SHORT STORY

Waikato Times, Volume 102, Issue 17131, 18 June 1927, Page 4

SHORT STORY

TO BE LET—FURNISHED.

(By Irene Cohn.)

I. The July sun blazerl down on the two rows of semi-dctched villas that bordered Almsbury Road, which lies on the outskirts of Hove, Sussex. A wide street, it gives out on to the sea-front, and young trees, enclosed in tall iron railings, decorate it as measured intervals, giving promise of future shade and softening shadows to grey pavement, and red brick building. No. 43 in no* way differed from its neighbours except in the large noticeboard tied to the railings, which testified that the house was “To be Let— Furnished.” Its small square of front garden, with the neatly-clipped hedge of box-wood, vied with any in the street for correctness, while no pebble on the gravel path seemed out of place. But in the house itself were the inevitable signs of a removal; packingcases, large and small, filled the narrow hall, while wasps of straw and oddments of paper littered the linoleumed floor. Erica Shambrook bent over one of the open cases. In the early twenties, she was tall, with the straight, strong limbs of the outdoor woman, and her short, grey linen frock and carefullytended" shingled head emphasised her youth. Stopping to examine a cup from the Chinese teaset she was packing, Erica’s smooth, tapering fingers turned it slowly, appreciatively defining the raised pattern, as though the touoh delighted in the unusual design as much as the eyes in the bold green and red of the colours. llow well it would look with *lier heavily-encrusted Kashmir teasetl Both were rough, unfinished —the exotic flowering of Oriental fantasy. A voice, piping from upstairs, broke in on her reverie: “Hello, mummy I” Looking up, her eyes encountered a doll swinging gaily in mid-air. It was suspended by its flowing robes, which were tightly clutched in a small hand that protruded through the bannisters, while above this a mischievous face poked through. “Janet, if you treat Arabellc like this I shall take her away.” There was forced sternness in Erica Sharnbrook’s voice, which melted as she added: “Please be kind to her, darling, because she belonged to me when I was a little girl." “But she like swinging best,” was the answer. Then, after a pause, in which the swinging Arabelle was steadied, “I going now.” The head disappeared, and Arabelle was unceremoniously hauled up, legs first. Erica Sharnbrook returned to her packing with a smile, and having deftly tucked away the last piece of china in the coarse straw, went into the draw-ing-room. “I’ve finished the teaset, father. Hadn’t we better start on this room?”

The man she addressed gave no sign of having heard, and his stiff, bony fingers continued to close round some little earthenware figures, and transfer them, one by one, and with infinite care, from the shelves of a cabinet to its polished top. Since his wife’s death, nearly six months ago, Mr Brown had striven, with the aid of a housekeeper, to keep things “as they always had been.” Then his daughter had come to visit him, and her arguments had been irrefu e: where there had been spotless cleanliness there was now dirt; nothing was mg cared for, and he wou.d be much happier and more comfortable if he made his home with her. lie never questioned the truth of what she said, for he had been conscious only of one thing—the fear of breaking away from old associations and the blankness that stretched beyond. Finally he had given in—the house was to be let furnished. In this way it would still he his, and often he would think of the hangings and furniture, and know they still fraternised. Then the day would come when, the lease having expired, he would return and walk through the rooms. In this way the break was not final: so he argued with himself, but tie did not share his thoughts with anyone. But now the dreaded moment, which be had watched draw nearer as the weeks slipped by, was upon him, and lie must decide which of his intimate and numerous possessions were to be stripped from him, and which to accompany him into his new life.

Erica Sharnbrook watched while the last mud figure joined its fellows on the mirror-like top of the cabinet. Mow typical of the whole room it was: the tawdry red-earthen effigies of Indians, with their gaudy loincloths and turbans, huddled at the base of a cool and delicately tinted Dresden vase.

Her father fidgeted, gently drawing one forward, slowly pushing another back, till they stood evenly in a row. Then he turned to her.

