The Troubled Journey

Wanganui Chronicle, Volume 79, Issue 145, 20 June 1936, Page 14

The Troubled Journey

SERIAL STORY

By

MARGARET GLENN.

(Chapter VIII continued.) Put it back, quickly’.’’ urged Dorothy. Joan complied, without knowing why. They Joked to the crest of the hill had helped them to get a little further on their journey. The nose of a low-lying sports car came over, suddenly, and its engine snorted with a sudden burst of speed. The car roared towards them. Road-hog.” grimaced Dorothy, as it seemed that the car would pass. The driver, a bare-headed young man in a suit of grey flannels cut on lines as rakish as his car, saw them Just before he reached the stranded Morris, wrenched at his brakes and pulled the magnificent car up almost in its own length. He stepped out quickly, and smiled al them. “Can I help you?” he asked pleasantly. Dorothy nodded. Joan thought that this young man was one of the nicest she had met, but she admitted afterwards, that she was prejudiced because it seemed that he would be able to help them out of their difilculty. “We’re stuck,” she said, with a gesture towards the car. The young man nodded easily, and strolled towards the Morris, which was a sparrow compared with a peacock when looked at in the same moment, as the young man’s car, an Alvis. He pulled up the bonnet. “We’ve done that, several limes,” said Dorothy, who was irrepressible, that day. The man smiled, at her rather than with her. “I daresay you have,” he said, ‘'but you haven’t the professional touch.” He frowned down at the engine for a moment, and then made one or two tentative movements with his fingers. Neither of the girls could see what was happening but he seemed to be turning something. “Hrnn!” he said, after a pause “Hmm!” He walked very seriously round the Morris, and then shook his head. Then he turned towards Dorothy, with a quiet srnile. “If you care to bring that—” he pointed towards the Alvis as he spoke, “we might do something.” Dorothy turned, mystified. She touched several things on the running board of the young man's car until ho said “That 'one, that’s right.” Joan, watching her friend curiously saw th« colour which flooded Dorothy’s face and neck. “ That’s—that’s petrol,” muttered Dorothy. “ Thai's -what your car wants to make it go,” said the young man. “ You’ve no gas.” He winked •cheerfully at Joan, who was inwardly delighted at the way in which he had scored against Dorothy, whose “ We’ve done that, several times,” had been asking for trouble. But their rescuer was satisfied with his mild triumph. ’ “It often happens,” he said, “and no one ever thinks to look at the petrol tank of their own car. Are you going far?” “ Glenham,” said Dorothy. “ Five miles,’ said the young man. “ There’s a couple of gallons in that tin which you can have, with pleasure, so you’ll be all right. Five minutes later they waved to him as he started off in his car. Both of them looked at each other and smiled. “ We were lucky,” confessed Dorothy, “ but I’ve never felt such an idiot in my life.” “ You deserved all you got.” said Joan, “but I won’t rub it in.” Twenty minutes later they turned up a little lane leading lo half a dozen cottages which looked delightful against the background of the Sussex Downs. Dorothy directed Joan to pull up outside the third cottage. As the car stopped, an apple-cheeked woman looked up from her seat by the door of the cottage, and a little boy—between three and four, Joan guessed, started to run towards the gate. Joan looked at Dorothy, and was asonished by the expression in her j'icnd’s eyes. She had only seen a similar expression once before—in Felicity’s. Suddenly she understood. Dorothy realised it, and smiled. " It's mine,” she said, and her voice throbbed with pride. “My baby, Joan —and my mother.” CHAPTER IX. Dorothy told her story, a little later a the day. It was very simple, very straightfor.vard. She had been married only four nonths when her husband had been villed in a road accident. The child — Rob —had come along, and the expense of his arrival had used up the insurmce money. “So I had to find another job,” said Dorothy, “ and the Matthews and Wyatt one seemed the Ifest. I've done some painting as you mow, to earn a little extra. Both I Mum and Bob are dependent on me.” I She said it without any suggestion if heroics. Joan felt that any expres- ’ sion of sympathy would be ont of [ place, but her heart warmed towards Dorothy, who spent her life in London, working so that these two precious people should be well cared for. “ I haven’t told anyone about it at the office,” Dorothy went on, “ and 1 didn’t feel I could tell you. So 1 thought I’d show you.” Joan nodded. She could understand that the pain of Dorothy’s loss was too severe to be talked about. In her own mind she marvelled at the similarity of the circumstances which surrounded her two best friends— L’erek and Dorothy. But if there was any unhappiness in Dorothy’s heart, she hid it well, that week-end. The four of them enjoyed themselves to the uttermost. Mrs Sayers—Dorothy had used her maiden name for business purposes—was a charming personality, rich in the folk lore of the countryside. She both Joan and her daughter enthralled by her stories. And when Bob was awake, he kept them fully occupied with his pranks, and his obvious delight at seeing his mother again. “I’ve tried several times to get work nearer home,” said Dorothy, “but the money isn’t good enough, even when there is a job available. One day I’m hoping to save enough to live without worrying for a year or two, and then

