How Dear Is Life (4 page)

When he had finished reading, Downham turned to Phillip his lean rugger-red face (he played on Saturday afternoons for the Old Merchant Taylors’ first fifteen) and said with slight viciousness, “I don’t think this is at all funny! Do you want to let the Moon Fire Office in for an action for libel-in-trade? Really, you know sir——” he turned complainingly to Mr. Howlett, with an addition of blandness to his tone. “This is the
limit!” Then to Phillip, “Whatever made you do it? It’s like your damned cheek, to write a letter, on Office Paper, too! What is the idea?”

“I thought it might get some new business.”

Mr. Howlett, with a smile, had gone to the telephone. This was a single line only, to Head Office. He turned the ringing handle. “Give me the Town Department, will you?” he asked the exchange girl, quietly.

Phillip felt his insides go black. Mr. Howlett was going to tell Father. So far, he had avoided Father at Head Office. He sat at his desk, listening to Mr. Howlett’s voice.

“Hullo, is that you, Journend? I say, a little matter of territory has arisen. I wonder if you would confirm that Head Office is on the risk of Mallard, Carter & Turney, of Sparhawk Street, Holborn, manufacturing stationers and printers. Oh they are, are they? Yes, I thought so. What? Oh, is he? Ha ha ha! Oh, nothing, nothing. Most interesting! Oh no, I’ll explain sometime, when I see you. Goodbye.”

He hung up the black trumpet-like receiver, and turned round with an amused expression on his face.

“Oh that reminds me, Hollis,” he said. “Head Office has approved your idea that we should get Edgar here into uniform. I’ve arranged with Church the tailor, to get him measured up. Edgar,” said Mr. Howlett, turning to the boy in the corner, “Don’t you go and sprout up suddenly, whatever you do! You’re going to have a messenger’s livery specially made for you.”

Edgar looked extremely pleased. He smoothed back his half-dry hair with a palm, then swung his legs on his chair, boots rubbing together as though enjoying this reward to the rest of the body.

Mr. Hollis was writing rapidly. His pen scratched as it travelled decisively. With an extra spurt of scratching, he signed his name with a flourish. Phillip always knew when Mr. Hollis was endorsing a cheque, by the sound it made on paper,
H.
Fazackerley
Hollis
,
followed by a swift squiggle underneath the name, like a whip cracking, or a snake striking, or a cock pheasant crowing at the moment it drummed its wings. Having signed his name, Mr. Hollis usually sniffed. He could not realise, Phillip thought, that he sniffed, for once he had jumped on him for doing the same thing.

“We use handkerchiefs in this office,” he had said, shortly, and Phillip had felt inferior.

Mr. Hollis finished his signature, sniffed, and then, deciding not to pretend indifference at his senior’s exasperating slowness any longer, demanded to know what Journend had said.

“Oh that. As I thought, Mallard, Garter & Turney already have a policy with Head Office.”

“I fail to see why that should be amusing,” retorted Mr. Hollis, thumping another cheque with the office rubber stamp, and endorsing it.

Mr. Howlett came over to Phillip and said, softly, “That’s your grandfather’s firm, isn’t it, Maddison?”

“Yes, sir.”

An expression of pure pleasure crossed Mr. Howlett’s face. He turned to Mr. Hollis and said, “Apparently our young colleague was trying to get some new business. Maddison’s grandfather is chairman of the firm!”

Mr. Hollis did not reply, but went on stamping and endorsing cheques until, suddenly looking up, he said in a terse voice, “In my opinion, Howlett, for what it is worth, of course, I think that you and I should continue to run this Branch as we did
on lines approved and laid down before our young genius arrived
.”

With a wink, and sudden smile at Phillip, he said in a lowered, confidential voice, “By all means, Maddison, continue to get all the new business for the Branch that you can. If you care to ask me for advice on any point, I shall always be most pleased to give it, in so far as my limited experience of twenty-eight years in insurance, permits. Furthermore, and without equivocation, lest there be any possible doubt in the matter, I now state definitely that in all such matters you will come to me, as I am the Head Clerk here, Mr. Howlett is the Manager, Downham is your Immediate Senior, and you are still only a Bloody Boy!”

Mr. Hollis said this in a very dry, comical manner, which made Phillip like him more than he did already.

“Thank you, Mr. Hollis,” he said.

“You see, my lad,” said Mr. Hollis, very quietly, “in this office we work as a team.”

Shortly afterwards the door opened and a man slipped in, deferentially, and with a silent rapid movement closed the door behind him, as though it were his chief care that no cold air from outside should enter. He had a thin grey moustache, waxed to fine points, on a thin almost anxious face. He wore the usual yellow straw-hat and carried a leather bag in one hand.

“Ah!” exclaimed Mr. Howlett, his eyes almost goggling with pleasure. “The very man I wanted to see! I am down to my last half-ounce!”

