SHORT STORIES

Otago Witness, Issue 3713, 12 May 1925, Page 72

SHORT STORIES

MISS LANE AND THE LITTLE BOY.

By Deabmer MacCormac. (Copyright.—For the Witness.) “You might mark off these fancy combs, too, Miss Lane. Here they arc. clown here; they came in while you.were over at the bank, and put some out." “Yes, Mr Darling," answered Miss Lane. “And- you won’t forget, will you, to ring up Jamieson’s about that order for Mrs Cliff? I won’t have time to attend to it myself. Oh, and I don’t think I'll touch those vases of Wayne’s, if his man comes in about them. They’re not a good line." “Yes, Nil* Darling," she answered again. And suddenly gasped and stopped. What had slie to do? Jamieson’s? The vases? Oh. yes. She relaxed. “Yes, Mr Darling.” she said a third time, when he told her that Mrs Darling would be down at one o’clock to relieve her for the lunch hour, and stooped down beneath the counter for the package of combs. She opened it, checked the contents, filed the invoice, counted out her tag-tickets, and began to marl; them off. Mr Darling, pausing a second at the stand just inside the door to adjust a fallen photograph frame, went out. The wind came in—a cold, strong wind, straight from the harbour, that lay a shining, blinding sheet, seemingly almost in front of the doorway, at the foot of the steep hill overlooking the town. It set the striped verandah awnings to bellying and rattling, and the goods on the lines above the long counter to swinging, and- reddened Miss Lane’s nose, and made her fingers blue and clumsy. It was very quiet in the neat, little, wellstocked suburban shop. It always was at this time, half-past ten.

After a few minutes, Miss Lane laid down her indelible pencil, pushed aside the half-finished combs, and came out from behind the counter. She had practically a whole day to finish them. Mr Darling would not be back until three at least, perhaps not until just on closing time. Mr Darling knew that he had a steady, capable assistant, who could be depended upon always to get her work done, and done well. And for years he had left her to herself to do it. He was a jovial, vain little man who liked comfort and smoothness, and in a vague kind of way he appreciated her punctuality, and deftness, and reliability. He gave her a Christinas box every year, with Mrs Darling’s beaming approval, and joked with her sometimes, and never deducted anything from her wages for her not infrequent sick-absences. And Miss Lane did her work satisfactorily from day to day. It was an easy place, she would have told one, and one got into the way of things, as of course one did. after fourteen years.

She went round now, behind the bookstand at the back of the shop. There was a window there, shaking in the wind, and the bright spring sunshine came through it, and lay—so quietly—in a square patch on the dusty floor. Miss Lane spread out her purple fingers to catch the sunshine, and imagined that it was shining through the round, polished, crystal windows of a luxuriouslyappointed, white-tiled, still bathroom. . . High up, above the world, with only the sky, and the racing, or lazily drifting, or scudding clouds to be seen outside the windows; with a shining, sunny expanse of floor, and twinkling brass taps and rail, and a huge porcelain tub filled almost to the brim with clear hot water, glancing, faintly steaming. ... to close, gratefully, over thin, tired shoulders; with a big floating, golden sponge, and aromatic green soap, wet and bubbly, and a wide Turkish mat; and snowy fringed towels, and fragrant limp linen, old and beloved, trailing in the sun over a low white stool. . . .

“Ting-a-ling," went the little shop bell sharply, and again, “Ting-a-ling," before Miss Lane had time to step round from behind the stand. “Oh,” said the customer, a woman, who had rung it at her unexpected appearance at the end of the counter. “X just wanted to know the price of t}>at big alarm clock in the window. That one to the left, near the salad howl. Oh, there’s one up there.” Miss Lane came along, and produced it from the fixture behind her. “This one?" she said. “22s fid.”

“Oh," said the customer again. Her eyelids had flickered just once; and she stepped back with a vague, wise littD nod. “Thanks," and turned to go. “Blit I havo other clocks,” Miss Lane hastened to say. “Here is one, a good make, for 17s 9d, and I havo a Baby for 11s 6d. And then'there are these cheaper ones.”

The customer came back to the counter to look at them, and at the rest of Miss Lane’s stock of clocks, and suddenly mado up her mind. “No, thanks, please don't get any more down; it doesn’t matter. That big alarm was the one. It's for a friend, you see. She is thinking of getting one to give ns a wedding present, and she asked me to come in while I was out to-day to price that one in the window. She saw it the

other day as she was passing—22s 6d, you said; 17s 9d, and 11s 6d. Thanks, I’ll tell her, and she can come in and pick for herself. I suppose it’ll be the big one; it took her fancy right away when she saw it. She’d have come in herself to inquire only she was in a hurry to get home. Good morning.” “Good morning," responded Miss Lane with her smile, and watched her go out.

