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Roy Glashan's Library
Non sibi sed omnibus
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This work is out of copyright in countries with a copyright
period of 70 years or less, after the year of the author's death.
If it is under copyright in your country of residence,
do not download or redistribute this file.
Original content added by RGL (e.g., introductions, notes,
RGL covers) is proprietary and protected by copyright.
RGL e-Book Cover
Based on an image generated by Microsoft Bing
AT the back a tin fence and a narrow passage separated one shop from the other. Upstairs the two places adjoined. Looking from the side window of the china shop one could catch glimpses of the exciting life that went on in the kitchen of the cheap restaurant next door. Just glimpses, no more; incidents without beginning or end, cut off sharply like a break in a cinematograph film. The flash of a knife... an arm upraised to ward off a blow... the dark, scowling face of the Dago cook framed for a moment in the window....the pretty, supercilious waitress with her air of insolent scorn for the kitchen menials as she shouted her orders:
"Roast beef, one; Steak and kidney pie, one; Irish stew, two."
By long association the girl in the china shop knew them all. A dozen times a day, when the crates from overseas had been unpacked, she climbed the dusty stairs with a heavy basket of crockery to be stored in the rooms above. It was arduous work, but she preferred it to the interminable dusting in the shop and the dreariness of serving customers. By constant practice she had gained such celerity in packing goods away that she could quite easily spare a few minutes after each trip to watch the exhilarating, feverish, bustling life in the restaurant below without her movements being called into question.
Sometimes the side door was left open and then she could see through into the restaurant itself. This was like looking into another world, and, to the girl above, it had the fascination of the unusual and unknown. The atmosphere was always thick and steamy, and the foreheads of those who ate there gradually became covered with tiny beads of sweat.
Even the faces of the waitresses, thickly powdered though they were, glistened with the heat. The tables were covered with dirty cloths, carelessly thrown on, splashed with gravy and greasy with the marks left by innumerable plates. In the centre of each stood a vase of fly-speckled paper-flowers, which had long outlived their period of decoration, a tarnished cruet and a bottle of tomato-sauce. At every table, wedged in so closely that their elbows touched, were men. Men with their jaws munching, men talking, men reading, men drinking. Everywhere men.
Amongst these men the pretty waitress lost her supercilious manner. Her face, with its innocent, wide-eyed stare, became wistful, almost appealing. The air she assumed of the lamb lost in a den of lions appealed to the instinctive chivalry of the male, or at least to those males who were young enough to be romantic, and those who were old enough to be sentimental. The others were merely indifferent. This mannerism, carefully acquired, brought her in many tips which she hid furtively in the bosom of her dress and sometimes down her stocking. Tips were not the perquisites of the waitresses but of the fat proprietor who sat in the cash-desk near the door, his black, beady eyes watchful, and the tip of his tongue continually moistening his thick, red lips. But the money was only his if he chanced to see it first. Whatever he might claim from the other girls he very seldom succeeded in collecting any spoils from the pretty waitress. Her innocent manner baffled even him.
For a brief time in the afternoon the restaurant sank into silence, but after an hour or so it awoke into clamour again. The tables had to be re-set, more food cooked, more hungry men fed. As the waitresses went about their work, their strident voices shrilling through the air, the girl next door envied them their unceasing activity. They had no time to think, no time to count the years they had spent in bondage, no time to dread the years they would have to spend in bondage, unless something happened to take them out of it.
The only thing, of course, was marriage, and she could not count on that. Her pale face and quiet manner did not attract men. There were always young men waiting to take the other girls home on Fridays, but there was never anyone for her. As she unpacked the china from the crates in the shed at the back of the shop she had moods of furious rebellion, alternating with sullen resignation. What was the use of worrying? Nothing would ever happen to her. She would just go on, year after year, dusting, serving, unpacking china out of crates, packing it again into bins, and watching life through the dirty pane of an upstairs window. Yet she would sooner do that than marry any of those young men who waited for the girls round the corner. She hated their pale, pimply faces, sleek, oily hair and glib manners. If she could not have the kind of man she wanted—she would sooner live alone.