Mr. Hollis looked up from the paying-in book, and said briskly to the newcomer, “A good day to you!”

The newcomer hesitated a bare moment before opening his bag and putting on the counter, in two separate piles, a number of packets in lead-foil, each partly covered with the picture of a Jacobean horseman in gay colours.

“There you are gentlemen! Sixteen one-ounce packets of ‘Hignett’s Cavalier’, as usual; thank you very much indeed.”

Mr. Hollis produced a half-crown and fourpence; so did Mr. Howlett. Pocketing the money, the little man vanished as swiftly and silently as he had entered.

Mr. Howlett and Mr. Hollis each took eight packages.

“You haven’t yet come to the fragrant weed, I suppose, Maddison?” asked Mr. Howlett.

“No, sir,” said Phillip, hoping that Downham would not say anything to make him feel ridiculous.

“Plenty of time, my boy,” beamed Mr. Howlett, going up the stairs, his tobacco nursed in his arms; while Mr. Hollis, having made out the paying-in book, said to Phillip with a smile, “Here you are, you Mercantile Wonder. I suppose after what Mr. Howlett said to you just now, this Branch will soon be too small to hold you, what?” And handing over the cheques and postal-orders, Mr. Hollis gave Phillip’s forearm a friendly squeeze.

T
HE DAY
which he had been eagerly looking forward to came at last: half-quarter day. Many times he had imagined himself going to the grill of the cashier in the Westminster Bank, presenting his cheque, hearing the cashier say, “How would you like this?” as he had heard him ask others, while he waited to pay in the Branch’s money. Many times had he imagined the joy of being able to jingle golden sovereigns of his own in his pocket, as he walked across the Hill, later to show Mother and Mrs. Neville.

This was the moment. His heart beat faster as Mr. Howlett came down the stairs with three pink cheques in his hand. He placed one on Phillip’s desk, saying, “Here you are, my boy,” and paused a moment to enjoy the light in his junior’s face.

Phillip thanked him, before gazing at the magic piece of paper.
Pay
to
Mr.
P.
S.
T.
Maddison
the
sum
of
Five
pounds!
Every stroke and curl of the letters of his name, the date of 6 May 1913, the signature of E. Rob Howlett, thin and twirly, the figure of
£
5 and the written words, the water-mark on the cheque, the myriads of little teeny-weeny lines of joined-up
words
thewestminsterbankthewestminsterbankthe
right across and down
t
he background of the pink paper—every detail was fresh, vivid
,
and wonderful. So was the moment when, having presented the cheque, he received a glance from the bald-headed cashier behind the grill and heard him say “How would you like this? Gold?”

“Oh,” said Phillip, as he had rehearsed several times. “Three sovereigns, three half-sovereigns, and ten shillings in silver, please.”

The gold was weighed on the polished copper scales, and then shovelled in a little copper shovel through the small hole. Three sovereigns, each with naked St. George on a rearing horse spiking the dragon; three smaller gold circles with milled edges; two half-crowns, one florin, two shillings, two sixpences—all new and bright. They jingled in his pocket, as he walked the few steps down the narrow Lane—just wide enough for one horse-dray loaded with crates of wine to pass at a time—away from the office. It was a great moment. Five pounds, earned by himself, in his pocket!

*

The narrow gorge between the tall and sombre office buildings was now filled with light. Sooted blocks of stone, glass windows, even the boot-smoothed iron-grills above basement and cellar seemed to be insubstantial, to be dissolved in a dust of soft radiance from the sun standing high in the south-west over the street which was a fen when the Romans came, and still a fen when they had gone, to march no more through their walled city, by the old gate: the Aldgate beyond which, unthought of and unrealised by Phillip on that bright afternoon of a world that was accepted unconsciously as one that would exist as it was for evermore, in streets of tenements and dark courts and
blackened slums lived ‘the insured’ of L. Dicks and J. Konigswinter and their like, to whom an annual premium of two shillings was a considerable sum of money, to be saved in pennies and ha’pennies, not all smelling of fish-and-chips—as Theodora Maddison, servant of the poor among whom she now lived, knew daily, almost hourly.

 *

At Lunn’s the hatters in Fenchurch Street, Phillip bought a cork-lined silk hat for 12
s
. 6
d
. about twenty minutes later that afternoon; and the shop assistant, with delicate fingers, put his straw-yard in a cardboard box for him to carry home. Then he bowed Phillip out of the shop. A hundred yards or so from Mr. Lunn’s, was Daniel’s, the watch and clock shop on the corner of Gracechurch Street. There Phillip purchased a tenpenny ha’penny safety razor; a fourpenny ha’penny shaving brush with imitation badger-hair bound by painted string to a brown-painted wooden handle; a twopenny stick of shaving soap; a one-and-threepenny nickel silver watch-chain to replace the plaited horse-hair tether which great-uncle Charley Turney had given him at Beau Brickhill; and with his purchases, turned to the south, feet firm upon pavement and cobble, waiting for the moment of Mother’s face when he arrived home.