She wondered whether the customer would have been tempted, if she had waited, by one of those new spirit kettles, or half-a-dozen Mexican silver teaspoons, or that sample tea pot, all suitable for wedding presents—and cheap—into making a purchase, with the explanatory remark that “it was just what she needed herself, anyway, and that if her friend didn’t like it instead of the clock, why, she needn’t pay her for it, and she could keep it herself for her own use." But—and Miss Lane sighed—she might have been telling the truth—there might really have been a “friend"—this time. And after all she was glad that slie had not waited, and given her an opportunity to suggest and show them. Her head ached so drearily with the cold, that she felt slie couldn’t have been bothered. . . .

And it really didn’t matter. She always had a good book at the end of the day. The people of the neighbourhood knew her, and were accustomed to her after so many years. They liked her gentleness, and her exactness, and willingness always to oblige. And strangers were attracted by her frequent tired smile, and her courtesy, and her cheerful readiness in the matter of a double wrapping because “I’m taking it some distance," or the tying in together with her own sale of a number of other shopping day parcels “because they collect so, and are such a nuisance in the trams." And then, of course, Darling’s had no competitors. They were too well established seriously to fear a rival, even had there been one. She and Mr Darling had no need to exert themselves greatly in order to maintain a very fair average. But Miss Lane, who was consdentious, exerted herself considerably more than Mr Darling, who was fond oi his ledger, and office stool, and cigar, and was aware, comfortably, of the fact that she was conscientious.

Her conscience was beginning to trouble her a little now as slie stood there. She found" that the smile had been fading, swiftly, from her face, until it had slowly disappeared, that the thought was creeping in, like a thin still trickle of water, that she might, perhaps, have been able to make a sale. ... if her head had not been aching, if her hands had not been so cold; if she had not been dreaming. . . She banished that Last thought resolutely, and went back to her combs and finished marking them off. and put some out on display, and the rest into reserve. She would have done that even had slio made the sale. She never allowed herself more than one dream-moment a day. Not that she had consciously laid down that rule for herself. But whenever she found, when interrupted at her work by a carrier, or a customer, or Mr Darling’s genial voice, that her hands had been moving slowly, and still more slowly, slie would look lip brightly, finishing whatever she had been doing as if by magic, moving briskly here and there about other tasks, keeping herself up to the mark for the rest of the day. Btu, of course—.she was putting away her tag-tickets neatly, and getting out her step-ladder, and climbing up a rung or two to go through her stock of stationery —thoughts weren’t dreams; one could not help the thoughts, sometimes, that camo and went so queerly, such stupid thoughts generally, without beginnings or ends that slipped and slid, aimlessly, in all directions; always somehow Eluding one, when one tried to catch them. After a while one grew too tired to try; one just stood by, helplessly, and one’s hands moved mechanically and busily, tidying, counting, making notes in the order book, and the thoughts went along and went along past one. Her birthday to-morrow, for instance. She would be thirty-four. Thirty-four!/ It was seventeen —seventeen ! —years since she had been seventeen. She could hardly believe it. Seventeen, and shy, with a thin long dark pigtail, and a bit of navy ribbon on the end of it; and going to business, fearfully, for the first time, and being befriended by hearty, wholesome, sophisticated IJec Somers, eighteen months her junior. Bee Somers! How long ago was it—could it be eight years—since Bee—the same robust, bright-complcxioned Bee, scarcely a day older—had come slowly into the summer's afternoon gloom of tho shop, too intent upon tho investigating of her handbag for the amount necessary for the purchase of the article in tho window, which had attracted her attention, to notice who it was who came forward, suddenly flushing, suddenly smiling, diffidently, to inquire her wants. Then had come Bee’s flash of recognition, her generous smile, her handshake. There had been her exclamations of “Fancy meeting you hero I” “How have you been getting on all this time.” “Doesn’t it seem ages since we were together at the S.S.A.?” Then Miss Lane, to break the awkard pause that always descends presently -upon those who have met after a long time, had asked, timidly, noting Bee’g tailored suit, her expensive shoes, and

gloves, and accessories, “And what are you doing now, Bee? I’ve been here seven years.”

Bee had blushed, and showed her strong white teeth in a sudden embarrassed smile, and pushed back her hair with one linger, under the brim of her close fitting small dark hat, and answered. “Why, I'm married, Meg. Didn’t you know? I’ve been married nearly four years. I’ve got a little girl.” When she had gone again, with Miss Lane’s promise to go and see her and Sylvie, Miss Lane had come out from behind her counter, blindly pushing and pulling and straightening things, going to the shop door and looking out, coining back and staring, unseeingly, into the big glass case; and had said to herself, distinctly, when her startled, shaken, heart had began to settle down again, heavily, thuddingly:

“Oh, I’m nearly two years older than Bee! Oh, I must go away, somehow, and get married, too.” But afterwards, she knew that she would never get married, just as she knew that she would never keep her promise to go and see Bee; just as she knew that Bee good-natured, successful, suddenly ill at ease at the effect her announcement had had, had known —hoped—that she would not.

