'They're all new,' said George Ogden proudly. 'I'm a lover of nature, Mr Stringer.'
'Well I'd say they needed a drink.'
'Reckon so?'
'The leaves of that fern – they're sort of crinkly, and look
A book had been pitched in among the leaves of the fern: a book of plays by George Bernard Shaw. I picked it out.
'They're going brown at all the edges' I said.
'What? The books?' said George. 'Better get 'em read, in that case.'
'The plants' I said.
George was looking up at such quantity of sky as could be seen between the two rows of houses in Back Hill Street, which was a small amount, but at that moment very blue.
'Every Sunday,' he was saying, 'I mean to be on my bike, getting to know the beginnings of Derbyshire.'
'What bike?' I said, for there was none in the van.
'It's to be sent by the Nimrod Cycling Company,' said George.
'Oh yes?' I said, scrambling down from the van.
'When they've built it. You see, the kind I've put in for is in advance of any of the machines they have presently available.' He took a little bag of sweet stuff from one of his many pockets and held it out for me. 'So far,' he continued, 'their models are all just so much ironmongery. Comfit?' he said.
'Thanks,' I said, and I put my hand into the bag, but all the comfits were stuck together in the heat so I gave it up after a second, but George Ogden continued to hold out the bag.
'Carry on, old man,' he said, 'you haven't quite gained your object.'
I shook my head and smiled, at which he took the bag in two hands, and began straining to break a lump of comfit off for me, going rather red in the process.
The remover was back in the van again as the comfits cracked. George handed a lump of them to me, and we both stood there crunching away as the removal man worked.
'Interesting what you say about those plants, old man,' said George, very thoughtfully, through a mouthful of comfits. 'I thought the leaves were supposed to go brown at a certain time?'
I tried to give him a few points about plants, as the remover came and went, grumbling in an under-breath, sometimes dropping things and not always picking them up. The subject came back to railway tickets. George said that the ticketing at the Joint was all pills, and that with a brand new way of going on, which he had thought up the night before, the Lanky would be able to double its profits, but I was prevented from hearing about this plan by the removal man, who came up to George when the van was empty: 'That's you in,' he said, at which George Ogden reached into his waistcoat (I wondered if there were as many pockets inside as on the outside), and produced a pocket book. In this he found a ten-bob note, which he handed over to the remover. He was given some change in the form of one coin, which he looked at for quite a while, before giving it a home in his waistcoat and saying to the remover, 'I'm very much obliged to you, sir, you can be certain that I will be recommending you to all at the office.'
As the remover drove off, George bent over and picked up a boot that the man had dropped, saying: 'Did you smell the ale on his breath? And to think I could have hired the van and done the job myself for half the price.'
'Where did you get him from?' I said.
'From the small ads of the Courier,' said George, 'the very small ads. Should have known not to take a chance on a fellow who can't run to a line of bold type.'
'He did seem a bit surly,' I said.
'Devilish surly,' said George Ogden, 'and a butterfingers to boot.'
He then lowered himself down to pick up a book that had also been dropped.
This, I saw, was Letters of Descartes again – in Everyman like the last.
'You've two copies of that, you know,' I said. 'I saw one earlier.'
'Well,' said George, 'I take six a month from the catalogue, and sometimes I pick one I've had before.'
'Why?'
'Oh, you know, I do it by accident… I'm nuts on literature,' he went on. 'I've got twenty-four Everyman's now, and when I get up to thirty, I'm going to start reading them.'
We had stepped inside the house by now, and the kettle was screaming. I walked into the scullery and called to George: 'Cup of tea?'
'Don't mind if I do.' I made a pot, and as it was mashing took George upstairs to show him to his room; I pointed out the door at the back that gave on to the iron staircase leading down into the yard. 'You'll probably want to use these mostly, so you can come and go under your own steam,' I said. 'The outside privy is yours; there's use of the scullery, and if you want a sit down in the parlour from time to time, that'll be quite all right I'm sure.'
The stuff had just been put into the room in any old way, with most of the plants off their tables and sitting at crazy angles on the truckle bed. And there were heaps of packets of biscuits on the floor. George Ogden trooped through all this rubble towards the door leading to the outside stair, and the thin window alongside looking out to Hill Street and beyond. Well, the window may have been thin but as much as possible was trying to come through it. You could see across the mill tops to Beacon Hill, with its own few mills, including Hind's, from which this bright morning smoke was dreaming away to the right; and then, more directly below us on the hillside, were all the things the factories had made: the Drill Hall, the courts, the hotels, the Palace Theatre, and all the little houses in between, cluttering the place up like the pawns on a chess board. I threw open the window for George and the room was filled with the blaring of a barge on the canal wharf, and the faint cry, rising up from the Joint, of 'Halifax!', which a certain old porter set up whenever a train came in.
The wife was at the door of the room; George was looking at her, and it was strange to think that another man was seeing her morning self, with a sleepy delay in her eyes, and her hair tangled. 'Good morning, Mrs Stringer,' said George, and he bowed. There was no other word for it.
'Halifax!' came the cry from the station once again, and it was as though we were all just waking from a dream, and needed to be reminded where we were.
'I hope you will be quite comfortable here, Mr Ogden,' she said. 'Of course you will always use the stairs at the back.' She had a paper in her hand, which she gave to him.
'They're good quarters,' he said, 'just what I need to be going on with.'
'Please remember' said the wife, 'there's use of the scullery, but do please knock before entering if the door should be closed. You must keep to the outside privy. You may use the paraffin stove for heating water up here if you like but you are to ask first if that's quite all right. I have taken the liberty of typing out our agreement.'
I liked hearing the pride in her voice as she said that. I knew that she had stayed behind at Hind's on her second day and put in over an hour on this job.
'I will give this my attention very shortly,' said George Ogden, who took the paper, folded it and placed it inside the leaves of Letters of Descartes, which was a very bad sign from the point of view of his ever getting around to glancing at it. He then turned to the window again, and we all looked out.
A lot of pride had been put into the building of Halifax, and the builders had a powerful liking for columns and domes, so that to my mind every other building looked like a giant mausoleum, something built in memory of someone or something very grand that had gone before and must never be forgotten. I would always think of Halifax as a town that was down by one person, and that on account of me. But it looked grand this Saturday morning.
George Ogden turned to us and said: 'God's in his heaven, and all's right with the world.'
'It's ten shillings down' said the wife.
George Ogden took out his pocket book and handed over the money much as the Shah of Persia might if that gent were ever called on to pay ten bob for a lodge. 'Brand new address,' he said, 'and a brand new start.'