The Thousand Deaths of Mr Small (24 page)

The dining-room was almost empty, so the waiter, glancing left
and right, went on: “He started small. Yow’re not far wrong there. So does a corn on yowr toe. So does a boil on yowr neck. So does a cold in yowr chest. The Narwalls ’ad a little general shop, and they lived like pigs. They lived on fried potatoes and saved every penny. My cousin on my mother’s side ’ad a
green-grocer’
s in Paradise Lane, three doors up. ’E struck a rough patch and went to Narwall for a loan of twenty-five pounds. Narwall got the shop in the end. After that ’e got rich all of a sudden: I never could make it out. We were at school together. ’E was always a bit of a fewel—I helped Narwall with ’is spelling and now ’e’s the biggest man in Slupworth. In my opinion it’s all because of ’is wife.
There
’
s
a bad ’un for yow, if vow like!”

“What do you mean?”

“Mister, did vow ever go in for dog-foighting? Ever foight tarriers?”

“Why do you ask?”

“ ’E’s a foighting dog but she’s a foighting bitch,” said the waiter.

“What’s the difference?”

“Whoi, dog’ll stop when ’e’s killed yow: bitch’ll go on till she’s got yowr liver out and ate it—that’s all. And religious, mind yow, on top on it! Charlotte Nornie, she used to be, prettiest girl in Slupworth. We were all surprised when she took up with Willie Narwall, that shrimp.”

“Shrimp?”

“Well,” said the waiter, weighing his words, “’e’s not as foine a figure of a man as Sandow, yow moight say. We used to call ’im Sixpenn’orth-o’-Ha’pence. He was good at figures, was Willie, but when it came to spelling ’e couldn’t tell an A from a cow’s foot. ’E was a bit of a tittle-tattle too. Once, when Oi gave ’im a friendly kick up the backsoide, ’e told teacher, and got me into trouble. ’E’d never lift a ’and to defend ’imself loike a man, Willie wouldn’t: it was straight to teacher with a rigamarole. We used to follow ’im ’ome singing:

“That’s what ’e was. ’Is father kept a chips-and-fish shop and drank.”

“You mean a fish-and-chip shop?” said Solly Schwartz, licking his lips.

“That’s what Oi said—a chips-and-fish shop. We used to call young Willie The Shrimp. ‘Tell yowr father to froy yow’; that’s what we used to say to ’im.”

“And what about his wife?”

“Ow ’er. Jezebel, they call ’er, after the wicked woman in the boible that the dogs ate, all but the palms of ’er ’ands and the soles of ’er feet—and Oi don’t blame ’em. ’
Er
mother was a widow woman. She came from Milchester. ’Er ’usband got drownded in the docks. That was ’
er
story, and she ’eld to it. She did sewing. But fair’s fair, and Oi will say one thing: young Charlotte was the noicest-looking girl in Slupworth—although we did call ’er Charlotte the ’Arlot.”

“What, she was like that, was she?” asked Solly Schwartz, avidly.

“No respectable man would ’ave anything to do with ’
er
, not seriously, I mean. She went out sewing for some people called Buncup—’e was an engineer as came to put new machinery in a foundry—and she left in a ’urry with a black oiye and went and married Willie Narwall. The baby was born premature, so they said; eight months after.”

“You mean it wasn’t Narwall’s?”

“That shrimp? Whoy, ’e couldn’t get a mouse into trouble, let alone a Jezebel.”

“That was their only child, was it?”

“Oi wouldn’t go so far as to say that, no. They ’ad another one, but it took ’im years to do it. And Oi wouldn’t take moy boible oath that that one was Willie’s oither. There’s rumours, take it from me. And there yow are. She goes about in silk and satin whoile moy woife ’as to make ’er own clothes and mend ’em too.” Then the waiter, recollecting himself, turned pale and said: “For God’s sake, sir, don’t repeat one word of what Oi just now said, because if yow do they’ll ’ave moy loife.”

“Don’t be silly. Where do they live?”

“Up on Hodd’s Hill.” The waiter was beginning to feel uneasy.

“Do they live well?”

“Oi don’t know. Jezebel—Mrs. Narwall—feeds the servants off leavings, that’s all Oi know.”

“Yet I am told that he’s very good to children.”

“That’s roight,” said the waiter, with a short laugh. “Wrap
Willie up in red and yow couldn’t tell the difference between Willie Narwall and Father Christmas…. The bloody little shrimp! When Oi was a boy at school with ’im, if Oi’d only known what ’e was going to turn out to be Oi’d’ve tanned ’is arse till ’e saw stars.”

