More Deadly Than The Male

'What do you mean?' he asked, turning on Sydney.

'Just that,' Sydney returned; 'she knows what she'll get the next time she stays out all night.'

Perhaps, after all, he had only threatened her, George thought, his unexpected surge of anger dying down. Well, that showed how careful they had to be. This confirmed his belief that Cora was frightened of Sydney. And no wonder. 'A hit touched,' she had said. Looking at him now, George thought he might really be a hit touched. There was something vicious about those eyes: not only vicious, but fanatical.

He thought it safer to change the subject, and began to talk about their afternoon calls.

He was now most anxious to speak to Cora. He wanted to hear her side of what had happened. If she wanted protection, she only had to ask him. If Sydney really had ill- treated her, he'd make him sorry. Just how he would do this he didn't know, but the details could be worked out later.

Once on the territory, George found it much harder to get to the telephone box than he had imagined. For one thing, all his calls were at the wrong end of the long street. Then Sydney seemed to be doing most of his canvassing in the front gardens. George was so anxious to talk to Cora, so worried that Sydney would spot him sneaking into the telephone box, that he spoilt four calls, where he was pretty sure, if he had been in the right mental attitude, he would have got orders.

This is ridiculous, he thought. I'm throwing away money. I can't go on like this. I'll go to the call-box right now. I won't wait for Sydney to get out of sight. I'll tell him I'm making a date with a friend, or something like that.

He hurried down the street towards the telephone box. As he passed one of the little houses, Sydney appeared at the front door. George kept on, feeling himself growing hot.

'Where you going?' Sydney called.

George glanced over his shoulder. 'I've got a 'phone call to make,' he said, without stopping. 'It won't take me a minute.'

He caught a glimpse of Sydney's sneering smile, and then he looked quickly away. Did Sydney suspect who he was going to call? No, he didn't think so, but it couldn't be helped if he did. George just could not wait any longer.

It took him some time to find Harris & Son in the telephone book. There were twenty-seven columns of Harrises to wade through. The telephone box was hot and stuffy, and George kept looking down the street, worried in case Sydney suddenly decided to find out whom he was calling. When eventually he found the number, he was dismayed and exasperated to find that he had no coppers. He decided recklessly to use sixpence, but the sixpence persisted in falling right through the box and coming back to him: it was as if it was endowed with human feelings and resented his extravagant mood. Thoroughly irritated, George left the 'phone box and looked up and down the road. Sydney had disappeared, but a policeman was coming along.

George got some coppers off the policeman—coppers from a copper! he thought foolishly—and returned to the telephone box. He dialled the number and waited. Brr-brr! . . . Brr-brr! In a moment or so he would be listening to her cold, tight, exciting voice. What a marvellous invention the telephone was! he thought. They were taking their time about answering. He shifted impatiently. Phew! It was hot in this booth. Brr-hrr! . . . Brr-brr! The bell went on and on. No one answered. George stood there, obstinate, sweating, irritated. What were they playing at? he asked himself. Why didn't they answer? Then he remembered. What a fool! Sunday! Of course, the shop would be shut! Oh hell! Now he would have to wait until tomorrow. He hung up and pressed button 'B'. Coming out into the sunshine, he felt suddenly deflated. Twenty-four hours . . . how absolutely sickening! he thought. Why did she have to have a telephone in a shop? That meant he would never be able to talk to her on a Sunday. That meant that from now on Sunday was going to be the worst day of the week, instead of being the best day. It was a day he looked forward to because he had something to do in the afternoon as well as in the evening- it was also the best day for business. Now it would be the day when he was cut off entirely from Cora.

As it happened, it turned out to be the worst day he had had for a long time. People were ruder to him, more people were out, more people wouldn't come to the front door, although he could see them peeping at him through the curtains. When he did get inside, he found he wasn't concentrating, and he did not succeed in getting anyone sufficiently enthusiastic to sign an order form. Those who showed a slight inclination to buy put him off by asking him to call again. 'I want to think about it,' they said. 'I don't want to rush into anything.'

Of course, to make matters worse, Sydney got three orders. At the end of the evening, when they decided to go home, Sydney joined him at the corner.

'How many?' he said, looking at George with a jeering expression in his eyes.

George was tempted to lie, but he knew Sydney would demand to see the completed order forms, so he just shrugged and admitted he hadn't had any luck.

'Well, I got three,' Sydney said in triumph. 'What's the matter with you? Got something on your mind?'

Of course he had something on his mind, but he couldn't tell Sydney about that.

'It's just the luck of the game,' he said, envious and disappointed. 'I've worked through a lot of dead calls, and I'll get a hatch of orders tomorrow.'

'You hope,' Sydney said, and laughed.

Monday wasn't much better. He was in a fever of excitement all the morning and afternoon. When Sydney and he reached Wembley at four o'clock, and as soon as Sydney was safely out of the way in one of the little houses, George rushed to the telephone box.

''Ullo?' said a man's voice in George's ear.

'Could I speak to Miss Brant?' George asked, trying to imagine what the man looked like from the sound of his voice.

''Oo?'

'Miss Brant,' George repeated, raising his voice. 'Not now, yer can't. I got no one to send.'

'But I must speak to Miss Brant,' George said firmly. 'Well. I dunno. I can't leave the shop, now can I? It means going hup the stairs. I ain't good at stairs, either . . . not at my age, I ain't. Can't you ring later? The missus'll be hack then.'