The Obedient Servant

Cromwell Argus, Volume LXIII, Issue 3250, 13 February 1933, Page 7

The Obedient Servant

A SCHEME THAT FAILED. Mr. Geoffrey Hurst, auctioneer and estate agent, was away on holiday, and Mr, Leonard Timpson, his clerk, who was typist and office boy as well, and whose life during working hours had scarcely been worth living since Mr. Hurst had taken over the business fjom his father two years back, was feeling like an Inquisition victim enjoying a brief respite from the rack and pincers, “I hope he’s enjoying his holiday,” Mr. Timpson said to himself, gathering together the day’s correspondence to send on. “Then perhaps he’ll stop another week. It seems like Heaven The celestial similitude of things ceased abruptly. At that very Aoment the door in the thin partition which separated the inner office from the outer one opened, and Mr. Hurst himself came in. Mr. Timpson’s jaw dropped. Why, he’d said definitely he wouldn’t , be back till But It was not the mere unexpectedness of his employer’s arrival that caused his jaw to sag a good inch farther. For a fraction of a second he was honestly in doubt as to whether it was Mr. Hurst at all —this stricken, dazed-looking creature who stumbled drunkenly into the office, dropped his suitcase and bag of clubs, and sank with a despairing groan on to the nearest chair. “Er—ah —good afternoon, sir,” stammered Mr. Timpson. “Are —are you ill, sir?” Mr. Hurst shook his head feebly; but Mr, Timpson, unconvinced, asked If he hadn’t better go for a doctor, whereupon Mr. Hurst recovered somewhat, and in terms strong enough to blister the polish on the furniture, consigned the entire medical profession, and Mr. Timpson as well, to eternal perdition. “Oh, very well/ sir,” said Mr. Timpson, relieved. “I only thought ” “I don’t pay you to think!” snapped Mr, Hurst, scowling like a thundercloud. “Get on with your work! What have you been doing this last fortnight, eh? Sitting with you feet on the » desk, I bet!” Mr. Timpson became desperately busy. Mr. Hurst’s recovery was shortlived. He sagged into a lifeless heap and groaned again, as if in mortal pain or plumbing the uttermost depths of bitter despair. “Timpson.” “Yes, sir?” “You’d better be looking for another job.”

Mr. Timpson, who would have looked for another one long before if there had been any reasonable hope of getting it, was more mystified than ever. “Another job, sir? But ” “I’m going to shoot myself,” explained Mr. Hurst.

“Shoot yourself, sir? But—but what for, sir?”

Mr. Hurst was in such a terrible state that he was careless even of his dignity as an employer. Hang it, if he didn’t tell somebody, something would go snap inside him. . . . “My fiancee,” he said, in broken tones, “has broken off our engagement.”

“Indeed, sir?” said Mr. Timpson, who hadn’t even known that he’d been engaged. “I’m very sorry, sir.” “That’s where I’ve been —down at Easthampton with her. At the Pier Hotel. It was only this morning, Timpson. She came down late to breakfast, and I’d been hanging about waiting, and I said —well, I forget exactly what I said, but nothing much, of course. But you know what a devil for punctuality I am myself, and I was hungry- I —l may have spoken rather sharply, I admit; thing I seldom do — what did you say?” “Nothing, sir,” said Mr. Timpson quickly. “Nothing.” “And she took offence —accused me of bullying and domineering —me, mind you! ME! Of course I denied it, but I pointed out, of course, that as her future husband I had some right to insist on certain things; and really, when I said that, you’d have thought I’d insulted her. She broke it off.. there and then! Lord only knows what for.. I —l’m done, Timpson!” moaned Mr, Hurst. “Done! I came away, of course, but I haven’t been home yet. Daren’t let ’em see the state I’m in! Oh, I can’t go on—l can’t live, . . Mr. Timpson made vague sympathetic noises.

"Er —perhaps if you wrote to her, sir . . . she —she may be in a different frame of mind already.” “Not her. She isn’t the hasty, impulsive sort. I know by what she said this morning, and the way she said it, that she’ll never make it up. You don’t know her, Timpson.” So abject was his misery, so firm his refusal to entertain the faintest hope, that Mr. Timpson was totally unprepared for the sudden, startling change which followed. Mr. Hurst sat up sharply; despair fell from his countenance like a mask; his whole manner was completely transformed. “Half a minute,” he said excitedly, ‘Tve just thought of something. If only ... I can’t quite see how, but . . .

yes, I can! Lord, yes!” He turned to Mr. Timpson, his eyes shining with the light of sheer inspiration.

