The Tunnel · Chapter 3 (5/6)

“Is there anything to go back?”

“Yes, I’ll bring them out. We’ve been reading an awful one⁠—awful.”

Miriam began fingering her gold foil. Mrs. Orly was going to expect her to be shocked.⁠ ⁠…

“By that awful man Zola.⁠ ⁠…”

“Oh yes,” said Miriam, dryly.

“Have you read any of his?”

“Yes,” said Miriam carefully.

“Have you? Aren’t they shockin’?”

“Well I don’t know. I thought ‘Lourdes’ was simply wonderful.”

“Is that a nice one⁠—what’s it about?”

“Oh you know⁠—it’s about the Madonna of Lourdes, the miracles, in the south of France. It begins with a crowded trainload of sick people going down through France on a very hot day⁠ ⁠… it’s simply stupendous⁠ ⁠… you feel you’re in the train, you go through it all”⁠—she turned away and looked through the window overcome⁠ ⁠… “and there’s a thing called ‘La Rêve’ ” she went on incoherently with a break in her voice “about an embroideress and a man called Felicien⁠—it’s simply the most lovely thing.”

Mrs. Orly came near to the table.

“You understand about books, don’t you,” she said wistfully.

“Oh no,” said Miriam. “I’ve hardly read anything.”

“I wish you’d put those two down.”

“I don’t know the names of the translations,” announced Miriam with conceited solicitude.

A long loud yawn resounded through the door.

“Better, boysie?” asked Mrs. Orly turning anxiously towards the open door.

“Yes, my love,” said Mr. Orly cheerfully.

“I am glad, boy⁠—I’ll get my things on⁠—the carriage’ll be here in a minute.”

She departed at a run and Mr. Orly came in and sat heavily down in a chair set against the slope of the wall close by and facing Miriam.

“Phoo,” he puffed, “I’ve been taking phenacetin all day; you don’t get heads do you?”

Miriam smiled and began preparing a reply.

“How’s it coming in? Totting up, eh?”

“I think so,” said Miriam uneasily.

“What’s it totting up to this month? Any idea?”

“No; I can see if you like.”

“Never mind, never mind.⁠ ⁠… Mrs. O’s been reading⁠ ⁠… phew! You’re a lit’ry young lady⁠—d’you know that French chap⁠—Zola⁠—Emmil Zola⁠—” Mr. Orly glanced suspiciously.

“Yes,” said Miriam.

“Like ’im?”

“Yes,” said Miriam firmly.

“Well⁠—it’s a matter of taste and fancy,” sighed Mr. Orly heavily. “Chacun à son goût⁠—shake an ass and go, as they say. One’s enough for me. I can’t think why they do it myself⁠—sheer well to call a spade a spade sheer bestiality those French writers⁠—don’t ye think so, eh?”

“Well no. I don’t think I can accept that as a summary of French literature.”

“Eh well, it’s beyond me. I suppose I’m not up to it. Behind the times. Not cultured enough. Not cultured enough I guess. Ready dearest?” he said addressing his wife and getting to his feet with a groan. “Miss Hens’n’s a great admirer of Emmil Zola.”

“She says some of his books are pretty, didn’t you, Miss Hens’n. It isn’t fair to judge from one book, Ro.”

“No my love no. Quite right. Quite right. I’m wrong⁠—no doubt. Getting old and soft. Things go on too fast for me.”

“Don’t be so silly, Ro.”

