SHORT STORY COMPETITION Award for March.

Auckland Star, Volume LXIII, Issue 122, 25 May 1932, Page 15

SHORT STORY COMPETITION Award for March.

The winning entry in our March Short Story Competition, publication of which has been delayed owing to pressure on our space, is "THE FITZGERALD"

By ALICE A. KENNY.

The day on which the boarder moved in was one of old Mrs. Verity's Fitzgerald days. It did not surprise her granddaughter in tho least. Knowing tlie old lady's views about the lower classes in general, and boarders in particular, she had expected it, but it harassed her a good deal, nevertheless. In her nervousness about this new step, for they had never had a boarder before,. Miss Verity had taken as much trouble as if she were preparing for royalty. She made up the bed only to unmake it again, arranged and rearranged every article in tho room, standing off each time to study the effect. Her grandmother was almost bedridden, for when she was not actually in bed «lie was on a couch or in her wheeled cliair. She was totally dependent 011 Dorothy's services, but that did not prevent her being consistently disagreeable. Miss Verity entered her grandmother's room with reluctance that day when it was necessary to take the old lady her afternoon Lea. "I never countenanced this," said Mrs. Verity, tho teacup trembling ill her hand. "It is utterly beneath us. If my I grandfather could have seen this day— they called him the Fitzgerald —he was the head of the family—" Dorothy, patiently placing a cushion, did not even trouble to calculate what age the Fitzgerald would have had to attain in order to have contemplated the degradation of his descendant. Her extreme anxiety about the boarder was making her so mis.Table that she almost ignored the old woman's complaints, especially as she had heard all about the Fitzgerald many times before. She wished now she had never decided to let the spare room; she was terrified at the thought of a stranger in the house. It was only the desperate need of money that had nerved her to it, and now, at the day's end, she felt tired, tearful and despairing. Life was so hard. She glanced at her grandmother, seeing her with a stranger's eyes. Life was hard, but she lived on, a little, old, tremulous woman with beauty and breeding ineffaccably stamped on her shrunken features, avid of life still, as she had once been avid of power and admiration. She talked still of Ireland, of India, of joys and triumphs, but Dorothy had never had anything. She was thirty-eight, and since she was seventeen she had been the slave of an invalid mother, whom she had loved dearly, and then of this fierce old grandmother, whom she endeavoured to love. She had never been able to free herself enough to earn a little money, or live a life of her own. She was of a dilferent type to her grandmother; she was a creamily-fair woman with thick honey-coloured hair, and dark blue eyes, black lashed, but her face was alroady a little lined, and lips and cheeks were pale. She had none of the Fitzgerald fire and iniperiousness, and old Mrs. Verity despised her. Dorothy, longing for sympathy and encouragement, began to talk about her arrangements. "I will have to cook a little dinner in tho evening for him," she said, "but it will be nice having him out of the way all day." "And you'll get up and get his breakfast, and make his bed —this—this blacksmith!" moaned the old lady. "He is a motor mechanic, Granny, not a blacksmith." "What is his name? A T o, I don't want to hear it. I will not see him. I won't recognise his existence—in my house." It was not her house, it was Dorothy's, the only thing she owned, and it was greatly in need of repair. "Latimer, Granny. You need never see him, of course, but we did need the money so badly." "Money—you think of nothing but money. It is the middle-class strain in you. We Fitzgcralds were a care-free, open-handed race, aristocrats to our finger tips." "Your medicine, Granny," said Dorothy patiently. "The doctor said you must take it regularly." She was just putting a shovelful of coal on the lire when there was a brisk step on the verandah and a knock at the door. With a pale face and a wild commotion in her heart Dorothy went along the passage to admit the boarder. An hour later he had completely installed himself in the house. He had put away his things, hung his hat and coat in the hall, and sat quietly at the table while Miss Verity poured out his tea. He was a squarely built, youngish man with a thin face, black hair, and eyes as blue as her own. Dorothy liked his voice, but she was deeply troubled by his presence, and could not look at him or utter commonplaces with composure. If, as her grandmother was foncl of averring, it was a mark of good breeding to have perfect poise on all social occasions., the blacksmith would certainly have been considered more worthy to associate with the Fitzgerald than his lineal descendant, Miss Verity. He saw that she was nervous and shy, but he liked her appearance, and was pleased at tho quiet and charm of the house. A week later he had hardly exchanged more than a morning greeting with Dorothy, but her care for his comfort was efficient and friendly. Then he encountered an old lady marooned in a bath chair in the small untidy garden. Sho beckoned him imperiously. "Who are you, my man?" she asked, looking him over arrogantly, though she knew perfectly well who he was. "Are you looking for someone?" * "I board here," he replied with some surprise. "My name is Latimer. "Oh! indeed. Yes, I remember my granddaughter did say something about letting a room. Not that I approved of the scheme." Latimer was a little nonplussed, but he recognised the intention of being unpleasant. "I'm sorry vou didn't approve, he said. "I like it here very well. It is home-like." "Home-like? Indeed! My home in my childhood was a castle in County Clare." "Mine was a bush shanty in the King Country," replied Latimer cheerfully. "And now we live under the same roof!" said the old lady, rolling her eyes to heaven. "Oh the ironies of fate." Latimer laughed. i "I appreciate my good fortune, 11c said. "Can I do anything for you, Mrs. Verity, push your chair into the shade or anything." "No thank you, my man." At dinner that evening Latimer said to Mi' ; s Verity. "I met Mrs.' Verity in the garden this afternoon." He could not help smiling; and coloured-