She had never gone away. Her work, for one thing, had been so conveniently near the little cottage where she had lived with her frail mother — she had been able to go home at midday for lunch, aud to see and do little things for her mother. For another, her mother’s very .tiny income, ceasing with her death, had been too slender to be depended upon while the breadwinner made experiments. Another, where could she have gone, what could she have done without experience, without traiuing? It would have been madness to have given up one good position simply to go and fill a similiar one elsewhere; with the added, and to be considered, expense of lunches and tram fares.

Oh, there were plenty of reasons without going into the question of clothes, for instance. Even with selfdenial, and the help of her mother's skilful fond fingers, she could never have fashioned for herself clothes such as the working girls in the city wore. She wouldn't have known how to wear them, anyway. And the girls! It had been bad enough at the S.S.A. when she hau been only a raw junior, but now! Oh, no, she couldn't have faced it all—the magnificent shop-walkers smirking pas* her —plain, quiet, dowdy—at her own bobbed haired juniors; the stares and sniggers, or worse still, the politeness and tact of the cloak and luncheon rooms. . . And the shining parquet floors, and warm shaded lights; the crystal show cases with their glittering or gleaming displays, and the subdued, continuous hum of elevators and cash wires, and the faint heavy perfume of opulence; and all the rules and red tape and supervision—she would have been bewildered and uncertain, and at a loss, after seven years at Darling’s. So the seven years had grown into fourteen years. So here she was this morning going through licr stock, and getting down to serve a youth with a 4s lid thermos flask, and moving her step-ladder preparatory to straightening her fancy fixtures, and leaning it against the fixture while she went to pick up some coloured balls which the wind tumbled suddenly from a basket hanging at the end of the counter, and then going back to look about, unsuccessfully, for another which she was almost certain had dropped again, and rolled just as she had turned away. A quarter past eleven! One of the clocks chimed, softly and musically, from behind the glass doors of the big case, and Miss Lane put away her ladder and duster, and took off her apron and cuffs, and went into the little latticed office, from which the shop could be observed, to wash her hands. Then she put on the tiny kettle for her morning tea, and rang up Jamieson's, and looked at some samples brought in by a traveller, and told him when Mr Darling would probably be in. Then as a group of women stood debating aud arguing in the doorway, she turned the gas low, putting an asbestos mat under the boiling kettle, and went back to the shop to wait for, and serve them.

A little barefooted boy had followed them, and stood patiently waiting.

Miss Lane turned to him when the four talking women had gone out again with the one small purchase. “Well, sonny?” she inquired kindly.

The child looked up at her. “Please, do you want a boy in this shop?” ho asked her.

“A boy?” Miss Lane looked at him. “Do you mean a message boy?” He nodded. “Yes, to work in your shop.”

She stood there looking at him. lie couldn't have been more than eight; small and ill-clad and miserable-looking, with n pale, grubby little face, and red rimmeu grey eyes, and dusty shock hair. . . . “Why do you want to work here, sonny?” she asked, a little faintly. He turned and gazed out of the door, turned his face up to hers again. “Because nie mother's poor, and me father's sick, and I want to go to work.” She still stood there looking at him. Sh' was asking herself, “Is he genuine? Or is he one of those cunning little ragamuffins from the Gulley?” And the child stood looking up, back at her, returning her gaze, waiting, and she couldn’t answer herself.

She felt suddenly old, and cold, and pinched. “But, sonny, you're far too young,” she said gently, still watching, still wondering. “You shouldn’t he thinking, even, of work yet. You should be at school. Why aren’t you at school?”

He doubled under his bare toe, dragging it in little circles, still looking up at her. “Me mother wouldn’t let me go to-day, because I was sick this morning. I didn’t havo any breakfast.” Ah! But she said to herself, almost frantically, “Oh, but suppose he’s telling the truth! Oh, look how thin his little shoulders are under his thin jersey!” And she asked herself, implored herself, “Oh, don’t you know? Oh, you’re old enough to be his mother, you’re old enough to be the mother of three or four like himl Can’t you, can’t you tell?” And she had to answer herself with a sudden wail, “Oh, God, I don’t, I don’t know!”