A little man, his clothes hung loosely, with but vague regard to style or fit. He looked old and tired; the fair china-blue eyes were strained, and the face sunken and lined. “The Dresden vase wdll look lovely at Haselhurst. The lounge will be the best place for it.” It was Erica Sharnbrook who spoke first. “I didn’t think of taking that,” came the reply. “We only bought it recently. At an auction at some swell’s house in the Cromwell Road. Your mother fancied it. It’s the things she and I collected and had for years I vfant with me,” he blurted out. llis daughter drew in a quick breath, and lie saw tier face harden. It was not an expressive face, yet it was capable of intolerant disdain —a cold disdain that now froze her features to marble, and .chilled the man who w 7 as waiting patiently for tier to speak. She had not contemplated the possibility of her own house being invaded by the hideous bric-a-brac that had been the fascination of her childhood. She was caught unprepared, and her face only reflected the repugnance she felt,. There was no need to Jook round the well-known room, for its ' every object was imprinted on her mind: the carved wooden brackets inlaid with bits of glass that had come from India, and now adorned Lhe white satinstriped w-allpaper; the innumerable specimens of Lilliputian china, each boasting the crest or coat-of-arms of some English town; and brass which, though dimmed through neglect, yet bravely blinked and twittered everywhere in the afternoon sunshine. The table that occupied the centre of the room supported a glittering menagerie of trumpeting elephants, striding camels, crouching panthers, and gesticulating monkeys. And on tiie marble mantelpiece, among frames and casual ornaments, squatted j a Hindu god, sleek and shining, with long twisted arms and bestial face, flanked on either side with brass snake in the form of candlesticks.

“What do you propose taking?” The face was as cold as the eyes that turned to him.

“All tiie little things. They would be easy to pack, and would make the place more homely. Your housn i* so !>*>'« *

“But all this brass is so out of place! It may be all right in India, but here it simply doesn’t fit in with things 1” Mr Brown’s face, expressed puzzled amazement. “How doesn’t fit in?” he queried. “They are what your mother and I collected for our home.” “I know, father. But when you bought them it was different. Now they can be bought at Liberty’s any day.” Erica Sharnbrook spoke slowly, deliberately, trying to keep her irritation at bay. “Buy them at Liberty’s! But it’s not at all the same thing 1 Not at all the same thing! We collected each one separately, as souvenirs of the places we went to. Every one is genuine.” Moth like ho fluttered round his treasures, and the immediate future was forgotten in the relies of the past.

“I can remember where everything was bought,” he continued. “These mud things—of course they were cheap; but when we first went out your mother wanted something to make the bungolaw pretty, and we couldn’t afford much, so we got these in the Bombay bazaar. That’s nearly thirty years agol It’s wonderful how they have travelled round. But she always took great care of her things.” His fingers stroked the terra-cotta bodies caressingly, and he murmured: “Yes, I shall have these in my bedroom in a small cabinet.” “Of course, you must take everything you want for your own room,” his daughter rejoined heartily, delighted at the thought of a compromise. Mr Brown swung round quickly. On his face were mingled consternation and dismay, and fear had crept into his pale eyes. “But the brass and ciiina are much too good for a bedroom! This room has always been so admired. There’s nothing to be ashamed of."

He spoke anxiously, and the wellknown contemptuous look on his daughter’s face did not reassure him. A great stillness was abroad, the sleepy stillness of a hot summer’s afternoon. Even the familiar sound of. the motor bus that rattled along the main street at the top of Almsbury would have been welcome. There was something pending in the heavy air, and he felt an urgent need to break the silence. Ilis eyes flittered nervously round the room, then settled. “This painting was done by your Aunt Minnie, my sister." Crossing the room, lie took a varnished wooden plaque from the wall and turned it to the light, which beat fiercely on the savage red of the tropical flowers it boasted. “It’s always been very much admired. Don’t you think it’s well done?”

“Yes, it’s well done,” came the slow reply. The grudging praise heartened him, ! and he smiled happily. The room had i recaptured its familiar ease and [ brightness, and a drowsy bee hummed | on the window-pane. I He rambled oh contentedly: “This ' and the poinsettias”—he nodded at a similar panel on the opposite wall—“make a fine pair. They brighten up a room so.”

“But, father, you must understand it’s impossible for me to have things at Haselhurst.”

Mr Brown looked at his daughter wistfully, but did not understand. Site was still by the table of brass ornaments, as on first coming into the room,, but her expression had changed —it was dogged, stubborn, the lower jaw protruding slightly, and her eyes, like steel, looked as if they would force her desire on his and obliterate it. since I married Haselhurst has been my hobby. I’ve worked and saved to make it perfect. It was only u dilapidated barn, and now it’s an almost perfect example of an old English cottage. I’ve gone without things till I could afford the genuine old stuff to furnish it with. And now 7 , for a whim, you ask me to ruin its character."