__ “Timpson, I've got a job for you. Look here, I said you could have your holiday as soon as I got back, didn’t I? Well, I’ve got back. So you can go right, now.” Mr. Timpson stared blankly, striving to reconcile two opposite things. “I don’t suppose you’ve made any arrangements, regarding this as convincing evidence that Mr. Hurst’s misfortune really had unhinged his mind. “Er —very kind of you, sir. But —er — if I may suggest it, sir, don’t you think

it would be better if you went home?” “I think it would be better if you shut up and listen to me,” interrupted Mr. Hurst, and took something from his pocket-book. “Here, take this. It’s a snap of —er —Miss Little. Get acquainted with her —seaside friendship sort of thing—natural enough. She doesn't know you—l’ve never even mentioned your name to her; so there’s no risk. Get on going-out terms —savvy?” Mr. Timpson stared vacantly at the picture of a tall and handsome young woman in a white tennis frock, taken apparently in a park or large garden. "Now, listen,” proceeded Mr. Hurst, “and I’ll tell you what else. To-day’s Monday, and at a rough reckoning from yesterday it’ll be low tide down there about four o’clock on Friday afternoon. By that time you’ll know her well enough to take her for a picnic along the beach towards Lamport. She doesn’t know—but I do, because I was caught pretty near that way myself when I was a kid —that if you get as far as Durley Head at low tide you’ll get cut 'off both ways before you know where you are; and if someone doesn’t come along you’ll be drowned. Right. Well, someone will come along. Me. In a boat. Just in the nick of time. I shall have had a strange premonition about her being in some awful danger somewhere —people do have these things and find out they’re right; I’ve heard heaps of cases; so why shouldn’t I have one? Quite feasible. Only we shall have to time it carefully. Dramatic rescue —savvy? And when I’ve saved her life —well, there’s only one thing she can do. Well, what do you think of it?” Mr. Timpson gaped soundlessly. “It’s lucky I’ve go you, Timpson,” paid Mr. Hurst appreciatively. “You’re just the fellow for the job. You look just the sort of mutt to do a silly thing like that. On the other hand you’re not too obvious a freak for Ena to pal on to.”

“B-b-but —er —really, sir,” stammered Mr. Timpson, effetely, "I—I —” “Well?” “I —I’m afraid I couldn't ”

The ominous blackening of Mr. Hurst’s brow stopped him in midsentence.

“Of, of course, if you’re not willing,” said Mr. Hurst, “that’s another matter, and I shall have to think of someone else. Only in that case —well, I think we understand one another, Timpson?” “Er —yes, sir,” gulped Mr. Timpson, licking dry lips. “Very well, then."

So about five hours later an unexpected visitor arrived at the Pier Hotel, Easthampton a neaty-dressed, slightly-built youth of twenty with an extremely nervous manner. His agitation was, in fact, so evident that the manager was inclined to suspect him at first of being a fugitive from justice, but eventually allocated him to a room which had been unexpectedly vacated by a guest that same morning.

It was in that room that Mr. Timpson, nearly twenty-four hours afterwards, sat and wrote a letter to his employer. The style of the letter went rather oddly with its subject-matter, but it was the only style Mr. Timpson knew:

“The Pier Hotel, Easthampton

“Dear Sir, —With reference to your verbal instructions of yesterday’s date, I am pleased to be able to inform you that f have formed a speaking acquaintance with Miss B. Little at this address. I have had no previous experience in such mattei’S, and it was therefore with some diffidence that, recognising her from the photograph you gave me, I said ‘Good morning’ to her as she was leaving the breakfastroom this morning reading a letter. To my relief she not only responded pleasantly, but exchanged certain remarks concerning the weather. I was then emboldened to ask that I might accompany her to the beach, as, being a stranger, I was not certain of the direction; and she assented without hesitation, and seemed, indeed, at pains to put me at my ease. I have, in fact, spent the whole day with her, and, if I may say so, she appears to find some pleasure in my society. The outlook, therefore, appears encouraging for the carrying out of your proposed scheme, and I await your further instructions concerning same. —I am, your obedient servant, Leonard W. Timpson.” “Good work,” muttered the recipient, approvingly. “He isn’t such a mutt as he writes. If he makes a bungle of it now I’ll break his neck.”

On the afternoon of the following Thursday two people rested on the springy turf, starred with buttercups, on the cliff top just out of Easthampton. One, sitting primly upright, was Mr. Timpson; the other, stretched out luxuriously at full length, was Miss Ena Little, by whose side was a discarded magazine. “I was wondering,” said Mr. Timpson—for he would have to write Mr. Hurst that night and tell him everything was all right—“l was wondering —er —if you wouldn’t care to go for a picnic to-morrow . . . along the beach somewhere. We could buy something to eat in the town.”

“I’d love to,” said Miss Little. “It would be great fun.” Mr. Timpson breathed a sigh of relief. So far everything had gone according to plan. But to-morrow. . . . Suppose something happened—if Mr. Hurst’s car had a breakdown! Or suppose . . .