"I —I hope she was not very rude," she said impulsively. "She was rather comical," replied Latimer, and added, "but she didn't mean to be. She has some pretty olcifasliioned notions for a woman who has lived in New Zealand most of her life." "She lived a good while in India," said Dorothy, "and she has never got used to being poor and having no servants." "If you ask me she's got a pretty good one," said Latimer thoughtfully. "I've never had things so nice about me in all my life, and I like things nice. It was you playing the piano on Sunday evening, wasn't it?" "Yes." "I liked it. I wish you'd play again some time.'' Dorothy rose and began to clear the table. Latimer picked up a loaded tray and followed her into the kitchen. A thin voice spoke from the room across the passage. "Dorothy, when you have done waiting hand and foot upon the blacksmith you might remove my tea tilings." "Well —by Gosli! " said Latimer. He began to laugh quietly, but ceased when he saw Dorothy's distress. He spent that evening at home reading and smoking by the fire, but he did not see Dorothy again until she came in to put a kettle over the fire in the grate. The kitchen fire was allowed to go out from motives of economy and so was the sitting room fire when the boarder went into town in the evening. "It is time for my grandmother's gruel," she said gently. "Would you like a cup of tea?" "I would please," he answered, smiling at the thought of the old lady. "And I'll make some toast here if you like." Dorothy fetched cups and slices of bread, and as they bent over the fire together she began "hurriedly to apologise. "Please don't," said Latimer. "As if I care. Anyone can see that the old gir—old lady's pretty nearly childish. If it amuses her to regard mo as something almost too low down to speak to I don't mind. Onh —you don't want to get rid of me, do you? If you're tired of big boots and tobacco about the place just say the word. But mind you, I'm comfortable. This suits me." He began to talk a little of his early life, and of his experiences in the war, and Dorothy listened enthralled. When she went to bed that night she could hear him whistling softly in his room, and a sudden feeling of intimacy and warmth flowed through her. How nice he was! His finger nails were always black, and he mispronounced quite a number of words, but how exactly right he always was in his manner to her. He never, never offended in the smallest degree. Without him the house would be an empty shell! As the weather improved and the days lengthened he began to walk about the garden in a considering way, and at last he asked Miss Verity if she had a spade. "I'll soon make a garden of this waste patch," ho said, "if you like, and stick in a few flowers too." "I'd love to have a garden," Dorothy answered. "I've never had time to make one myself." "Shouldn't think you had, what with gruel and hot water bags, and the rest of it." Ho brought home a starved stray kitten in his pocket one evening, and the tenderness and humanity he revealed went straight to Dorothy's heart. The next thing he brought home was influenza. ITo was unable to go to his work for a day or two and he lay about, on the sitting-room couch or sat over the fire in a state of misery, slightly alleviated by Dorothy's ministrations. She was a little afraid of her grandmother falling ill, but the old lady stoutly resisted infection. "You've been very good to mo," said Latimer one evening when Dorothy brought him a cup of coffee, made up his fire, and recommended him to go to bed. "Sit down and talk just a minute." Dorothy sat down with an assenting smile; she was always words. Flushed with firelight and fatigue, she looked very pretty. Latimer was looking at her intently. "Queer sort of life you lead," he said, "always looking after somebody's comforts, always carrying tea cups and trays about." "Oh! I'm used to it." "Used to it — yes, it's things that people are not used to that they ought to have for a change." "What ought I to have?" "Everyone waiting 011 you, to begin with," said Latimer. "You don't have half a good enough time." "I used to feel like that," said Dorothy, opening jlier rcticent heart, "but it doesn't matter now. I'm not young now." "Not young, aren't you. Look here. my dear " His voice shook and a sudden fright made Dorothy rise to her feet. Latimer was on his at once and took her hand and arm in a strong grasp. "When I first come —came," he said, "I got it into my head somehow that there was somebody —some fellow you were waiting for; but there's not, is there?" "No; oh, no!" said Dorothy, in agitation. "I've never had anyone; there'.i 110 one." "Will you have me?" said Latimer with emotion. "I'm not good enough, I know, but I love you, my dear!" "Dorothy, has that man gone to bed yet?" cried a querulous voice. "I must go." Dorothy freed herself and left the room; After she had settled her grandmother for the night she went timidly into the passage. She was moving in a dream; all the emotions of passionate youth were surging in her heart. Her responses to her grandmother's acid remarks had been merely automatic. The sitting-room was in darkness except for the fire glow. With a long sigh she sank into r "hair beside the hearth. She was bewildered by a sense of overwhelming riches, a sense of unreality. Exhaustion oppressed her spirit and her limbs felt heavy. Latimer was beside her unexpectedly. She thought he had gone to his room. "I waited for you to come back. I want my answer." His voice swavod her —in the half light —the intimate quiet of the room. She was standing up, held forcibly yet gently in his arms. "Dorothy." She did not answer, but her fingers caressed the breast of his coat. "You dear, silent woman! Can't I teach von to say you love me." An hour later they were still by the sinking (ire. Dorothy's hcr.vy honovcoloured hair was disordered, her cheeks burning, and her eyes starry with happiness. They had no mwah to telt^cacb

