his obvious success in life. And he was so pleased to see David, so deeply touched to see his “ole pal” again! It was quite affecting.