ALL THAT GLITTERS

Timaru Herald, Volume CXLV, Issue 21280, 25 February 1939, Page 9

ALL THAT GLITTERS

By L. C. DOUTHWAITE After five years’ servitude as personal maid to the acidulated Lady Angela Winestead, Sally Wainwright married Sam Partis, master craftsman for Silas Holyoake, the cabinetmaker, whom beauty-lovers spoke of as the modem Chippendale. Then the slump came, and the firm was swallowed by a big concern, and it devolved on Sam to sell his work for himself. There must still, he thought, be those who would be glad of someone able to renovate old and lovely things with pride and craftsmanship. It was a slow business, nevertheless; so many jobs had to be turned down for lack of money for material. "We’ve got to build up a reserve,” pronounced Sally. "Put aside, say a quarter of the profits on every job.”

Running work-hardened but sensitive fingers through his hair, Sam regarded his partner from eyes that were bright and tired at one and the same time.

"It’ll take a mighty big chest to * hold all that much,’’ he pointed out ironically.

“It’ll take,” Sally declared firmly, "the old brass box Lady Winestead gave me to keep my gloves in.”

"About the only thing ever she did give you—except the rough edge of her tongue,” said Sam. Thereafter, that percentage was deducted religiously from each meagre profit; used only when material had to be bought, and when payment was collected, returned as religiously to its heavily patterned, oddly discoloured source.

So painfully sometimes, slowly always, they began to make headway. One satisfied customer told another, so that Sam’s reputation grew. Then, at last, came what looked like the big chance. Old Lord Langfallow died, and his successor decided to sell a part of his collection to pay death duties. There was a defective chair in one of the Louis Seize suites, and Aloysius McFee, the art expert and valuer, a wizened-looking little Scotsman who combined the soul of an artist with the acumen of his race, recommended that it should be repaired before being sent to the saleroom.

When McFee saw how those repairs had been done, he sent for the one responsible. "I’ve been looking for a man like you,” he said, when Sam's position was explained. "Tell me what ma-

terial you need for each job, and I’ll supply it. All you’ll have to worry about is the work. You’ll have as much as you can do, anyway, and if the result is anything like the way you treated that chair, we shan’t quarrel over the price.”

"Thank you very much,” Sam said, and walked home with his head in the clouds and his heart beating jigtime.

Then, while he was busy with the first few of his new patron’s orders, he took to his bed with double pneumonia.

In the fight that followed he clung to life with the same uncomplaining tenacity with which he had fought economic pressure. He must not leave Sally alone.

With no dole, nor payment for work, the price of medicine exorbitant, and invalid diet impossible, all the old brass box held was the key of the workshop it seemed so unlikely would ever be used again. Then the final blow fell. The doctor said that if Sam was to live, he would have to spend a long time by the sea.

Sally’s comely figure seemed suddenly to shrink; the surprisingly smooth face became lined and old.

“But I can’t pay the rent here!” she protested brokenly, “let alone find fares and lodgings at the seaside.”

The doctor turned away; it is one of the penalties of the profession to prescribe the impossible.

“Unless, thSt is,” Sally amended, "we sold up, and in that case the loss of his home would do him more harm than the sea would do good. . . .”

Realising the reason for Sam’s pride, the doctor thought this highly probable. Some of the “stuff” Sam had made from material that, surplus to a completed order, he had bought from Holyoake; other pieces he had picked up discriminatingly at bargain prices, and repaired or altered to his own ideas. It had been a long-drawn-out, self-sacrificing process, that getting together of a home to satisfy his own sense of craftsmanship, but the result was his justification. Also, it was the envy of Josiah Bulstrode, his landlord—a beefy, self-indulgent with a keen appreciation of values and his own material Interests.

Not so long ago he had bought two old cottages in Buckinghamshire, knocked them into one; added here and altered there; installed baths and electric light; engaged a gardener. All that remained, then, to make Fairways the ideal week-end resort was the “right” furniture. And here was a tenant out of a job, months behind with his rent—and with a houseful of stuff good enough for Kensington Museum. It wouldn’t do, however, to rush

things; there was plenty of time, anyway, and he didn’t want to be hard on them.