Drowsily and automatically Miriam went on rolling tin and gold⁠—sliding a crisp thick foil of tin from the pink tissue paper leaved book on to the serviette⁠ ⁠… a firm metallic crackle⁠ ⁠… then a silent layer of thin gold⁠ ⁠… then more tin⁠ ⁠… adjusting the three slippery leaves in perfect superposition without touching them with her hands, cutting the final square into three strips, with the long sharp straight bladed scissors⁠—the edges of the metal adhering to each other as the scissors went along⁠—thinking again with vague distant dreamy amusement of the boy who cut the rubber tyre to mend it⁠—rolling the flat strips with a fold of the serviette, deftly until they turned into neat little twisted crinkled rolls⁠—wondering how she had acquired the knack. She went on and on lazily, unable to stop, sitting back in her chair and working with outstretched arms, until a small fancy soap box was filled with the twists⁠—enough to last the practice for a month or two. The sight filled her with a sense of achievement and zeal. Putting on its lid she placed the soap box on the second chair. Lazily, stupidly, longing for tea⁠—all the important clerical work left undone, Mr. Orly’s surgery to clear up for the day⁠—still she was working in the practice. She glanced approvingly at the soap box⁠ ⁠… but there were ages to pass before tea. She did not dare to look at her clock. Had the hall clock struck three? Bending to a drawer she drew out a strip of amadou⁠—offended at the sight of her red wrist coming out of the harsh cheap black sleeve and the fingers bloated by cold. They looked lifeless; no one else’s hands looked so lifeless. Part of the amadou was soft and warm to her touch, part hard and stringy. Cutting out a soft square she cut it rapidly into tiny cubes collecting them in a pleasant flummery heap on the blotting paper⁠—Mr. Hancock should have those; they belonged to his perfect treatment of his patients; it was quite just. Cutting a strip of the harsher part, she pulled and teased it into comparative softness and cut it up into a second pile of fragments. Amadou, gold and tin⁠ ⁠… Japanese paper? A horrible torpor possessed her. Why did one’s head get into such a hot fearful state before tea?⁠ ⁠… grey stone wall and the side of the projecting glass roofed peak of Mr. Leyton’s surgery⁠ ⁠… grey stone wall⁠ ⁠… wall⁠ ⁠… railings at the top of it⁠ ⁠… cold⁠—a cold sky⁠ ⁠… it was their time⁠—nine to six⁠—no doubt those people did best who thought of nothing during hours but the work⁠—cheerfully⁠—but they were always pretending⁠—in and out of work hours they pretended. There was something wrong in them and something wrong in the people who shirked. La⁠—te⁠—ta⁠—te⁠—te⁠—ta, she hummed searching her table for relief. Mr. Hancock’s bell sounded and she fled up to the warmth of his room. In a moment Mudie’s cart came and the maid summoned her. There was a pile of books in the hall.⁠ ⁠… She glanced curiously at the titles worried with the responsibility⁠—The Sorrows⁠—that was all right. Secrets of a Stormy Court⁠ ⁠… that was the sort of thing⁠ ⁠… “you can’t make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear”⁠ ⁠… one day she must explain to Mr. Orly that that was really “sousière” a thing to hold halfpence. My Reminiscences by Count de Something. Perhaps that was one they had put down. The maid presented the volumes to be returned. Taking them Miriam asked her to ask Mr. Hancock if he had anything to change. Cock Lane and Common Sense she read⁠ ⁠… there was some sort of argument in that⁠ ⁠… the “facts” of some case⁠ ⁠… it would sneer at something, some popular idea⁠ ⁠… it was probably by some doctor or scientific man⁠ ⁠… but that was not the book.⁠ ⁠… The Earth⁠ ⁠… Emile Zola. She flapped the book open and hurriedly read a few phrases. The hall pulsated curiously. She flushed all over her body. “There’s nothing for Mr. Hancock, miss.” “All right; these can go and these are to be kept,” she said indistinctly. Wandering back to her room she repeated the phrases in her mind in French. They seemed to clear up and take shelter⁠—somehow they were terse and acceptable and they were secret and secure⁠—but English people ought not to read them; in English. It was⁠—outrageous. English men. The French man had written them simply⁠ ⁠… French logic⁠ ⁠… English men were shy and suggestive about these things⁠—either that or breezy⁠ ⁠… “filth” which was almost worse. The Orlys ought not to read them at all⁠ ⁠… it was a good thing the book was out of the house⁠ ⁠… they would forget. But she would not forget. Her empty room glanced with a strange confused sadness; the clearing up upstairs was not quite done; but she could not go upstairs again yet. Three-fifteen; the afternoon had turned; her clock was a little slow too. The warm quiet empty den was waiting for the tea-tray. Clearing the remnants from her table she sat down again. The heavy stillness of the house closed in.⁠ ⁠… She opened the drawer of stationery. Various kinds of notepaper lay slid together in confusion; someone had been fumbling there. The correspondence cards propped against the side of the drawer would never stay in their proper places. With comatose meticulousness she put the whole drawer in order, replenishing it from a drawer of reserve packets, until it was so full that nothing could slide. She surveyed the result with satisfaction; and shut the drawer. She would tidy one drawer every afternoon.⁠ ⁠… She opened the drawer once more and looked again. To keep it like that would mean never using the undermost cards and notepaper. That would not do⁠ ⁠… change them all round sometimes. She sat for a while inertly and presently lazily roused herself with the idea of going upstairs. Pausing in front of a long three-shelved whatnot filling the space between the door and the narrow many drawered specimen case that stood next her table she idly surveyed its contents. Nothing but piles of British Dental Journals, Proceedings of the Odontological Society, circulars from the Dental Manufacturing Companies. Propping her elbows on the upper shelf of the whatnot she stood turning leaves.

“Tea up?”

