As she was busy washing a garment in the bowl, her landlady knocked and entered. She was a rough and rather beery-looking Yorkshire woman, not attractive.
“Oh, yo’n made yer bed then, han’ yer!”
“Yes,” said Alvina. “I’ve done everything.”
“I see yer han. Yo’n bin sharp.”
Alvina did not answer.
“Seems yer doin’ yersen a bit o’ weshin’.”
Still Alvina didn’t answer.
“Yo’ can ’ing it i’ th’ back yard.”
“I think it’ll dry here,” said Alvina.
“Isna much dryin’ up here. Send us howd when ’t’s ready. Yo’ll ’appen be wantin’ it. I can dry it off for yer i’ t’ kitchen. You don’t take a drop o’ nothink, do yer?”
“No,” said Alvina. “I don’t like it.”
“Summat a bit stronger ’n ’t bottle, my sakes alive! Well, yo mun ha’e yer fling, like t’ rest. But coom na, which on ’em is it? I catched sight on ’im goin’ out, but I didna ma’e out then which on ’em it wor. He—eh, it’s a pity you don’t take a drop of nothink, it’s a world’s pity. Is it the fairest on ’em, the tallest.”
“No,” said Alvina. “The darkest one.”
“Oh ay! Well, ’s a strappin’ anuff feller, for them as goes that road. I thought Madame was partikler. I s’ll charge yer a bit more, yer know. I s’ll ’ave to make a bit out of it. I’m partikler as a rule. I don’t like ’em comin’ in an’ goin’ out, you know. Things get said. You look so quiet, you do. Come now, it’s worth a hextra quart to me, else I shan’t have it, I shan’t. You can’t make as free as all that with the house, you know, be it what it may—”
She stood red-faced and dour in the doorway. Alvina quietly gave her half-a-sovereign.
“Nay, lass,” said the woman, “if you share niver a drop o’ th’ lashins, you mun split it. Five shillin’s is oceans, ma wench. I’m not down on you—not me. On’y we’ve got to keep up appearances a bit, you know. Dash my rags, it’s a caution!”
“I haven’t got five shillings—” said Alvina.
“Yer’ve not? All right, gi’e ’s ha ’efcrown today, an’ t’other termorrer. It’ll keep, it’ll keep. God bless you for a good wench. A’ open ’eart ’s worth all your bum-righteousness. It is for me. An’ a sight more. You’re all right, ma wench, you’re all right—”
And the rather bleary woman went nodding away.
Alvina ought to have minded. But she didn’t. She even laughed into her rickety mirror. At the back of her thoughts, all she minded was that Ciccio did not pay her some attention. She really expected him now to come to speak to her. If she could have imagined how far he was from any such intention.
So she loitered unwillingly at her window high over the grey, hard, cobbled street, and saw her landlady hastening along the black asphalt pavement, her dirty apron thrown discreetly over what was most obviously a quart jug. She followed the squat, intent figure with her eye, to the public-house at the corner. And then she saw Ciccio humped over his yellow bicycle, going for a steep and perilous ride with Gigi.
Still she lingered in her sordid room. She could feel Madame was expecting her. But she felt inert, weak, incommunicative. Only a real fear of offending Madame drove her down at last.
Max opened the door to let her in.
“Ah!” he said. “You’ve come. We were wondering about you.”
“Thank you,” she said, as she passed into the dirty hall where still two bicycles stood.
“Madame is in the kitchen,” he said.
Alvina found Madame trussed in a large white apron, busy rubbing a yellow-fleshed hen with lemon, previous to boiling.
“Ah!” said Madame. “So there you are! I have been out and done my shopping, and already begun to prepare the dinner. Yes, you may help me. Can you wash leeks? Yes? Every grain of sand? Shall I trust you then—?”
Madame usually had a kitchen to herself, in the morning. She either ousted her landlady, or used her as second cook. For Madame was a gourmet, if not gourmand. If she inclined towards self-indulgence in any direction, it was in the direction of food. She loved a good table. And hence the Tawaras saved less money than they might. She was an exacting, tormenting, bullying cook. Alvina, who knew well enough how to prepare a simple dinner, was offended by Madame’s exactions. Madame turning back the green leaves of a leek, and hunting a speck of earth down into the white, like a flea in a bed, was too much for Alvina.
“I’m afraid I shall never be particular enough,” she said. “Can’t I do anything else for you?”
“For me? I need nothing to be done for me. But for the young men—yes, I will show you in one minute—”
And she took Alvina upstairs to her room, and gave her a pair of the thin leather trousers fringed with hair, belonging to one of the braves. A seam had ripped. Madame gave Alvina a fine awl and some waxed thread.
“The leather is not good in these things of Gigi’s,” she said. “It is badly prepared. See, like this.” And she showed Alvina another place where the garment was repaired. “Keep on your apron. At the weekend you must fetch more clothes, not spoil this beautiful gown of voile. Where have you left your diamonds? What? In your room? Are they locked? Oh my dear—!” Madame turned pale and darted looks of fire at Alvina. “If they are stolen—!” she cried. “Oh! I have become quite weak, hearing you!” She panted and shook her head. “If they are not stolen, you have the Holy Saints alone to be thankful for keeping them. But run, run!”
And Madame really stamped her foot.
“Bring me everything you’ve got—every thing that is valuable. I shall lock it up. How can you—”
Alvina was hustled off to her lodging. Fortunately nothing was gone. She brought all to
