Faintley Speaking

‘But, look here, Mrs Deaks, you know you’ll be paid as soon as I get my advance! I’ve told you I must wait for publication. You know my novel’s been accepted. I showed you the letter. The money’s there all right!’

‘Be that as it may, sir, even if I was willing to wait, well, Deaks, he isn’t, and that’s the flat of it, if you take my meaning plain. Pay up or go… them’s his words and I can’t go again ’em and don’t intend to.’

‘All right, Mrs Deaks, that’s fair enough. I don’t intend to land you in trouble with your husband. But Deaks needn’t worry, you know. I shall pay you as soon as I’m able to, and when my ship comes home you’ll look pretty silly at the thought that you chucked me out, especially on a filthy night like this.’

‘Oh,’ exclaimed the landlady, turning her head as a torrent of summer rain hurtled spitefully at the window, ‘ I never meant you’d got to get out to-night, sir! I wouldn’t be hard like that, and nor would Deaks.’

‘Nevertheless, I’m going. I suppose I’d better get myself pinched in order to have somewhere to sleep.’ His light tone was gone. He was extremely sensitive, and spoke bitterly.

‘You wouldn’t do that, sir? Not really?’ She was distressed – a middle-aged, decent, kindly soul.

‘Wouldn’t I? Of course I shall go. You’ll have to let me leave my books and things here for a day or two until I get fixed up somewhere else.’ He wondered where the somewhere else could be. He had no one from whom to borrow.

Receiving her tearful consent, he went upstairs, put on his raincoat and hat, refilled his fountain-pen and walked out of the house. In his pockets he had a small notebook, a sixpence, fivepence-halfpenny, his pen, a pencil, a penknife, his mother’s wedding-ring, and his publisher’s contract calling for two more novels. He supposed he would have to get a job. It was a pity when he had the plot of the next novel so clearly in his head, but it could not be helped.

He walked rapidly in the direction of the Public Library with the intention of consulting the advertisement columns of the newspapers while the library doors were still open. At least he would be under cover. But he had overlooked the fact that it was Thursday. All departments of the library were shut. He stood in the rain and cursed himself. He could have stayed in his lodgings until the morning, or even until Saturday. There had been no suggestion of turning him out at a moment’s notice, and it was teeming down cats and dogs. Well, he was not going back to beg for shelter when it was his own tom-fool pride that had brought him out on such an evening.

Thoroughly angry, and already extremely wet, he put his hands in his raincoat pocket, lowered his head and walked towards the High Street. He had eaten nothing since breakfast. (The arrangement was that he always got his lunch out.) In the High Street there would be presented to him the alternatives of punching a policeman or spending one or two pence on bread. Then he remembered that it was Thursday. None of the shops would be open. It would have to be the policeman, he concluded. There was always one on point duty. No, of course there was not!… never on Thursdays or Sundays, because the shops were shut and then traffic was almost non-existent in the little provincial town and no point duty was needed.

The rain still poured down. The shop blinds, usually let down all day in summer to protect the goods from the sun, had been taken in, so that their shelter was lost. Mandsell became wet through, and was thoroughly wretched. Already he was beginning to change his mind. After all, there was nothing for it, he felt, but to go back to his lodgings for the night. Mrs Deaks would feel relieved, he knew, and even the unwelcoming Deaks could scarcely refuse to take him in. He must pocket his pride and go and ask, anyhow. It was hopeless to think of staying out all night in weather like this! His chest had always been troublesome.

He turned and began to walk back. As there was now no point in returning by way of the Public Library he took a road which ran alongside the park. Half-way up there was a public telephone box. At the sight of it he had an inspiration. His publisher’s office was on the telephone. There would be no harm in making a note of the number, if only to get out of the pelting rain for a minute or two. On the morrow he would telephone to ask whether there was any prospect of obtaining a small percentage of his advance royalties. It was not exactly asking for charity. The book was up there; it had been accepted for publication. If he could get the publisher to advance him the six weeks’ rent he owed, Mrs Deaks would look after him for another few weeks on tick again while he looked for a job. He could not imagine why this excellent idea had not occurred to him before.

Feeling suddenly elated and hopeful, he strode towards the telephone box. Just before he reached it, a man, with his collar turned up to his ears and his hat pulled down against the rain, came out of the box and walked rapidly away from Mandsell down the otherwise deserted road.

‘Must have needed to phone pretty urgently to come out in weather like this,’ thought Mandsell, pulling open the door and entering the box. Just as the door closed behind him the telephone began to buzz. Acting on instinct he picked up the receiver and said, ‘Hallo?’

‘Oh, there you are! I’m sorry to be so late, but the last one has only just gone out!’ It was a woman’s voice he heard.

‘I think there’s some mistake,’ he began.

‘No, there isn’t. This is Faintley speaking.’

‘It isn’t faint. It’s quite clear. But, you see —’

‘Miss Faintley, idiot! Don’t waste time making stupid jokes. Somebody may come in again at any minute, and you know what they are for minding other people’s business! Why, it would be all over the place in no time if one of them overheard me! Now, you do understand, don’t you?’

‘Not a thing. You see —’

‘Oh, no, do listen, please. You said you’d help me, and I’ve nobody else I can trust. The parcel is at Hagford Station, and all you’ve got to do is to ask for it in my name, and take it along to Tomson. Don’t forget to ask for a receipt. It’s awfully good of you. I don’t know what I should have done if… Oh, dear! Good-bye. I can hear them in the vestibule. It was an awfully good idea to ring you up on a public phone. Much better than settling things here, with all these busybodies about!’

‘What number are you speaking from?’ he demanded; but there was no reply.

Mandsell hung up. What a silly woman! Surely she could hear the difference between his voice and that of the man she had arranged to ring up! He opened the telephone directory, found the number he wanted, copied it into his notebook – fortunately the electric light in the little box was functioning! – and went out again into the rain. The more he thought about the telephone conversation… if conversation was the word for it… he had not been able to get a word in edgeways!… the more it intrigued him. He was