It was strange that she should really like unpacking crates. No one else did. She always opened them with a sense of unexplained adventure, especially those from China or Japan. As she handled the fragile pieces, so fragile that they would snap in your hand unless you were careful—and that was a nuisance, because you had to pay for breakages—she had the queerest thoughts and experienced the strongest sense of divorcement from real life. Those queer thoughts became pictures in her mind—great masses of wisteria overhanging low bridges—cherry-trees in bloom—temples set on windy hills—the god in the forest....
Yet she never ceased working, putting the china methodically in neat little rows on the table; cups together, saucers together, plates together. Fragile, brightly-coloured pieces, red, blue and gold, with funny little pictures. Funny little animals with staring eyes; funny little people in kimonos; funny little women with high-dressed hair, bowing, dancing, posing with fans. What were they? Geisha girls! Yes, that was right. Happy, happy little Geishas, smiling, flirting, drinking tea in shining rooms full of colour and light. Happy, happy Geisha girls.
She had been busy all the morning. One crate, already unpacked, stood ready for moving at the back of the shed, and she was half through another when a sudden sound brought her back with a jerk from the world of dreams in which she had been living. She looked up sharply, then moved slightly so that she was hidden from sight. A man was peering over the fence that separated one shop from the other. She had a moment's impression of a hard, brown face with startlingly blue eyes before he drew himself level with the top of the fence and vaulted lightly over. It was a clean jump, beautifully done, and she gave an involuntary gasp of admiration. None of those pimply-faced youths could have done it, she thought.
He wheeled quickly and saw her. His face hardened and his blue eyes narrowed until they became mere slits in his brown face.
"Don't make a sound," he muttered, moving towards her. "I won't hurt you. But if you do—" He raised his hand threateningly.
She felt no fear of him in spite of his threats; she was only conscious of an ever-growing sense of lawless excitement.
"What is it?" she began in a whisper, his stealthy manner affecting her. "Why—"
She stopped suddenly as a terrific clamour broke out next door. Shrieks, oaths, voices shouting for the police, heavy footsteps running down the side passage, and the creak of the back gate as it was flung open.
"The johns!" He looked quickly to right and left, searching a way of escape. "If they catch me I'm done. I can't get out the back. They're watching the lane."
"The window!" She had suddenly realised they might be overlooked from above. "Quick! They will see you." As she spoke she drew him behind the door. They stood close together, their bodies touching, speaking in breathless whispers. Her heart pounded in her throat, and she caught the edge of the table to steady herself.
"What did you do?" Not that it mattered. She did not care what he had done.
"Robbed the till." He jerked his head and his lips curved into a grin. "That fat cow! I've always had it in for him."
So had she. She hated the fat proprietor with his thick, red lips and his dark, oily skin. She was glad, glad he had been robbed. She hated him the more because he meant danger to this man. Somehow she must save him. She must! She could not bear to think of him in gaol.
"Are you going to help me, kid?"
She could feel his breath on her cheek and see the extreme blueness of his eyes. He knew she would help him. Oh, he knew it!
They were searching the place next door. She could hear them at it. Running upstairs, dashing through the restaurant, looking for the thief. No, he was not a thief, this man with the brown face and blue eyes, he was an adventurer—what did they call it?—a buccaneer. Yes, that was it. She must save him if she could. Men were standing out in the lane. Above the fence she caught the glint of a policeman's helmet. It would have to be done at once, but where could she hide him? She looked round desperately, then her eyes fell on the empty crate.
"Quick!" she whispered.
He caught her meaning at once. Silently as a cat he stole across the shed and climbed into the crate. He crouched down and she covered him lightly with straw, then clamped on the lid. It was done, and for the moment he was safe.
When the policeman came through she was carefully unpacking china, a slight figure dressed in black with a pale face and dark, dilated eyes.