*

W. W. Narwall was, in fact, by no means unlike a shrimp before it is boiled pink. He was small, slippery, elusive and his colour was the colour of sand-and-water. Only his protuberant dark eyes took the light and threw it back—threw it back dead. His frock-coat and billycock hat were hanging on the door behind him. He was wearing an alpaca jacket. He did not look at Solly Schwartz—his shrimp-eyes were everywhere else, and he seemed to be taking note of every thud, rumble, rattle and buzz of the factory, in the centre of which his office was. Scraping his stiff, sandy whiskers, he said: “You wanted to see me urgently, Mr….” and, looking at the card, pretended to have forgotten his visitor’s name.

“Schwartz, ’r Mr. Narwall, S. Schwartz. Quite right. I wanted to see you.”

Solly Schwartz was angry. He felt that he was face-to-face with an adversary.

Quick and cool as a shrimp W. W. Narwall said: “What about?”

Solly Schwartz had concocted a tremendous story, but, finding himself in the presence of Narwall and seeing the man he had to deal with, like a good general he changed his strategy in a split second; snapped the locks of his case, threw back the lid, pulled out a can of Narwall’s peas, slammed it down on the table and said: “What’s that?”

“That is a tin of my garden peas, of course.”

Then Solly Schwartz took out one of the self-opening tins, wrapped in one of Abel Abelard’s labels, and said: “And what’s that?”

“Eh? What’s that?” said W. W. Narwall, taken off his balance.

“There’s your tin of Narwall’s Garden Peas. And this is my tin of Narwall’s Garden Peas, If you were going into a shop to buy peas, and you saw these two tins side by side on a shelf, for the same price, which one would you choose—give me an honest answer!”

W. W. Narwall blew his nose, which did not need blowing, while he considered the matter. Then he said: “Well?”

“Well!” said Solly Schwartz, “what’s the good of the well without the water? You know what tin you’d buy as well as I do, specially if you could do
this
with it—look——” He turned the wheel and opened the tin; threw the jagged top of it on the table and thrust the empty can, neatly folded at the rim, under Narwall’s nose. “What would you say to that, eh?” he shouted. “Would you say yes, or would you say no, eh?”

“That’s clever,” said W. W. Narwall.

Solly Schwartz, dripping with sweat, snatched five tin cans out of his suitcase and arranged them in a line on the edge of the table—one of the self-opening Pelly-Cans, labelled by Abelard, and four others, two on each side of it. Then he said: “You’re a housewife out shopping. Quick—choose!” While Narwall blinked at him he pushed across the table one of the ordinary cans, with a tin-opener, saying: “Open it. Or perhaps you’ve opened a tin before, with a tin-opener, eh? All right. Take this. Take the little wheel with your finger and thumb and turn … that’s right, right, left, any way you like, turn … that’s what I’ve come to show you. Will you have it, or these people?” He pulled out of his bag another Pelly-Can of peas, packed by The Express Canning Company, and rolled it into W. W. Narwall’s lap.

Narwall fingered the beautifully smooth folded edge of the can he had opened, at the same time looking at the neatly-cut lid, while Solly Schwartz, compelling himself to be calm, went on: “I could have gone to any of the bigger firms. I could have gone to America with this can. But I came to you first.”

“Why did you come to me first?”

“Ask yourself why, Mr. Narwall. The big ’uns are all settled—they’re all fat, lazy,” said Solly Schwartz, “you’re only a little man working your way up——” At this consummate impudence, Narwall’s eyes grew more prominent and his cheeks became pink—“No, no, now wait, Mr. Narwall, let me finish. Compared with the big canners, you’re … like a sprat to a whale. And you’re trying to Work your way up to being a Crosse & Blackwell. Now listen to me, just for a minute, and don’t get excited.”

“Don’t you worry, young man, I won’t get excited. Go on with what you’ve got to say, because I’m busy.”

“I came to you first because you’re not on top, do you follow?
Because you’re
on
the
way
to the top,” cried Solly Schwartz, striking the table with his open hand. “You’re on the way to the top. So am I. This tin can will put you on the top. Put your stuff in it, advertise it, and everybody’ll ask for it. Look at it—go on, open another one. Would you sweat your insides out and cut your fingers off with a rusty tin-opener if you could get a tin like that for the same price as an ordinary one? Answer me that question, Mr. Narwall.”

“Did you invent this yourself?”

“That is neither here nor there, Mr. Narwall. Will you answer my question?”

“I don’t see any patent number, Mr. Schwartz.”

“I know you don’t, for the simple reason that it isn’t stamped on, because these are samples. But you needn’t worry, Mr. Narwall. With all due respect, I wouldn’t trust my own father. You don’t think I’d show you this if it wasn’t patented already, do you? Don’t be silly. Now answer my question. Which would you buy: my tin, or that tin?”

“That would depend——”

“—Yes I know, that Would depend. Give me a straight answer. Which?”

“Am I to understand, young man, that you want me to buy your tins? Are you trying to sell me the patent, or what?”