Silk hat on the back of his head, in imitation of Mr. F. E. Smith in a cartoon, Phillip walked past the Monument and over London Bridge with an expression of inhibited superiority on his face, while inwardly thrilling at the sight of white fleecy clouds floating high in the blue sky. He carried his dark-grey raincoat folded on his arm; and entering No. 4 platform, sought an empty carriage, placed the new hat with great care upon the luggage rack, and opening
The
Globe
,
feet on cushions opposite, began to read. He had observed that several men who wore silk hats bought this evening paper. Very soon the paper was put aside, it was more interesting to look out of the window. Far away he heard the urgent clanging of the Fire Brigade bell.

Walking up Foxfield Road from the station, he decided that his black vicuna jacket might be too short for the tall hat, so he put on his raincoat, which reached below his knees. Though of dark grey mixed woollen and cotton material, this coat, with its raglan sleeves, did not really go with a topper, he felt. Mr. Tate wore his in the Lane with only a short jacket; still, Mr. Tate was big and hearty, looking as though he had had nothing but
the biggest beef steaks for luncheon in the London Tavern for many many years. Some of the men in the Lane wore blue serge suits with top hats, but Mr. Hollis had explained that they put on their silk hats only when calling on one another in their offices, or meeting to do business in vault or exchange. They would not wear them with a blue serge suit outside the City. The silk hat was a compliment to the other fellow, as well as to the tradition of the City, said Mr. Hollis, in a tone that made Phillip feel that he too was of the City.

The silk hat survived its first crossing of the Hill. No small boys jeered. Indeed, no one appeared to notice it, to his relief. As he went down the gully, and approached the top of Hillside Road, his features became set, a little strained, his upper lip stiff, as he tried to think that there was nothing unusual in wearing such headgear, should he be seen by Helena, or Mr. and Mrs. Rolls, as he passed their house. After all, he was entitled to wear a silk hat; he was a man of the Lane; and one of the seven hundred and fifty thousand who kept the country going, as Mr. Hollis had said.

To his mingled relief and disappointment, none of the Rolls family were visible. Old Pye, in the next house lower down, was not in evidence, either, thank God. Now he was safe, opposite Gran’pa’s gate. He looked in, and waved. Gran’pa saw him through the window, and beckoned him in. Phillip mouthed through the glass that he would see him later: his purpose was achieved. Gran’pa had seen him in the hat, and so had Aunt Marian, who had come because of the departure of Miss Rooney, the housekeeper. He lifted it, feeling like Mr. Tate, and setting it at a slightly forward tilt, again like Mr. Tate, walked on down behind the privet hedge.

Mrs. Bigge was at her gate. He bowed, and raised what he felt was the equivalent of that splendid headgear of magazine stories, a ‘faultless Lincoln Bennett’, even if it was only a Lunn.

“Goodness me, Phillip, I thought for a moment you were your Father! Though you haven’t got a beard yet. My eyes are not what they were. Just come back from London Town?”

“Yes, Mrs. Bigge,” he said, disappointed that she had not remarked on his distinguished appearance. “There’s been a slight fire in the East India Docks this afternoon, and we are on several risks there. However, we always spread risks by guarantee.”

“Fancy that.”

“Do you like my new headgear?”

“So that’s what it is about you that was puzzling me! I knew somehow it wasn’t you, Phillip. My, you are quite a swell!”

He swept off his hat to her with a bow, and went in his gate, the hat now slightly over one brow, like Mr. Thistlethwaite wore his. He left his raincoat behind him on the wall of the porch. He rang the bell.

Mother came. She stared. He waited. Then a smile came upon her face.

“How do you do,” he said, lifting his hat slightly.

The sight of her little son, as Hetty still thought of him, standing there, so serious of face, made her laugh. Her laugh was of tenderness, of pathos, of a sense of childlike fun that her experience had not yet turned to despair and acceptance of defeat. Standing before her, he looked so comic, so much a slender, young-faced edition of Dickie, that she could not restrain her feelings. And knowing Phillip’s sense of humour at times, she felt he was giving a little parody of his father. To her dismay his expression changed.

“Well, you needn’t laugh! I don’t think it’s so funny, anyway. May I come in? Thank you.” He hung the hat on the top of the newel post and without further word went into the scullery. He always went to Timmy Rat when he felt upset, she knew.

Hearing his footfall, Timmy Rat dashed through its fretwork hole, tail knocking on box in its eagerness to be scratched. Nose pointed, whiskers trembling, pink raindrops of eyes glistening, it waited to dream as finger-tips gently rubbed its ears.

