JUST OUTSIDE EUSTON

Star (Christchurch), Volume LXVI, Issue 20626, 29 May 1935, Page 14

JUST OUTSIDE EUSTON

A Fine, Human Story of Metropolitan Life.

By

JOHN ANTHONY

Authoi*tof “THE ELUSIVE LADY,” etc.

CHAPTER 111. Anna in Luck. After she left Bruce Wayne standing outside Charing Cross, Anna made a great effort to pull herself together. As the taxi made its devious way through the traffic in Villiers Street and the Strand, her Micawber-likc faith that something would turn up revived; she was no longer frightened. “Something” indeed, had turned up, and .at a moment when her spirits were at their lowest ebb. She had learnt in a bitter school that the only way to fa-Ce life is to face it unflinchingly, and by the time the dignity of the new streets beyond the Gaiety Theatre had given place to the drabness. of the older Euston, she was prepared to face with outward calm whatever the immediate future might hold for her. The cab drew up at the steps of the Rossmore Hotel, and down those steps came Saul. He still wore the suit which had, in its origins, been intended for another man, and he stood waehing Anna carefully as she paid the taxi-driver. She paid him his exact fare plug, the sum of two pence. This Saul duly noted, but the natural carefulness to- which he attributed the action had no existence in fact. She was careful because the few shillings in her purse belonged to Bruce Wayne, although, of course, Saul could not be expected to know that. “Can I see Mrs. Sebright?” she asked, a little sharply, for, in spite of her apparent calm, she was conscious of a sinking feeling in that part of her anatomy where such feelings occur. “I —er —think so. I’ll take your bags, miss,” Saul replied. This, although Anna was unaware of it, was her first »success. She followed Saul into the hotel, and almost at once was conducted to the office, where, a-s it happened, Mrs. Sebright was alone. At the first glance, Anna’s nervousness left her. Mrs. Sebright had one of those kind country faces, and a slow Leicestershire accent that put people at their ease. “Good afternoon,” she said with a wcl“I —I want a room here.” “Yea?” “Mr. Bruce Wayne, the writer, suggested that I should call here. He is an old .friend of mine.’ “Any friend of Mr. Wayne’s is welcome here, I assure you.” “I only want a small room. I’m not fearfully well off, Mrs. Sebright. Mr. Wayne thought you might have one on the top floor. I shouldn’t mind a bit how small it was. I —l would willingly put up with it.” “We’re rather full up at the moment. There’s not a vacant room on the top floor, I’m afraid, but there’s one on the third floor. It’s a nice room, but I could let you have it at the same price.” “Thank you very much. You are very good.” “You’d like to see the room?” “Please.” “And vour name, please?” “Birkett. Miss Anna Birkett.” “If you’ll just sign this book, Miss Birkett. “It’s not a big room, but you’ll find it comfortable,” Mrs. Sebright said a little later, as. she took Anna up to the third floor. “It’s just what I want,” said Anna, with even more truth than the elder woman suspected. “There’s running water; we have it in “very room.” “Lovely.” “And the bathroom is just along the passage; the next door on the right but one. There’s a geyser there. You put in sixpence, and you get as much hot water as you want.” “Then I’ll have one now if I may.’ “Do! I don’t think I’ve ever heard Mr. Wayne speak of you.” “Very likely not. I haven t seen him for a long time until to-day.” “Well —if there’s anything you want, let me know, won’t you ?” “Thank you, I will, Mrs. Sebright.” Towards Recovery. The door closed behind her and Anna was alone. Saul had placed her bags on a stand at the foot of the bed. For a moment or so she stood looking around her. The dressing table, a wardrobe, the marble-topped washstand, the mirror above it., two framed coloured supplements on the wall, and on the dressing table a Bible provided by some association for the solace or instruction of such as might find themselves in that room. A very ordinary and rather depressing bedroom in a minor hotel near Euston, but, to the girl who surveyed it, a secure, land-locked harbour *where v for the motnent anyway, her frail bark might ride safe no matter what storm raged outside. And to be safe, even for the moment, was something. She seated herself on the end of the bed. It was a soft, comfortable, springy bed, and as she gazed out of the window she made an attempt to adjust herself to her new environment. She, Anna Birkett, was sitting in a room on the third floor of the Rossmore Hotel. That was the central fact. She tipped out her bag on to the bed. In a small, crumpled purse was ninepence of her own, constituting, with the exception of the meagre contents of her two bags, her worldly possessions. Additionally, there was four shillings and sixpence- which, although given to her, was, in her judgment, Bruce Wayne's. There had been no mention of terms. That struck her suddenly as verv curious. With every landlady she had eve: known—and they were as the sands of the sea—terms, in advance or otherwise, had been of paramount importance. All she knew was that she. or someone else, was paying the same amount as if she had taken one of the rooms on the top floor. Bruce Wayne had said that there were no snags, and she was certain that he had meant what he said at the time. But she knew from a long and varied experience of men that it was unwise to be too optimistic about them. However, she was there. And was going to stay there until something else happened. And, moreover, was about to indulge in the much-needed luxury of a bath. That, she understood, would cost sixpence which, in the event of her having to pay for it herself, would reduce her available capital bv two-tliirds. Carefully, she replaced the money and proceeded to unpack the hags which Saul—a man of great experience in such things—had found very light. There was a key in the wardrobe, she noted thankfully, for her clothes were not in a verv presentable state. The few things which she didn’t mind the chambermaid seeing she placed in the