I'll devote all my time to painting.” Joan nodded, thoughtfully, and asked: “Will your new job help you, like that?” Dorothy smiled, rather enigmatically. “Yes, I think so,” she said, “but I won't be getting quite so much money.” Joan could not make head nor tale of that, although she was to understand Dorothy's attitude, very soon W hen she did realise what her friend was driving at, she could have kicked herself for not seeing the obvious. But her experience, in commerce especially, was slight, and she could not be blamed for missing it. The week-end went all too quickly. Joan hardly knew why, but she felt that she was sitting on the edge of a volanco. It seemed almost as if a storm would break, soon, and swarnp her. She was completely at a loss to understand this, although she told herself that Dorothy’s manner had unsettled her. Certainly she was grieved to feel that the other women would not be al the office much longer. “I’ll be working at Ludgate Circus.” said Dorothy, as they went homewards I on the Sunday evening—making sure, this time, that they had ample petrol to get them to their journey’s end. “We can still lunch together, and you can come round to my flat." On the journey, Joan learned a great deal more about Dorothy Sayers. It had occurred to her, after she had realised the circumstances in which Dorothy lived, that the little threeroomed flat which the latter rented In Chelsea was an expensive item. She discovered, however, that on three nights of the week, Dorothy gave drawing and painting lessons to beginners. Here again, thought Joan, there was a similarity between Derek's life and Dorothy's. Derek was waiting at the Gregorys’ house when they arrived at Wimbledon. For an hour all three of them chattered idly. Derek seemed a little tired, Joan thought. He had been working too hard, and he would not take a holiday. She told herself that she would have to fry and persuade -him to have at least a long week-end at some seaside resort before the summer was too far advanced. The following day seemed long and wearisome. For the first time since she had worked in London, Joan’s job worried and somehow irritated her. To make matters worse, Geoffrey Matthews was bad-Jempered. Several times he snapped at her without apparent cause. Everything seemed lo go wrong. Towards five o'clock, when she was longing for the lime to come when she could tidy her desk and gel away from the office for the day, the telephone bell rang. The familiar voice of Ralph Matthews came over the wire. j “ I’d like to talk to my father, if you please,” he said, and Joan thought that he sounded unusually serious. She put the call through lo her employer, and was surprised within half a. minute to hear his bell ring. She picked up her pad and pencil and went inlo his office. lip. was talking into the telephone. “Yes, yes, I'\e got that. Just a minute.” He looked up at Joan. “ Take this down as I take it over the telephone, please, Miss Martin.” Joan sat down quickly, and started io write. For the first few minutes she thought of nothing but the dictation. It was complicated, and it contained’a mass of figures. She would have a nasty job to start the morning with, she thought, as the dictation grew longer, and the mass of figures worse. But after five minutes, she began to wonder at lliis method of taking down her notes. Matthews frequently called her in, as he had done on this occasion, but it was rare that he spoke for so long. Twice, during pauses, she glanced at the small clock on Matthews’ desk. She had been writing as hard as she could go for twenty minutes and her fingers were feeling stiff with cramp, when the man said finally: “ That’s all, is it? All right, Ralph. What lime will you be in ” “ About half-past eight,” said Ralph Matthews, at the other end of the wire. Geoffrey repealed the sentence, and added: “ All right, I’ll get. them ready.” He replaced the receiver, and then looked, half apologetically, at Joan. “ I’m afraid you’re going lo be thoroughly bored, Miss Martin. I’m anxious to get that stuff typed tonight.” Joan managed not Lo show her disappointment. She knew that Matthews was a good employer; it was rare that she was required to work after hours. So she smiled: “ That'll be all right,” she assured him. “ fl’hanks,” said Matthews. He seemed relieved, more relieved than he should have done, in the circumstances. Then: “ But you can’t do them here,” he said. “ You’ll have to refer to me, continually. Bring your portable machine over to my house, will you?” Joan nodded as she gathered up her papers. She had frequently taken messages to Matthews’ house, in Regent’s Park, and she had been impressed by the size and magnificence of the place. It reminded her of the Danchesler house, only it was three or four times as large. It would be a relief, anyhow, not to be compelled to stay in the office until eight o'clock—for the typing would lake her over two hours, she realised. Her employer seemed lo pull himself together suddenly. “ Get everything you want ready,” he said, “ and telephone to the house for Roberts to come over. That will save time.” Roberts was his chauffeur, Joan knew. Just half an hour later, she was sitting at a desk in Geoffrey Matthews’ huge study, with the necessary papers in front of her, and her machine open and ready for use. She had actually inserted the first sheet of paper when the door opened quickly and a man hurried into the room. (To be continued .