Philip Van Doren Stern (ed) (103 page)

To
be cut—deliberately cut—by him.' I was, I still am, furious at having had that
happen to me.

Reprinted by permission of
Stephen Aske, London.

Between the Minute and the Hour

By A. M. BURRAGE

T
here
is no more commonplace stretch of thoroughfare in the
United Kingdom than the London Road at
Nesthall between Station Road and Beryl Avenue. A row of small, dingy villas
and a row of new and diminutive shops face each other across the tram-lines
which stretch between Hammersmith and a distant suburb, once a country town.
Nearly all of these shops are for the sale of sweets, tobacco, and newspapers,
so that it seems strange that there should be a livelihood in any one of them.

Charles
Trimmer kept the fifth shop down, as you would count them with your back to
London. His commonplace name appeared above his one commonplace window, with
"Newsagent" on one side of it and "Tobacconist" on the
other. The window displayed an assortment of cheap sweets in bottles and open
boxes, picture-postcards in doubtful taste, flies when in season, and dummy
packets of tobacco and cigarettes.

Trimmer
himself was commonplace in mind and appearance to match his surroundings and
his avocation. If I lay particular stress on this, it is because it serves to
make this strange narrative the stranger. He was short, turned forty, slightly
bald, with a slim, dark, waxed moustache. His hobbies may be said to have
consisted of watching professional football—he was a firm "supporter"
of Brentford whenever he could get away—and putting odd shillings on horses
which
seldom
won.
As
he
had
only
his
own
mouth
to
feed,
the
shop
kept him
without
hardship.
He
lived
alone,
but
an
elderly
woman
came
in daily
to
cook
his
dinner
and
do
the
rougher
housework.
For
the
rest, you
must
imagine
him
to
be
a
colourless
individual,
almost
without personality,
and
with,
of
course,
an
atrocious
accent,
part
Cockney
and part
peculiar
to
the
Middlesex
suburbs.
Yet
to
this
colourless
little man
in
his
squalid
surroundings
befel
an
adventure
the
like
of
which had
never
before
been
dreamed.

It
was
eight
o'clock
on
a
Wednesday
evening
in
March,
the
end
of
a gusty,
drizzling
day
without
a
hint
of
spring
in
the
air.
Trimmer's
day's work
was
nearly
over.
His
cold
supper
lay
awaiting
him,
and
in
half
an hour
he
would
be
free
to
stroll
down
to
the
Station
Hotel
and
drink
his usual
two
half-pints
of
bitter
beer.
With
a
cigarette
hanging
from
his under-lip,
he
was
approaching
the
shop
door,
to
close
it,
when
two ragged
figures
entered.

The
first
was
a
woman,
short,
swarthy,
grey-haired,
and
indescribably dirty,
with
an
enormous
cast
in
her
left
eye
which
seemed
in
perpetual contemplation
of
the
bridge
of
her
nose.
She
was
followed
by
a
tall, rickety
boy
in
rags
who
might
have
been
either
her
son
or
her
grandson. Trimmer,
knowing
from
experience
that
these
were
not
likely
to
be customers,
immediately
assumed
an
air
of
hostility.

"Spare
us
a
copper
or
a
mouthful
o'
food,
kind
gentleman!"
the
woman
whined.
"I've
got
two
dear
little
bybies
starvin'
--
"

Trimmer
made
a
gesture
towards
the
door.

"
'Op
it!"
he
said.
"I've
got
precious
little
for
myself,
let
alone for
you."

"I'll
give
you
a
wish
in
exchange,
pretty
gentleman—a
good
wish,
a
wish
o'
wonderment
for
you.
You
wouldn't
grudge
a
bit
o'
bread
for
my
precious
children,
pretty
gentleman?
You
---
"

Trimmer
advanced
upon
her
almost
threateningly.

"Pop
orf!"
he
cried.
"Did
you
'ear
what
I
said?
Pop
orf!"

The
ragged
woman
drew
herself
up
so
that
she
seemed
to
grow much
taller.
She
stared
at
him
with
an
intensity
that
made
him
fall back
a
step
as
if
her
very
gaze
were
a
concrete
thing
which
had
pushed him.
She
raised
her
open
hands
above
the
level
of
her
shoulders.