She said to him, with her hand to her throat, “Would you like a drink of milk, sonny, and a biscuit?” He turned away, looking out of the door, “No, thanks,” he said. Had he put his head down a little? Was there a faint stain of colour in his cheek? She couldn’t tell. She said to herself, “Ah, how can you bear to look? Suppose he has! Suppose there is!” She averted her eyes in shame. She said, “Oh, do, sonny. Sit down here a minute while I get it,” and hurried into the office to get out some of her and Mr Darling's fancy biscuits, and prepare a cup of hot condensed milk. She brought it out, and put it down behind the counter showcase, and called him round. “Here you are, souny,” she said. Her voice sounded strange in her own ears, because of the strangling hard lump in her throat. But her eyes felt dry and strained. She stood by, helplessly, awkwardly, watching while he drank, and his baby eyes met hers blandly, bafflingly, above the rim of the cup. She averted hers again, turning blindly to go along the counter and serve one after another two customers who came in. When she went back to him he had put down the cup, and was eating a biscuit slowly, munchingly; dropping crumbs down the front of his threadbare jersey, looking about him curiously. Her throat swelled again until she felt as if it would crack. She said softly, “Such a mite! Such a poor little mite!” and asked herself, coaxingly, craftily, “Oh, you do know now, don’t you?” But she answered, roughly, uncompromisingly, making herself shrink and cower. “No! I don’t, I don't. ..” Her throat did crack suddenly, and as the child, waiting, stared at her wonderingly, she pushed by him, and went into the office. She put her hand into the pocket of her coat hanging there, for licr purse, opened it, took out the loose sixpence and three threepenny pieces it contained, stood there, watching without seeing the munching child. She was asking herself, “Of what use is Is 3d? Oh, you know Mr Darling wouldn’t mind in the least. You know he would instantly oblige you with a small advance if lie were here. Can’t you take a few shillings from the till in the meantime, and tell him about it when he comes in? Oh, can’t you?” And knew even while she asked that she couldn't. She knew that she had never, never yet taken a penny from the cash or a pin from the stock in Mr Darling's absence, and that she never, never would. She railed at herself, “Oh, it wouldn't, it couldn’t bo wrong for this! Oh, is there only one kind of right? Is there? Is there ouly one narrow, steel, tramwaytrack kind of right?” And could only answer, “Oh, I don’t know, I don’t know, but I can’t do it.”

She went back, slowly, to the child. “Was the milk nice and hot, sonny

she asked. Pie nodded. Pause. Then, “You feel better now don’t you?”

Another nod. Shamefaced? She didn't know, she couldn't tell

She said, her hand to her throat again “I hope you will soon be quite well. I hope your father will soon be quite well,

He shuffled his feet. “Me father won't ’nless he can have a operation, and he can't, ’cos we’ve got a baby.” Pause, ing. Me mother used to, but now she can't, ’cos we’ve got a baby.” Pause. “She’s going up to the Charitable Aid to-day.” She was scourging herself until she almost swayed, sick and faint. She was saying fiercely, avengingly, “So! Now you know!” But she would not, could not, even yet, answer. She waited, praying for a sign, finding none, finding nothing, nothing in his eyes. She asked him gently, “Where do you live, sonny?” and lie answered, after a moment, looking all round, out of the door, back at her, “I don’t know the name of the street. We only moved in yesterday, ’cos me mother couldn’t paj the rent at the other house. But it’s a good way from here. I’ve been asking at all the shops on the way, to sec if they want a boy.”

Miss Lane sighed, oh, sighed. She put one hand behind her to support herself against the fixture. She held out the other, with the coins, to him. She spoke slowly and with care, like one who is very tired. “Hero, sonny, take this home to your mother. It's all I have with me. Tell her that I should like to help her if I can; if she will let me. Hero is a card with the address of this shop, so that you can conic back or write and let me know your address.”

“Yes,” the child said, and took the card and held it, waiting, watching* her. Calculating or just curiously? She didn’t know, she didn’t know. . . .

“Good-bye, then, sonny,” sho said, and gave him a gentle push. As she touched his shoulder, and felt the sharpness of tho racagro bones beneath her fingers, her throat crocked again, agonizingly. . . , The child went out, slowly, soundlessly, on his bare feet. He went along the

windy bright street to the corner, turned it, and went down the hill a little way to a sheltered, grassy section he knew of. It was warm there; the fierce wind rushed up and by without even noticin' it. He climbed tlirough the broken fence, and wandered down the slopo, playing idly with the little ball that ho fished out from the front of his jersey. But it was only a baby’s ball; it would not bounce. After a time he grew tired of tho lonely game, and sat down on a pile of old drain pipes, feeling in his pocket for the money the lady in the shop had given him. He counted it, thought for a moment, got up, climbed through the fence again, ami went on down the hill, a small sinful figure, towards a little toy and sweet shop at the foot. . . .

He had left the despised ball behind him. It lay there, gay, and lost, and pitiful, iu a crevice between two of the drain pipes; the little ball which the wind had tumbled from the basket above Darling’s counter; which had rolled and hidden itself behind the letter scales; which Miss Lane had searched for, and not found.