Calling every week, the collector was sympathetic when no rent was forthcoming. He was only too sorry, he explained, that things were so bad. And so it went on.

Later, to the overworked and underfed Sally’s trepidation, Bulstrode called in person. But, again, there was no need to worry. Dismissing the question of arrears, the landlord’s only trouble was to know how they were “making out.” If a pound or two’d help tide over . . .

Sally, who had never borrowed, did so now. . . Sam’s precariously maintained hold on life was dependent on adequate nourishment—port wine, and jellies, and such—and there was nothing of these in the house, nor likely to be.

Many weeks’ rent behind, as well as money loaned, and Bulstrode made another of his now frequent calls. Sympathetic as ever, but this time inclined to be critical. . . . “You know, Mrs Partis,” he said chidingly, “you can”t go on like this!”

“I’ve got to,” Sally responded, her eyes drenched in unhappiness. “For as long as I can, anyway!”

Bulstrode made a wide, semi-pro-testing gesture.

“Stop whippin’ a dead horse,” he said firmly, “and get your husband to the sea, as your doctor says. That’s Sam’s only chance of getting better—or of ever making a living again.” Sally laughed a desolate, one-note laugh.

You might as well tell me to take him to Egypt in his own yacht,” she said bitterly.

I m tellin’ you to take him to the sea,” Bulstrode insisted. “What’s more, I’m going to show you how it can be done.” The crucial point reached, he dropped his eyes. "It’ll mean a certain amount of sacrifice, of course, but what’s that against Sam’s life! And once he’s well, and with a regular income cornin’ in, what furniture he doesn’t make in his spare time you’ll be able to buy on the instalment plan.” There was a hunted look in Sally’s eyes as she turned to him. You mean—to sell up here?” she said assimilating that potential sacrifice in a glance about the room. His eyes still avoiding hers, Bulstrode shrugged his shoulders. “I feel so strongly that it would be the best for your own interests,” he said firmly, "that I’m prepared to take over the stuff myself, cancel your debt, and pay you enough for Sam’s seaside trip into the bargain.” A moment, and she shook her head. “Every penny he’s been able to get

together, and every hour of his spare time’s gone to the making of it,” she said decisively. “I think he’d rather die than let it go.” “And you?” Bulstrode demanded, showing signs of reverting to type. “Sooner lose him than your sticks?” Control lost for a moment, she stormed at him.

“Very well, tnen,” he said decisively at last. “Either you agree, or I’ll distrain, and you’ll be sold up anyway.” He looked contritely. “Sorry, but it’s for your own good.” Her face dead white now, there was another long silence. “I’ll tell Sam what you say,” she said quietly at last, and went upstairs to do so.

When, at almost the end of her endurance, she came down to answer the door again, a stranger introduced himself as Aloysius McFee. Anxious that the intruder should complete his business and get out, Bulstrode retired to the background. “I’m wondering when those repairs I sent will be completed,” the newcomer said acidly.

Despite herself, Sally’s eyes plied. Fearfully, she told of her position; felt her heart quicken as, surprisingly, she watched the Scot’s fact soften to understanding. “Never you heed, Mrs Partis,” he said reassuringly. “My own stuff

doesn’t matter anyway, and for the rest—l’ll tell my clients that if they want first-class work, they’ll have to wait for it . . . Will it be inconveniencing you if I just take a look at what’s been done already?” “I’ll get you the workshop key,” Sally said in such a relieved voice that, after the keenest glance at her yet, the Scot transferred his eyes to what she had lifted from the shelf; a glance that instantaneously became fixed. “What have you there?” he asked sharply. “Just an old brass box,” Sally replied. He took it from her; wizened face alive, examined it as a mother the features of her newly bom. “Would you be thinking of selling this?” he asked, controlling his voice. Why not? There was small sentimental value attached to it, and even a few shillings would be a godsend. “Is old brass fetching good prices these days?” she asked, she hoped, not too eagerly. He looked at her again; hesitated; swallowed something that seemed suddenly to have come into his throat.

“This ‘brass,’ as you call it,” he said, “happens to be Louis Fifteenth gold. A similar box sold for £3OOO less than a year ago!”