“Answer my question first, Mr. Narwall, and we’ll talk about all that later on.”

“It’s not a bad idea, I’ll go so far as to say that.”

“Not a
bad
idea?” Solly Schwartz laughed. “It’s a revolution. Mr. Narwall, just now I asked you a question:
which?
”

“Well … perhaps I might choose your can, if I was put to it, and had a fancy for novelties.”

“If you would, wouldn’t all the customers in your forty-eight shops? Wouldn’t all the customers in everybody else’s shops? Answer me that, Mr. Narwall.”

“Mr. Schwartz, I am an honest man, and I tell you here and now, frankly and openly, face to face, that it’s not a bad idea. But, as you said yourself, I’m only in a small way in business, so I couldn’t go to much. I might consider putting this out as a novelty. How much were you thinking of asking for the patent of this little novelty?”

“Novelty? Don’t make me laugh, Mr. Narwall. Patent? When hair grows in the palm of my hand I’ll sell the patent.
Who said anything about selling patents? What are you talking about?”

Slowly turning the opened can between his flat, shiny palms, W. W. Narwall said: “I’ll tell you what, Mr. Schwartz. I’m busy for half an hour, and then I go home to my tea. Come home and join us—we have a good meat tea—and bring them samples with you, and we’ll talk the matter over. If you’d like to pass the time looking round the place, I’ll meet you in the front in twenty minutes to half an hour.”

“Right you are, Mr. Narwall, I’ll be there on the dot.” Solly Schwartz repacked his case and left the office with a high-beating heart. For twenty minutes he limped about the premises, hopping from floor to floor. He stood for ten minutes in the warehouse. Ten strong men hurried in and out carrying sides of bacon, huge cheeses, boxes of butter, and packing-cases of tinned food,
without
perceptibly diminishing the stock. Here was wealth indeed. But the jam-boilery was contemptible; the cannery was so small that two men, three boys, and six sickly-looking label-sticking girls could run it; and as for the pickle department, it made Solly Schwartz laugh. Three strapping young women, their sleeves rolled up to the shoulders, perspiring copiously, stooped over tubs vigorously mixing cucumber, cauliflower and onion in a mustard sauce. Four little girls were filling square-faced jars with the mixture before putting them along the bench to a middle-aged woman who closed them with a tin cap. Below her sat two girls who pasted on the labels, and pushed the jars within reach of a young man in a flannel shirt who picked them up four at a time and banged them down into boxes, two dozen jars to a box. After that a man with a grey moustache nailed the boxes down and put them on a little trolley. The pickle-mixers, in particular, fascinated Solly Schwartz; they were yellow with mustard sauce from head to foot. He attracted the attention of the foreman by poking him in the back with his stick. And, jerking his head at the mixers, said, for the sake of talking: “That’s a dirty job.”

“Somebody’s got to do ’t, or ’ow would yow get yowr pickles for your tea?”

“What do you put in that yellow stuff?”

“Mustard, vinegar, and one or two other things.”

“Why don’t you stir ’em up with some sort of big wooden spoon?”

“Too slow that way. Yow’d get tired in an hour mixing wi’ a
spoon. Besoides they work better boi ’and. It keeps their skin whoite, and burns all the ’air off their arms.”

Then Solly Schwartz went to meet W. W. Narwall at the front entrance. The little man was sitting in an old-fashioned barouche, which he must have impounded from some shabby-genteel bankrupt creditor. The coachman, in a dark grey brass-buttoned livery coat that was far too large for him, brooded over the reins and glowered at a bony old grey mare which appeared to rely for support upon the shafts.

“A nice turn-out,” said Solly Schwartz, when he was seated.

Narwall looked at him suspiciously and said: “It’s good enough for me.
I
like it. Them as don’t can lump it…. Hoi there—what are you waiting for? Christmas?”

Notorious for their frugality, and proud of that notoriety, the Narwalls made a boast of the fact that they did not live in Woody Dell, but were content with an eight-roomed red-brick detached house in the quietest part of the dull and sullen town of Slupworth. They rejoiced in their parsimony. Hodd kept, fed, and paid wages to five servants; Dong had six, including a butler. The Narwalls employed only two, a man and his wife, Mr. and Mrs. Prince. Mr. Prince was coachman, odd-job-man, and gardener. Mrs. Prince did the cleaning and helped with the cooking. Also, she sewed and darned and mended. The Hodds and the Dongs looked down their noses at the Narwalls, but the Narwalls turned their noses up at the Dongs and the Hodds—but not in the open, because Charlotte Narwall, the Jezebel, was a dangerous woman to have for an enemy. She had a forked tongue and poisoned fangs. She was patient and malevolent. For years she could be still, coldly watchful like a snake on a rock, waiting for you to come within her range; and then she would strike. Then, God help you.