He forcibly averted his mind from such horrible possibilities. “How long are you down here for?” Miss Little asked him. “Oh —only another day or two.” “Is that all?” Her tone quite surprised Mr. Timpson. “I thought ” She stopped, and then, gazing up with an expression that surprised him still more, though not so much as the words that were to follow, said:

“You know, I —l’ve been awfully thankful for you—really. You needn’t look like that. I mean it. I haven’t told you before, but till the day you came I was engaged—he was down here with me. I broke it off that very morning, and he went away. It was the only thing I could do, but . . .

Well, there was a bit of a gap. And you filled It.’’

Mr. Timpson got extremely hot and uncomfortable.

“You’ve had me guessing, though,” she went on. “The way you made a dive at me that first morning—and you were most frightfully nervoUfe, too—well, I thought it was a record case of love at first sight. Because you didn’t look the type that specialises in holiday flirtations —the sort of man who books you for the week or fortnight—you know what I mean. Appearances are deceptive, aren’t they?” “I —I’m not the sort,” said the virtuous if rather unwary Mr. Timpson, flushing scarlet. “I —I’m sure I’d never dream ” In a flash he saw his mistake.

“I was right, tnen?” There was no mistaking her eagerness. “Do you mean that the first moment you set eyes on me you really and truly fejt like that?”

Mr. Timpson completely lost his head, started a sentence without the faintest idea how he was going to finish, and landed in a bog of confusion. The apparent effect of this was to confirm the very thing he wished, without giving offence, to disclaim. Miss Little wriggled a little nearer to him.

“You’re frightfully shy, aren’t you?” She smiled up at him. “As if that’s anything to get nervous and mixed up over! Fancy feeling like that at first, and then letting three days go by without saying a word or dropping a hint —and in another day or two you’ll be going!” With (for him) phenomenal perspicacity, Mr. Timpson saw a way out. “Well —er —you —you see, Miss Little,” he stammered, streaming with perspiration, “I —I realised that —that there could be no hope for me ” “But why not?” “Why? Oh —ah —er —well, you see, I —l’m nobody—l mean, you may think I’m well-to-do because I’m staying at the Pier Hotel, but I’m not. I’m only a clerk; I only get three pounds a week. I —l knew from the first —I mean, I never hoped for more than your friendship—that alone would be something, I thought . . “What’s three pounds a week got to do with it?” Miss Little laughed. “Tons of people live on less. And I’ve got a bit of my own. So long as one cares . . . And I like you ever so — honest.”

Mr. Timpson had the feeling of going down a one-in-four hill, wi(h a hairpin bend at the bottom, in a car with all the brakes gone phut. He could see it all now she wouldn’t have given him a second thought if she hadn’t happened to have just broken it off with somebody else. It was the natural reaction; his own sister Phyllis had t(pne the same sort of thing—broken it off with a fellow she’d been walking out with for years and then married another fellow only a month later—a man who was as unlike his predecessor as Mr. Timpson was unlike Mr. Hurst. Things in Miss Little’s manner towards him that had been dark before now leaped into light. Fool that he was not to have understood them! He’d just thought that she’d taken a friendly liking to him —he’d never dreamed . . . Good heavens! What on earth was he to do? Tell her frankly? No, he couldn’t! Impossible! He made one last desperate effort. “I—l know you do,” he whispered hoarsely, with what he intended as a sad, hopeless smile, “but —but of course that’s only a—a passing fancy. You’ll soon forget—you—you must forget ” “I never shall,” she told him. “And I’m not going to try.” She patted the turf beside her. “Come here, you old stupid. . . . Passing fancy! I don’t suffer from that kind of thing.” Mr. Timpson, utterly helpless, sat closer. A strong, sun-browned arm slid round his shoulders and drew him down; he saw her lips upturned in unmistakable invitation. He breathed a prayer for some miraculous deliverance—his only hope now . . .

A couple of hours later Mr. Timpson sat in his room at the Pier Hotel, heedless of the dinner-gong, heedless of everything save his own anguished thoughts. He had definitly promised to marry Miss Little —definitely. In fact, on the way back her talk had taken a sudden, practical turn; about his seeing her people. (“Don’t you worry about them, Leonard; I’ll tackle them if they’re snuffy; Dad’s only a retired grocer”); about Mr. Timpson getting a better job (it was all he could do to hide from her where he worked at present, and he’d have to tell her that sooner or later), about the date, and where they were going to live everything. She was all eager determination. He’d have to go on with it! But what about Mr. Hurst? Lord, he’d got to write to him to-night. . .

