Not another word about the cinema: not another breath. As soon as James had eaten his plum tart, he ran away.
“What can he have been doing?” said Alvina when he had gone.
“Buying a cinema show—and that man we saw is his manager. It’s quite simple.”
“But what are we going to do with a cinema show?” said Alvina.
“It’s what is he going to do. It doesn’t concern me. It’s no concern of mine. I shall not lend him anything, I shall not think about it, it will be the same to me as if there were no cinema. Which is all I have to say,” announced Miss Pinnegar.
“But he’s gone and done it,” said Alvina.
“Then let him go through with it. It’s no affair of mine. After all, your father’s affairs don’t concern me. It would be impertinent of me to introduce myself into them.”
“They don’t concern me very much,” said Alvina.
“You’re different. You’re his daughter. He’s no connection of mine, I’m glad to say. I pity your mother.”
“Oh, but he was always alike,” said Alvina.
“That’s where it is,” said Miss Pinnegar.
There was something fatal about her feelings. Once they had gone cold, they would never warm up again. As well try to warm up a frozen mouse. It only putrifies.
But poor Miss Pinnegar after this looked older, and seemed to get a little round-backed. And the things she said reminded Alvina so often of Miss Frost.
James fluttered into conversation with his daughter the next evening, after Miss Pinnegar had retired.
“I told you I had bought a cinematograph building,” said James. “We are negotiating for the machinery now: the dynamo and so on.”
“But where is it to be?” asked Alvina.
“Down at Lumley. I’ll take you and show you the site tomorrow. The building—it is a frame-section travelling theatre—will arrive on Thursday—next Thursday.”
“But who is in with you, father?”
“I am quite alone—quite alone,” said James Houghton. “I have found an excellent manager, who knows the whole business thoroughly—a Mr. May. Very nice man. Very nice man.”
“Rather short and dressed in grey?”
“Yes. And I have been thinking—if Miss Pinnegar will take the cash and issue tickets: if she will take over the ticket-office: and you will play the piano: and if Mr. May learns the control of the machine—he is having lessons now—: and if I am the indoors attendant, we shan’t need any more staff.”
“Miss Pinnegar won’t take the cash, father.”
“Why not? Why not?”
“I can’t say why not. But she won’t do anything—and if I were you I wouldn’t ask her.”
There was a pause.
“Oh, well,” said James, huffy. “She isn’t indispensable.”
And Alvina was to play the piano! Here was a blow for her! She hurried off to her bedroom to laugh and cry at once. She just saw herself at that piano, banging off the “Merry Widow Waltz,” and, in tender moments, “The Rosary.” Time after time, “The Rosary.” While the pictures flickered and the audience gave shouts and some grubby boy called “Chot‑let, penny a bar! Chot‑let, penny a bar! Chot‑let, penny a bar!” away she banged at another tune.
What a sight for the gods! She burst out laughing. And at the same time, she thought of her mother and Miss Frost, and she cried as if her heart would break. And then all kinds of comic and incongruous tunes came into her head. She imagined herself dressing up with most priceless variations. “Linger Longer Lucy,” for example. She began to spin imaginary harmonies and variations in her head, upon the theme of “Linger Longer Lucy.”
“Linger longer Lucy, linger longer Loo.
How I love to linger longer linger long o’ you.
Listen while I sing, love, promise you’ll be true,
And linger longer longer linger linger longer Loo.”
All the tunes that used to make Miss Frost so angry. All the Dream Waltzes and Maiden’s Prayers, and the awful songs.
“For in Spooney-ooney Island
Is there anyone cares for me?
In Spooney-ooney Island
Why surely there ought to be—”
Poor Miss Frost! Alvina imagined herself leading a chorus of collier louts, in a bad atmosphere of “Woodbines” and oranges, during the intervals when the pictures had collapsed.
“How’d you like to spoon with me?
How’d you like to spoon with me?
(Why ra‑ther!)Underneath the oak-tree nice and shady
Calling me your tootsey-wootsey lady?
How’d you like to hug and squeeze,
(Just try me!)Dandle me upon your knee,
Calling me your little lovey-dovey—
How’d you like to spoon with me?
(Oh‑h—Go on!)”
Alvina worked herself into quite a fever, with her imaginings.
In the morning she told Miss Pinnegar.
“Yes,” said Miss Pinnegar, “you see me issuing tickets, don’t you? Yes—well. I’m afraid he will have to do that part himself. And you’re going to play the piano. It’s a disgrace! It’s a disgrace! It’s a disgrace! It’s a mercy Miss Frost and your mother are dead. He’s lost every bit of shame—every bit—if he ever had any—which I doubt very much. Well, all I can say, I’m glad I am not concerned. And I’m sorry for you, for being his daughter. I’m heart sorry for you, I am. Well, well—no sense of shame—no sense of shame—”
And Miss Pinnegar padded out of the room.
Alvina walked down to Lumley and was shown the site and was introduced to Mr. May. He bowed to her in his best American fashion, and treated her with admirable American deference.
“Don’t you think,” he said to her, “it’s an admirable scheme?”
“Wonderful,” she replied.
“Of cauce,” he said, “the erection will be a merely temporary one. Of cauce it won’t be anything to look at: just an old wooden travelling theatre. But then—all we need is to make a start.”
“And you are going to work the film?” she asked.
“Yes,” he said with pride, “I spend every evening with the operator at Marsh’s in Knarborough. Very interesting I find it—very interesting indeed. And you are going to play the piano?” he said, perking his head on one side and looking at her archly.
“So father says,” she answered.
“But what do you say?” queried Mr. May.
“I suppose I don’t
