V
The Gift
Mrs. Arb was listening to a customer and giving change.
“ ‘And when you’ve got children of your own,’ she said, ‘and when you’ve got children of your own,’ that was her remark,” the customer, an insecurely fat woman, was saying.
“Just so,” Mrs. Arb agreed, handing the change and pushing a little parcel across the counter. She ignored Mr. Earlforward completely. He stood near the door, while the fat customer repeated once more what some third person had remarked upon a certain occasion. The customer’s accent was noticeably vulgar in contrast with Mrs. Arb’s. Mrs. Arb was indeed very “well spoken.” And she contrasted not merely with the customer but with the shop.
There were dozens of such little shops in and near King’s Cross Road. The stock, and also the ornamentation, of the shop came chiefly from the wholesalers of advertised goods made up into universally recognizable packets. Several kinds of tea in large quantities, and picturesque, bright tea-signs all around the shop. Several kinds of chocolate, in several kinds of fancy polished-wood glazed stands. (But the chocolate of one maker was in the stand of another.) All manner of patent foods, liquid and solid, each guaranteed to give strength. Two competitors in margarine. Scores of paper bags of flour. Some loaves; two hams, cut into. A milk-churn in the middle of the shop. Tinned fruits. Tinned fish. Tinned meats. And in the linoleum-lined window the cakes and bonbons which entitled the shop to style itself “confectioner’s.” Dirty ceiling; uneven dark wood floor; frowsy, mysterious corners; a shabby counter covered with linoleum in black-and-white check, like the bottom of the window. One chair; one small, round, iron table. No cash-desk. No writing apparatus of any sort. A smell of bread, ham and biscuits. A poor little shop, showing no individuality, no enterprise, no imagination, no potentiality of reasonable profits. A shop which saved the shopkeeper from the trouble of thinking for himself. The inevitable result of big advertising, and kept up to the average mark by the constant visitation of hurried commercial travellers and collectors who had the magic to extract money out of empty tills.
And Mrs. Arb, thin, bright, cheerful, with scintillating eyes; in a neat check dress and a fairly clean white apron! Yes, she was bright, she was cheerful, she had a keen face. Perhaps that was what had attracted Mr. Earlforward, who was used to neither cheerfulness nor brightness. Yet he thought: “It would have been just about the same if she’d been a gloomy woman.” Perhaps he had been attracted because she had life, energy, downrightness, masterfulness.
“Good evening, Mr. Earlforward. And what can I do for you?” She greeted him suddenly, vivaciously, as the fat customer departed.
She knew him, then! She knew his real name. She knew that his name did not accord with the sign over his shop. Her welcoming smile inspired him, as alcohol would have inspired him had he ever tasted it. He was uplifted to a higher plane of existence. And also, secretly, he was a little bit flurried; but his demeanour did not betray this. A clock struck rapidly in some room behind the shop, and at the sound Mrs. Arb sprang from behind the counter, shut and locked the shop door, and drew down its blind for a sign to the world that business was over for the day. She had a fine movement with her. In getting out of her way Mr. Earlforward strove to conceal his limp as much as possible.
“I thought I’d just look in about that cookery-book you wanted,” said he.
“It’s very kind of you I’m sure,” said she. “But I really don’t think I shall need it.”
“Oh!”
“No! I think I shall get rid of this business. There’s no doing anything with it.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” said Mr. Earlforward. And he was.
“It isn’t as if I didn’t enjoy it—at first. Quite a pleasant change for me to take something in hand. My husband died two years ago and left me nicely off, and I’ve been withering up ever since, till this came along. It’s no life, being a widow at my age. But I couldn’t stand this either, for long. There’s no bounce to this business, if you understand what I mean. It’s like hitting a cushion.”
“You’ve soon decided.”
“I haven’t decided. But I’m thinking about it. … You see, it’s a queer neighbourhood.”
“Queer?” He was shocked, perhaps a little hurt, but his calm tone disclosed nothing of that. He had a desire to explain to Mrs. Arb at great length that the neighbourhood was one of almost unique interest.
“Well, you know what I mean. You see, I come from Fulham—Chelsea you might call it. I’m not saying that when I lived in this shop before—eighteen years ago, is it?—I’m not saying I thought it was a queer neighbourhood then. I didn’t—and I was here for over a year, too. But I do now.”
“I must confess it hasn’t struck me as queer.”
“You know this King’s Cross Road?” Mrs. Arb proceeded with increased ardour. “You know it? You’ve walked all along it?”
“Yes.”
“So have I. Oh! I’ve looked about me. Is there a