“Don’t know,” said Miriam irritably, passing the open door. He could see she had only just come down and could not possibly know. The soft jingling of the cups shaken together on a tray by labouring footsteps came from the basement stairs. Mr. Leyton’s hurried clattering increased. Miriam waited impatiently by her table. The maid padded heavily through swinging the door of the den wide with her elbow. When she had retired, Miriam sauntered warm and happy almost before she was inside the door into the den. With her eyes on the tea-tray she felt the afternoon expand.⁠ ⁠… “There’s a Burma girl a settin’ and I know she thinks of me.”⁠ ⁠… “Come you back you British soldier, come you back to Mandalay.” Godfrey’s tune was much the best; stiff, like the words, the other was only singsong. Pushing off the distraction she sat down near the gently roaring blaze of the gas fire in a low little chair, upholstered in cretonne almost patternless with age. The glow of the fire went through and through her. If she had tea at once, everything would be richer and richer, but things would move on, and if they came back she would have finished and would have to go. The face of the railway clock fixed against the frontage of the gallery at the far end of the room said four-fifteen. They had evidently ordered tea to be a quarter of an hour late and might be in any minute⁠ ⁠… this curious feeling that the room belonged to her more than to the people who owned it, so that they were always intruders.⁠ ⁠… Leaving with difficulty the little feast untouched⁠ ⁠… a Dundee cake from Buszards⁠ ⁠… she browsed rapidly, her eyes roaming from thing to thing⁠ ⁠… the shields and assegais grouped upon the raised dull gold papering of the high opposite wall, the bright beautiful coloured bead skirts spread out amongst curious carved tusks and weapons, the large cool placid gold Buddha reclining below them with his chin on his hand and his elbow on a red velvet cushion, on the Japanese cabinet; the Japanese cupboard fixed above Mrs. Orly’s writing table, the fine firm carved ivory on its panels; the tall vase of Cape gooseberries flaring on the top of the cottage piano under the shadow of the gallery; the gallery with its upper mystery, the happy clock fastened against its lower edge, always at something after four, the door set back in the wall, leading into her faraway midday room, the light falling from the long high frosted window along the confusion of Mr. Orly’s bench, noisy as she looked at it with the sound of metal tools falling with a rattle, the drone and rattle of the motor lathe, Mr. Orly’s cheerful hummings and whistlings, the bench swept down the length of the room to her side⁠ ⁠… the movable shaded electric lamp; Mr. Orly’s African tobacco pouch bunched underneath it on the edge of the bench near the old leather armchair near to the fire, facing the assegais; the glass-doored bookcase on either side of the fireplace, the strange smooth gold on the strips of Burmese wood fastened along the shelves, the clear brown light of the room on the gold, the curious lettering sweeping across the gold.

“Tea? Good.”

Mr. Leyton pulled up a chair and plumped into it digging at his person and dragging out the tails of his coat with one hand, holding a rumpled newspaper at reading length. When his coattails were free he scratched his head and scrubbed vigorously at his short brown beard.

“You had tea?” he said to Miriam’s motionlessness, without looking up.

“No⁠—let’s have tea,” said Miriam. Why should he assume that she should pour out the tea.⁠ ⁠…

“I say that’s a nasty one,” said Mr. Leyton hysterically and began reading in a high hysterical falsetto.

Miriam began pouring out. Mr. Leyton finished his passage with a little giggling shriek of laughter and fumbled for bread and butter with his eyes still on the newspaper. Miriam sipped her hot tea. The room darkled in the silence. Everything intensified. She glanced impatiently at Mr. Leyton’s bent unconscious form. His shirt and the long straight narrow ends of his tie made a bulging curve above his low-cut waistcoat. The collar of his coat stood away from his bent neck and its tails were bunched up round his hips. His trousers were so hitched up that his bent knees strained against the harsh crude Rope Brothers cloth. The ends of his trousers peaked up in front, displaying loose rolls of black sock and the whole of his anatomical walking-shoes. Miriam heard his busily masticating jaws and dreaded his operations with his teacup. A wavering hand came out and found the cup and clasped it by the rim, holding it at the edge of the lifted newspaper. She busied herself with cutting stout little wedges of cake. Mr. Leyton sipped, gasping after each loud quilting gulp; a gasp, and the sound of a moustache being sucked. Mr. Hancock’s showing out bell rang. Mr. Leyton plunged busily round, finishing his cup in a series of rapid gulps. “Kike?” he said.

“M,” said Miriam, “jolly kike⁠—did you finish Mr. Buck?”

“More or less⁠—”

“Did you boil the remains?”

“Boiled every blessed thing⁠—and put the serviette in k’bolic.”

Miriam hid her relief and poured him out another cup.

Mr. Hancock came in through the open door and quickly up to the tea-tray. Pouring out a cup he held the teapot suspended, “another cup?”

“No thanks, not just at present,” said Miriam getting to her feet with a morsel of cake in her fingers.

“Plenty of time for my things,” said Mr. Hancock sitting down in Mr. Orly’s chair with his tea, his flat compact slightly wrinkled and square-toed patent leather shoes gleamed from under the rims of his soft dark grey beautifully cut trousers with a pleasant shine as he sat back comfortable and unlounging, with crossed knees in the deep chair.

Mr. Leyton had got to his feet.

“Busy?” he said rapidly munching. “I say I’ve had that man Buck this afternoon.”

“Oh yes,” said Mr. Hancock brushing a crumb from his knee.

“You know⁠—that case I told you about.”

“Oh yes?” said Mr. Hancock with a clear glance and a slight tightening of the face.

Miriam made for the door. Mr. Hancock was not encouraging the topic. Mr. Leyton’s cup came down with a clatter. “I’m fearfully rushed,” he said. “I must be off.” He caught Miriam up in the hall. “I say tea must have been fearfully late. I’ve got to get down to headquarters by five sharp.”

“You go on first,” said Miriam standing aside.

Mr. Leyton fled up through the house three steps at a time.