“At any rate, you don’t laugh at me,” said Phillip, loud enough for his mother to hear.

“I’m very sorry, dear, but I was not really laughing
at
you, you know. I was really so taken by surprise that——”

“There is really no need to explain, thank you all the same. You weren’t laughing at me, only at my hat. Personally, I always thought you tried, not always successfully, I admit, to impress on me that it was rather bad manners to take any notice of other people’s appearances. At least, that is what you and Father were always trying to drum into me when I was young!”

She was shocked by his tone of voice. “Really, Phillip, if anyone else heard you speaking like that, they might think you were serious.”

“I
am
serious.”

Could
this be her own son speaking? Could it mean that he had
really
taken her expression amiss, in the manner of his father? Must she then in future guard all her feelings with her own son?
Her
son—he who, only a little while ago, almost a terrifyingly short while ago, had been entirely hers to confide in, trusting in her for everything. She sighed; and as he remained with his back to her, unspeaking, she went away, and sat in the front room, to be beside the aspidistra fern she had tended, and even confided in, from almost the very beginning of her married life with Dickie, in the little house in Comfort Road, before her little boy was born.

*

She felt suddenly overcome. She told herself that it was foolish to let her imagination carry her away; that she was probably exaggerating a molehill into a mountain; but all the same, the feeling persisted that he no longer had the same affection for her as before. Could it be that he had never had any real feeling for her, apart from his need of her in the matter of protection, food, and the necessities of life? Was he going to be Dickie all over again? Oh, please God, spare him from an unhappy life. That tone of voice! If she had shut her eyes, it might almost have been Dickie speaking, in the days when the children were small.

Ah well, it was done now. She saw it clearly—she had made the mistake of giving up her entire life to her children, and they —or at least Phillip and Mavis—had grown up selfish, taking all for granted, as her husband had from the very beginning. The more one did for others, the more they expected; the more they demanded. She felt like weeping, for a moment; then telling herself not to exaggerate things, not to be silly—all that fuss over a hat!—O, why had she laughed—she got up, thinking that Phillip would be hungry, and wanting his tea.

This was more the case than Hetty realised. For the past fortnight Phillip had had nothing to eat in the middle of the day. His tickets had run out for the Head Office club, and he had not been
able to ask Father for a further loan, in case Father said something
.

As the rule about juniors not going out to luncheon applied to Head Office only, nobody knew that Phillip had spent his forty minutes each day in wandering about Leadenhall Market, watching the porters and poultry-salesmen, staring at windows
with plates of cheese-cakes, ham-and cheese-rolls, tomatoes on plates, and large glass containers of lemonade with lemons stuck in their necks. He had gone several times on London Bridge and watched the shipping in the Pool. Once or twice he had sat in the Churchyard of St. Botolph, at the corner of Houndsditch and Aldgate, and in other City churchyards, small dank places where soot-spotted tombs were splashed with pigeon-droppings from the plane trees above, where poor-looking office-boys and other workers sat on the seats eating sandwiches, or walking slowly on paths confined between half-dead patches of grass. Once beside him sat a pale-faced girl with no expression in her eyes as she waited there, not eating, like himself. He wished he had sixpence, to press it into her hand, and then to leave her—his intentions strictly honourable in every way. Alas, he had not even a penny for a cheesecake, which was a nourishing thing.

For himself, in a remote sort of way, he had enjoyed the feeling of having nothing to eat. It was rather like the feeling when in the past he had run away from Mother. Self-imposed suffering made you feel very clear and simple, somehow.

*

Hetty went into the kitchen.

“Are you hungry, Phillip?”

“No thank you. I think I’ll go out on my Swift.”

“Well, you ought to have something, dear. It’s a long time since twelve o’clock.”

He did not reply.

“Will you let me boil you an egg, Phillip?”

He turned an anguished face upon her.

“Why can’t you let me alone? You don’t like me spending so much time with Mrs. Neville, but at least she doesn’t laugh at me, or worry me about this or that!”

She felt the shock right through her. She strove to hide her feelings. She, too, ate little in the middle day: a cup of tea, some scraps of left-over dishes, or a slice of white bread and butter. She was alone in the house, except when Mrs. Feeney came, or she went up to London with Papa, on a ‘stolen’ visit to the Tower, one of the picture galleries, perhaps Westminster Cathedral, or the Abbey and St. James’s Park with its water-fowl. Sometimes they went to a
matinée
in a theatre in the Waterloo Road, which Thomas Turney and his wife, before their children
came, used to go to in the early Camberwell days. Then, said Papa, it was called the Royal Coburg Theatre; but later it changed its name to the Royal Victoria Coffee Music Hall, where lectures and penny readings were held. Now it was the Royal Victoria Hall, and gave an occasional play by Shakespeare.