chest of drawers; the remainder in the friendly and enveloping wardrobe wlieij it would be safe from prying eyes. Facing Life Again. This done, she undressed, and clad in a dressing gown which, in its day, had been a thing of bright and attractive colour, made her way to the bathroom that Mrs. Sebright had indicated, still bearing with her, womanlike, the handbag containing, among other trifles, the sixpence for the geyser. The bathroom was a recent addition; its white tiles were spotless. The geyser presented no difficulty, ami she watched the hot, steaming water gush out of it with a curious feeling of satisfaction. In other and more affluent days she had used bath salts, but in the sheer luxury of the warmth of that bath she did not even think of them. She watched her toes from the midst of the calming heat and fell to wondering, in a detached way, what was going to happen. An hour or so before she liad been sitting in the Embankment Gardens with ninepence in her bag, two bags in a cloakroom, and the most awful thoughts in her mind. Now she was in a hot bath, with the n.nepence intact and the bags safely in her bedroom. “Her” bedroom. It was not a dream. She. Anna Birkett, nas there in the bath. Those were her toes. She watched her long, slim legs. Not even Marlene Dietrich herself had any. thing on her where legs were concerned. The reflection showed an immense improvement in her attitude to things in general. Only when the bath had given tip all claim to heat did she emerge and seek the shelter of her room, arrayed once more in the departed glory of her dressCleverly circumventing the deficiencies In her wardrobe, she dressed herself with care and skill. After all, among other debts to Bruce Wayne, she certainly owed it to him to put up as good a show as she could. She wore the one presentable frock she possessed, a black silk with green collar and cuffs. £he also sported the one pair of stockings that was intact; the patent leather shoes, she decided, unless one looked at them closely and with hostile eyes, would pass muster. She “did” her face within the limits of the few toilrt requisites she possessed, and, at the end, surveyed as much of her person as the glass allowed with more satisfaction than she had considered possible an hour or so before. The face that looked back at her would still, she thought dispassionately, pass with a shove. Her hair had a natural wave—for which she had been thankful these last weeks—but wanted cutting and a shampoo. At its best it was golden, but in its neglected state it was just fair hair. The eyes were rerain s iscent of what she had been through; the old sparkle was dimmed. But it would return, she was confident, and the shadows beneath, softened with powder, were, in a way, attractive. “You’ll do—in spite of everything,” she said to herself, with a sudden jaunty pride. It was half-past five, and she decided to go downstairs into the lounge she had noticed when she came fn, and see what happened. In any case, she reflected with a smile, she was a bath to the good. Bruce Wayne Comes “Home." Mrs. Sebright was still in the office, and, with the exception of a girl sitting in the window, the lounge was deserted. Papers and magazines were piled on a small table in the corner of the room, and, picking up casually an ancient copy of a pictorial weekly, she sauntered across to a comfortable-looking chair on the far side. Mrs. Sebright followed her in. “You’d like some tea. Mis.* Birkett?” she asked. “Thank you, l should,” she said, with her most attractive smile. “I’ll have it sent up. Miss Lethcrby,” she went on to the girl in the window, “this is Miss Birkett, a new visitor.” “How do you do?” “Fine, thanks,” said Anna with another smile. “Are you staying long?” Miss Letherby asked when Mrs. Sebright had left them. “I’m —I'm not sure. Jt depends.” “Most of us do. I’ve been there five years. Mrs. Sebright’s wonderful.” “Jt certainly seems a nice place.” Anna was rapidly gaining confidence. It all seemed so easy. Moreover, the girl who liad been there for five years was quite ordinary. She was wearing a coat and skirt and a hat that was just a hat and nothing ekse. Now that Anna came to look at her she saw that Miss Letherhv wan tVr fy-fi veusli. She had a particularly nice face, but, nevertheless, she was thirty five. “Mrs. Sebright was telling me about you,” she went on. “You’re an old friend of Mr. Wayne’s?” “I’ve known him a long time.” “HcV> a good sort. 1 don\ think a great deal of his work—such of it that I’ve seen —but I don’t think wlr * i person does matters, do you? It’s what they are.” Anna could have told Miss, Lethcrby many things (hat bore on her statement, but all she said was: “Jt certainly should be.” “I’m a teacher. I suppose you could toll that? i always feel like one after a day in school this weather.” “I shouldn’t have known it,” said Anna, who had no intention of annoying anybody that afternoon. “It usually is obvious, I’m afraid. Ah! Here’s vour tea.” The maid Freda came in with a tray which she placed on a small table, anil that, in turn, in front of Anna. “I made you some toco,” she explained. “Thanks very much,” replied Anna, conscious that Freda was looking her up and down. “You can take my tray away. Freda; I’ve finished,” said Miss Lethcrby. “I think it must be wonderful to write, don’t you? Even if your writing is frankly commercial, as * Mr. Wayne says his is,” Miss Letherhv went on. when the maid had left them. “I suppose it is,” Anna said. “T don’t know many writers. Mr. Wavne is the only one. as a matter of fact.” “I’ve always wanted to write. I have written a novel, but I couHu't get it published. Mr. Wayne was very nice about it.” “He read it, then?” “Yes. It was good of him. But 1 could see from his face and the desperate efforts he made to be nice about it that it was no good. I suppose I’d better go up and wash. See you later. I hope?”