She knew him well by sight. She had seen him on point duty, and with his children in the little side street where he lived. A slow-moving, easy-going man with a hatred of exertion; she gained hope as she looked at him. It would be easy enough to deceive him.
"Seen anyone, missie?"
She shook her head. "No, but I heard the noise."
"Umph!" He looked round reflectively.
"Been here all the time?"
"Since 12 o'clock. I've been unpacking."
"Not left the shed at all?"
"No."
He tilted back his helmet and scratched his head, then his eyes fell on the crate.
"What's in here?"
"Just china." No one would have guessed from the calmness of her voice the agony of mind she was suffering. "I have to unpack that when I've finished the one I'm doing now."
"You're sure, missie, that no one came through here?"
"No. I would have been frightened if I had seen anyone."
Her artless air was convincing. "But I remember now that just before the noise started I heard the back gate slam next door."
"Oh, did you? Why didn't you say that before? I guess he must have made off down the lane."
He moved away and she bent over her work again. She dared not risk speaking to him yet, though she was in a fever of impatience. At any moment the storeman might come in. He would know the crate was empty. He might even attempt to move it, for they sold as quickly as they were emptied. Next door the noise had died down. Evidently they had realised he was not there.
Half-an-hour passed and she could bear it no longer. Reckless of the consequences she ran to the back gate and looked up and down the lane. There was no one about, even the policemen had gone. He must go now. It was dangerous to stay any longer. He must take his chance.
Casting a hasty glance round she unlocked the lid and raised it. "Quickly!" she whispered. "I'm afraid to keep you any longer. The storeman comes in at five and he might find you. Go down the lane. I've just looked and there's no one about."
"I'll risk it." He stood up. There were wisps of straw in his hair and in his clothes. She brushed them off.
"Now go," she said.
Their eyes met and a sudden light flamed into his. He took her roughly in his arms.
"By God, kid, you're game! If I get through—"
"Oh, go, go," she cried, in an agony. "Don't let them get you now."
"Kiss me," he commanded.
The hard grasp of his hands hurt her arms, but she did not flinch. Their lips met. She could not refuse him; she could not have refused him anything.
"Don't forget," he said. "You're—mine. I'll come back."
He held her for a moment longer, then released her. She heard his light footsteps running down the passage, and fell on her knees, hiding her face in her hands. Five minutes or so she waited in an agony, but heard no further sound. He must have got through the lane by this time and into the crowded streets, where he would have more chance. He must have escaped. If they had caught him she would have heard something. It was all over. Still trembling slightly she got up, gathered the straw together and put it in the crate, then went back to her work.
She had just finished and was packing the china into a basket ready to take upstairs when one of the girls from the shop came out. She swung herself on to the table, her face flushed with excitement.
"Did you hear all the row?" She did not wait for an answer, but gabbled on. "Great fun, wasn't it? I'm glad they grabbed him after all. They say he was just turning out of the lane into High-street, when they caught him."
"They—caught—him!" The cup she was holding snapped between her fingers.
"Yes, jolly good job I call it. I say, look what you've done. You'll get into trouble. Here, sling it away and don't say anything about it."
"It doesn't matter." Her voice sounded dull and tired. "I can pay for it, I suppose." With careful precision she stacked a row of cups in the basket.
"It must be rather—terrible in gaol," she went on, after a pause, during which the other girl swung her legs, and watched her. "Lonely, too. But I suppose his friends could go and see him? In gaol, I mean?"
"Eh?" The other looked at her blankly.
"Yes, I think so. Why?"
"Oh, nothing."
She bent over her work again.
Roy Glashan's Library
Non sibi sed omnibus
Go to Home Page
This work is out of copyright in countries with a copyright
period of 70 years or less, after the year of the author's death.
If it is under copyright in your country of residence,
do not download or redistribute this file.
Original content added by RGL (e.g., introductions, notes,
RGL covers) is proprietary and protected by copyright.