Mr. Timpson’s first impulse was to go out and jump over the cliffs. It would amount to the same thing if Mr. Hurst knew. . . . Heavens, he mustn’t know! With an inspiration born of sheer panic Mr. Timpson seized pen and paper and wrote:

“Dear Sir, —With further reference to your esteemed instructions, I much regret to inform you that it will not be possible, after all, to carry out your proposed scheme. Miss Little, for some x’eason or other, has tired of my society, and now spends all her time in company with a party of girls who have just arrived here. This morning she simply ignored me. ... I sincerely trust that you will see that this is through no fault of my own. —I am,

your obedient servant, Leonard W Timpson.”

,He dashed out in time to catch the last post. Oh hi's return he met Miss Little coming out of the dining-room, arid stammered apologies for a nasty sick headache which necessitated immediate retirement.

He spent half the night either sitting on the bed or pacing round the room, wondering what it would be like to be Miss Little’s husband and by what miracle Mr. Hurst could be kept in continued ignorance. Utterly exhausted iu body and mind, he tumbled in at last and didn’t wake up till half-past nine, and would probably have slept longer but for a knocking at the door and a voice saying that a gentleman was waiting to see him in the lounge. Mr. Hurst! Oh, Lord! —if Miss Little met him —but she’d be at breakfast now . . . Mr. Timpson dressed blindly and stumbled downstairs.

Yes, it was Mr. Hurst. Very emphatically it was Mr. Hurst. “You —you blighted little rat,’’ breathed Mr. Hurst thickly, as soon as the door was closed, and making horrible faces. “Do you know what I’m going to do with you? I’ll break every bone in your “You—you got my letter, sir?” stammered Mr. Timpson. “As I said, it wasn’t my fault. I—l don’t know why she ’’

“Yes, I got your letter—two hours ago. And I got this one by the same post. Read it.” Mr. Timpson’s shaking hands grasped the proffered missive, which read as follows: “The Pier Hotel, Easthampton.

“Dear Mr. Hurst, —You will realise the futility of writing any more when I tell you that I have just become engaged to a man I’ve met here —a Mr. Timpson. He’s awfully nice, and awfully fond of me, and I know I shall be happy with him, as I never should have been with you. I’m sure you’ll be sporting enough to wish me all the best. —Sincerely yours, Ena Little.”

“What do you say to that, you swine?” demanded Mr. Hurst. “You lying skunk, you dirty, sneaking reptile ”

“Ssh!” implored Mr. Timpson desperately. “People will hear •” “Let ’em hear!” snarled Mr. Hurst. “They’ll hear you screaming murder in a minute! For a start, you’re sacked! Sacked! And you’ll fizzle in Hades before I’ll give you a reference! And what’s more, I’m going to give you the biggest hiding you’ve ever — come here, you blot! Let me get at you ...”

“Mr. Timpson was, for him, singularly unobliging. He made a panicstricken dash for the door, but even as his hand grasped the knob another grasped his coat collar and hauled him back.

“Come here, you ” At a sound from behind Mr. Hurst stopped and spun round. From behind a flowered screen had emerged the figure of Miss Little. The rage of Mr. Hurst and the terror of Mr. Timpson were alike lost in blank astonishment.

“I saw you in your car outside,” said Miss Little, addressing Mr. Hurst, “so I popped in here to hear the fun. Only it began to look like everybody else in the place hearing it, too. And I’ve just had a week’s delicious amusement, anyway—l’ve lain awake half the night laughing about yesterday afternoon — it was the funniest thing ever. You see, I was well primed for it all. You remember I said my old friend Ethel Burton was going to call at your office some time about a country bungalow? Well, she happened to call last Monday afternoon —only you were too busy behind the partition shouting out the details of your brilliant inspiration. I got Ethel’s letter in the morning. Oh, it was a perfect scream!” Mr. Hurst was no longer a charging bull but a particularly silly-looking sheep. From the soul of Mr. Timpson a great weight was suddenly lifted, as dream. He’d been made a fool of — thank heaven! Well, he wasn’t wanted now . . .

“Er —if you’ll excuse me . . .” And he was gone.

Mr. Hurst did not even see him go. “Well, thanks very much for the fun,” said Miss Little. “Of course you’ll have him back, won’t you? You remember you sacked him—poor fish, it wasn’t his fault.”

“Will you have me back, Ena?” pleaded Mr. Hurst, humbly. “I—l know I’ve been a fool —that silly idea —well, I wasn’t myself at the time Miss Little wrinkled her forehead.

“Oh, well, I’ve had some cheap amusement out of it, and perhaps I’ll give you one more chance. Only, mind this —next time you act or talk as if you’re the boss and I’m you obedient servant —the very next time . . . well, it’ll be definitely napoo.” “There’ll never be any next time, darling,” said Mr. Hurst earnestly. He really meant it. And he’d give Timpson a rise and an easier time, too, blowed if he wouldn’t . . . And he did.