Once more alone, Anna settled down to her tea. She wasn’t hungry, but made an attempt on the “toce.” The tea was good, however. Well, here she was, in the lounge of the Rossmore Hotel, still with the ninepence intact (always assuming that the sixpence in the geyser was not to be paid by her). She had got away with it where Miss Letherby was concerned, but Freda was another matter. Servants gossiped. But Miss Letherby was the sort of woman you could talk to. When she wasn’t tired, she would be quite pretty, Anna decided. “Ah! There j'ou are,” a voice from the doorway announced, and Bruce Wayne came in. “Comfortable?” he went on, as he sank into a chair by her eide. “Most,” she assured him. “It all seems more like a dream than anything else. I’ve just met Miss Letherby.” “She’s one of the best,” he assured her. “Good as gold. I’ve never heard her say an unkind thing of a living soul.” “I like her. She’s kind,” Anna said. “And so is Mary Sebright—you haven’t met her yet. You’ll be as right “I'm all right,” she assured him with a sudden smile. “But, my dear man, what's going to happen? And what made you mention ninepence?” “Nothing patticularly—why ?’* “Does Mrs. Sebright know that I haven’t a bean?” "Not unless you’ve told her. Why should she ? You’re my guest here for the time being.” “Will you have a cup of tea out of your guest's teapot?” “No. thanks,” he smiled. “Now, do stop worrying. You’re going to settle down quietly here until we can fix you up in a job.” “That may be weeks,” she «*aid doubtfully. “it may be—if we’re unlucky. But we shall do it sooner or later. In the first place, you’ve got to get yourself some decent‘clothes. I’ve been thinking things out. You’re going to have your chance.” “You don’t like this frock?” she asked sharply. “On the contrary, I thing it’s a very jaunty, dainty little frock, but, as I said, vou’re going to have your chance. To-morrow you will go out and fit yourself up a*, ‘far as ten quid will allow “But I can’t take your money, I really can’t,” «slie said desperately. “Of course you can't. You’ll jolly well pay me back with the usual 10 percent per annum—or whatever it is. And when you’re a big noise in the films •you’ll ‘use every scrap of influence to make your people film mv books and stories. I’m not in the habit of chucking my money away, don’t you worry. ’ “Yoii really think I’ve got a chance after what’s happened?” she asked after a eiienc*. “I’m sure of it. Very few people, if any, know definitely what did happen, mil vague rumours don't hurt a girl, particularly in the film game.” “That’s true —up to a point,” she admitted. “Well, here’s ten quid,” he said casually, and took a small bundle of notes from his waistcoat pocket, where, evidently, lie had put it in readiness. (To be continued daily.)