other that it was hard to separate. Dorothy could have sat on and on with her hand in her lover's strong yclasp. She half feared that daylight would prove all this bliss a dream. She tried to come back to every-day life by resuming her little Martha-like cares. She turned on the light and swept up the hearth, and put the chairs back in their places. She reproached herself for letting Latimer stay up so late when he had barely recovered from his illness. He watched her with a gleam of mischief in his face. She bade him goodnight, and as he left the room turned off the light again. He was waiting for that a,nd immediately caught her in his arms and kissed her again and again. All next day her real life moved in a sweet secrecy that drew her away from the day's dull incidents, and armoured her against her grandmother's jibes. But in her momenta of insight she saw difficulties and disagreements before her that looked almost unbearable. Before either she or Latimer had resolved what course to pursue with regard to old Mre. Verity, Dorothy fell ill with influenza. A busy neighbour did what she could, but there were several evenings after work when the old lady was glad to avail herself of the boarder's assistance. He could make up a fire, punch a cushion, and carry a tea tray with any inan, he boasted to Mrs. Robinson, the neighbour. "Very well," she replied, "if you're so useful you can take Miss Verity her tray, and I'll get the old lady to bed." Dorothy was sitting up in bed in an old blue wrapper. She thought she must be looking frightful, but. Latimer did not think so. He sat on the foot of the bed and talked to her, and presently he produced a small velvet box from his pocket and put a ring with a gleaming stone in it on her finger. Dorothy's eyes filled with tears. "It is too beautiful. I couldn't wear it 'because of granny." "Yes you can. I haven't been wasting time these last few nights. "But slio doesn't know?" Dorothy nearly dropped her cup. "No, but she will be just about ready to hear the news when you fye up again. It is like this. Whenever Igo in to her room she tolls me yarns about an old bloke called The Fitzgerald, not Mr. Fitzgerald or Sir Fitzgerald, mind you, but The Fitz., the one and only, and I let out yesterday that my mother's name was Fitzgerald, but I admitted that we were a low down common lot compared to her crowd. (J But blic wouldn't have it. She said all the Fitzgeralds in the world were true blueblooded swells, although some of them might have had hard luck and come down in the world. And she said they all had blue eyes and black hair like me. So that's that." "But was your mother's name Fitzgerald 1" asked Dorothy. Latimer was holding her hand in both of his, admiring his ring on her finger. He looked up with a smile. "Better not inquire too closely, perhaps," ho said. "There might not be quite the same certainty about it that there is about your name going to be Latimer. Let's fix it up for Christmas."

KARANGAHAPE ROAD :: AUCKLAND.