Warmed to her subject, she was blind to everything but the thought of keeping intact the house tiiat had been her creation. Trembling and flushed, she waited for her father to speak, but he said nothing. Embedded for years in security, and the occupation of trivial pleasures, his mind had iost its activity. He leaned heavily on the wooden plaque, his eyes vacant but riveted to his daughter’s face. Then slowly the blankness gave way and comprehension dawned; the shrunken face twitched to life, and a mottled purple flush mounted his cheeks.

“Why don’t you say something, father? Can’t you see anything but your own point of view?’’ Impatience that had outrun all control rang harshly in her voice, and her hands clenched.

Her father’s dry lips moved, but there was no sound. She saw him swallow, then painfully the words came: “You don’t wish to inherit anything of ours?” "Father, don’t put it like that!” The words broke from her like a cry. “But I have a right to my own opinion. Can’t you—won’t you understand?” One hand had gone out to him. pleading; but he saw nothing. He moved, and the painted plaque fell unnoticed to the ground. Then slowly his feet slipped along the carpet, and ills narrow shoulders drooped, as if an invisible weight pressed them down. His hand was on the brass doorknob, when his daughter ran forward and stood with her hack to the door.

‘“Do be reasonable, father. You are going to start a new life in new surroundings. It's morbid to live in the past.” He looked up, and she was startled by the wide, vacant stare in his eyes; gradually he focused her presence. “The past? It’s the only life I know.” There was something awful, terrifying, in the smile that stretched his thin lips. She drew away, and watched fascinated as he opened the door and shuffled out of the room.

Erica Sharnbrook's immediate impulse was to follow. Then she hesitated. That would mean capitulation. And, after all. he was very childish. She turned from the door, to And herself face to face with, and to her jangled nerves overwhelmed, suffocated by the heterogeneous medley of which the room consisted. Instinctively her eyes closed against it. But memory was too strong, and her mind was besieged— 7 each object insistent of recognition, with no purpose, no part in the whole, except that it was there. Capitulate—never I

She went to the window and leaned against the shiny white enamelled woodwork. Looking on to Lhe garden patch in front of the house, she smiled to see the stately primness of the flowers. Unsolicited, the scent of lavender, phlox, and old tea-roses came to her, softening her set face with the thought of how these grew pele-mele in her old-world garden, nningling as did their fragrance in lhe air.

Behind her lhe door was opened softly, and she listened. . . . But a light step fell on the carpet, and, relieved, she turned from the window, then* caught her breath sharply: “Janet —my lovely baby doll I”

Janet stood her ground stolidly, feet firmly planted apart, a golliwog hugged close in one hand, and the now headless Arabella in the other.

“Sorry, mummy. She fell out of the pram.”

For a moment Erica Sharnbrook forgot the doll. She looked at the child, and was chilled to sec the indifference of her voice confirmed in her face. The apology was only lip service, she realised with biltcrness. Seated on the window-sill, she reached out for the headless trunk, and her eyes pricked queerly under the lids. She smoothed the long linen robe out on her lap, remembering the pride that had swelled within her the first time she had washed and ironed it herself. And underneath were the fat, dimpled legs.

“Nanny says we can get a new head, just the same kind, at the doll’s hospital.” As she spoke Janet looked dispassionately at the decapitated doll.

“A new hcadl” exclaimed mother.

“Yes; there are lots and lots—in the window."

“No, no,” was the hurried reply; “it can never be the same again.”

Of course the child did not know what the doll meant to her! Whynaked, Erica could pick it ojut .from * hundred others as surely as if it were her own child. A new hcadl It could never be the samel It would not be the same thing at all! She repeated the words again and again, as if they were the refrain of a well-known song. Where had she heard them before? And who —why—her father. . . . Her body stiffened. His words, and the stooping figure she had watched crumple like a dried leaf, possessed her, while blinding realisation penetrated every particle, every cell of memory. What had she done? What had she done?

“Mummy, what you looking at?” Janet’s voice wars small and injured. She gave, and demanded, unswerving attention to any conversation, and her mother wars looking straight before her very hard. “Nothing, darling.”

Drawing the child to her, she stroked the sleek brown head. “You shall have another baby doll."

“I like golliwogs best,” was the unhesitating reply. A smile tried to capture Erica Sharnbrook’s ’ lips, but they trembled, and it died away.

“What about Arabelle?” inquired Janet.

“I’ll keep Arabelle.” “Without a head?” the child asked in an awed whisper.

“Yes,” came the reply; “I want her to be as I’ve always known her. Perhaps one day you will understand."