“I never,” he brought out. He had forgotten the phone booth.
“Why, Mr Summers,” she warned him in a low voice. “Why you’re not quite yourself. And look at you,” she added.
“Look,” he said, averting anguished eyes. Why, she thought, he’s like a dumb animal. “Most important,” he stammered. “Rose’s …, Rose’s …,” and he could get no farther. He kept swallowing.
“Roses,” she half whispered, when he could not go on, afraid the queue might take notice. “What about them? You won’t find many now, and the price. They grow those under glass. The shrapnel’s got the most of that, Mr Summers.”
“No,” he said, “it’s Mr Grant …,” and he could not finish.
By now she was afeared, almost.
“Look Mr Summers, not in the street,” she said. “I can’t discuss private affairs while I’m in the middle of my business, thank you.”
“I’ve got to ask this,” he said, quite clear. His brown eyes were on her now. She thought no, they’re black. “Did he lose his daughter?” he managed, in a sort of gasp.
“I’m sure I wouldn’t have any idea. Now why don’t you let Mary fetch you a nice cup of tea, at home, till I’m ready. It’s the strain,” she said in a louder voice, perhaps for the others. “I get like it sometimes.”
“No now,” he said.
“What? With me only four from the shop?”
“I must,” he said. He was whining.
“Why you’ll have a treat tomorrow when you take the cover off the dish. I don’t know I’m sure, only Mrs England passed the word there was a special in at Blundens. Mr Blunden is always good to me.”
“Most important,” he said, quite clear. “About the daughter. How d’you know she died?” His voice was rising. One by one, those nearest began to click those yards long hatpins back inside chameleon eyes. They turned from what might be in the shop, from what was unseen, onto what might be in this young man, click click they went at him, and Mrs Frazier noticed.
“I can’t have this,” she said firm, “not possibly. I’m a respectable married woman I’d have you know. And I couldn’t say what became of his daughter. How would I? We were never related,” she said. “But if you don’t think to ask him, there’s Mr Middlewitch,” she said to rid herself of Charley Summers. It did the trick.
“Middlewitch,” he stammered, with renewed dread. And made off fast.
When he got to the next call box, he rang this man at the C.E.G.S. But he was out. Then Charley walked a great distance unseeing. Until he found himself by a park. He awkwardly sat under a tree. He collapsed at once into deep sleep. And, when he woke some hours later, he was a little recovered, but so sad and excited he could hardly bear it.
It was the last good sleep he was to have for some time.
He went back to the office next morning. He had only been gone a day. Watching himself in a mirror in the lavatory, because he always washed face and hands the moment he arrived, he could see no change. It was a shock that he did not look different.
“Oh there you are,” Miss Pitter said. She was made harsh by the relief she unexpectedly felt at the sight of him.
“Yes,” he said.
“I thought perhaps you’d gone off to Birmingham, then when I looked in your engagements, there was nothing,” she went on, still sharp. “And yesterday we had that special batch of reminders.”
He did not reply. He was pawing through his mail.
“Oh, and Purdews phoned,” she said with relish. “They’ve had the Admiralty down. Those trays are put right back. Their Mr Ricketts is very sorry but they’ve had to sign an undertaking. Number something priority, he said, way in front of ours.”
He passed no comment.
“I explained you weren’t here,” she went on to get some reason out of Charley, “I told him you’d had to go to Birmingham. And then I tried to get any kind of a promise, I mean about when we could expect the trays, or racks, or whatever you call them,” she interpreted herself, quite unnecessarily, “and d’you know what? He just laughed. Quite the comedian.”
She was leaning now on one of the card indexes, gazing at the top of his head. He went on handling the post. She lowered a forearm down along the green steel front, perhaps so he could notice. But he didn’t.
“Is anything wrong?” she asked.
He looked at her. There was something dreadful in his eyes. She saw that. She wondered the more.
“No,” he said. “Why?”
“I only asked,” she said. “So I told him you’d be bound to ring back when you got in, when you did come, I mean. I know I shouldn’t, but I do get worried,” she lied, because she must find out what was up.
He lowered his eyes again to the mail. There was a pause. She powdered her nose.
“Because I’m not fretting to be left alone with this lot,” she said, and gave the card indexes a sour look, “with you away ill or unable, not little Dot, thanks all the same,” she said.
She did not know him well enough to ask such questions, but she couldn’t leave things where they were. He had been so dependable. It had come as a shock not knowing where he was yesterday, and now doubly so on account of his eyes. Yet she told herself it was only she would not be left alone with those cards if she could help.
“What were you doing yesterday? Did you go out with a girl, and celebrate, or what?” she said.
He gave her a frightful look, which she misinterpreted on purpose.
“Is that what a hangover is, then?” she trilled. “You know I’ve never had one of those. Of course I’ve been a trifle dizzy now and again, but not enough for mum to spot when I came in. And what mum doesn’t notice where I’m concerned is nobody’s business.”
He sat on. She could see he was not pretending.
“Just two glasses of port,” she said, “and something went through my nose right up to my head, I suppose it was the fumes rose …” she said, then fell silent as she saw the spasm pass across his face.
“Are you all right?” she enquired.
“A bit faint,” he said.
“Put your head between your knees, then, while I get you a glass of water.” He sat hunched there. When she came back she said,
“Well, all I can say is, after seeing the effect it’s had on you, that I’ll pass it up,” she lied, referring to the hangover she pretended to suspect.
“Thanks,” he said. He did not drink the water. She was silent for a bit.
Before she could begin again the telephone bell rang. He picked up the receiver, put it to his ear and waited.
“That you Dot?” asked Corker’s secretary.
“Yes,” he said.
“Oh Mr Summers. Good morning Mr Summers. Mr Mead says can you spare him a moment.”
“When?” he said. “Now?”
“Yes please. Thank you,” she said, and hung up. Mr Corker Mead was the boss.
“Corker,” he told Miss Pitter in explanation as he walked out.
“Gosh,” she said, and meant it.
Mr Mead waited. He had expected Summers to be several days absent. Every morning a little list of those who were away was put on his desk, first thing. It surprised him to find that young Summers was back. For he thought it likely these young men coming home from the war might be a bit wild for a period, it would only be natural. He had considered the matter, foreseen that. He had even had a little talk prepared for Charley, who was the first to return. And now Corker was ready to deliver, even though the lad had only taken a day. For Corker was mustard.
“Good morning,” he said. “Sit down. Well how’s everything? Cigarette?”
“We’re late with the first plant,” Charley said, hopelessly. “We’re nine weeks overdue.”
“That’s nothing these days,” Corker said. “We can stand it. No, I meant in yourself?”