FOURTEEN
David called at 117A Scottswood Road on the following Tuesday. It was unfortunate, considering how much he had looked forward to the evening, that Joe should be detained at Millington’s working overtime. But there it was and couldn’t be helped: poor Joe had to work his overtime. David, nevertheless, enjoyed himself hugely. Though his opportunities had been so few, his nature was really sociable, he came prepared to enjoy himself and he did. The Sunleys, pre-informed by Jenny, were inclined at first to treat him with suspicion. They expected superiority. But soon the atmosphere thawed, supper appeared on the table, and hilarity filled the air. Mrs. Sunley, shedding her lethargy for once, had made a rarebit — and, as Sally remarked, Ma’s rarebits were a treat. Alf, with the help of two tea-spoons and the pepper pot, had demonstrated his own especial method of dovecote construction. A fortune it would have made him, if he’d only patented it. Jenny, looking delicious in a fresh print frock, had poured the tea herself — Ma being too flushed and flustered from her exertions in the kitchen.
David couldn’t keep his eyes off Jenny. Against the slipshod background of her home she bloomed for him. During his years in Tynecastle he had hardly spoken to a woman; at Sleescale, of course, he had been far from the stage of “walking out”—as it was traditionally known in the Terraces. Jenny was the first… absolutely the first to lay the spell of sex upon him.
A warm air wafted in through the half-open window of the back room; and though it bore the exhalation of ten thousand chimney pots it held for David the scent of spring. He watched, waited for Jenny’s smile: the soft crinkling of her lip was the most delicious thing he had ever seen. It was like the unfolding of a flower. When she passed him his cup and their fingers touched a divine softness flowed into him.
Jenny, conscious of the effect she was producing, was flattered. And when Jenny felt flattered she was at her very best. Yet actually she was not greatly attracted to David, when their fingers met she knew no answering thrill. Jenny was in love with Joe.
Jenny had begun by despising Joe, his bad manners, his roughness, the fact, as she expressed it, that “he worked dirty.” Strange as it may seem, these were the very qualities which had subdued her. Jenny was made to be bullied, deep down in her being lay an unconscious recognition of the brutality which had mastered her. Meanwhile, however, Jenny was very pleased with this new conquest: it would “learn” Joe, when he heard of it, not to treat her so casually.
Supper over, Alf suggested music. They went into the parlour. Outside was the subdued evening hum of the street, inside it was pleasantly cool and airy. While Sally played her accompaniments, Jenny sang Juanita and Sweet Marie, come to me. Though her voice was thin and rather forced Jenny was very effective by the piano. When she finished Sweet Marie she offered to sing Passing By, but Alf, loudly supported by Clarry and Phyllis, had begun to clamour for Sally.
“Sally’s the top of the bill,” he remarked confidentially to David. “If we can get her started you’ll see some fun. She’s a great little comedienne. Her and me go to the Empire regularly every week.”
“Come on, Sally,” Clarry begged. “Do Jack Pleasants.”
Phyllis urged:
“Yes, Sally, please. And Florrie Forde.”
But Sally, perched apathetically on the piano stool, refused. Picking out melancholy bass notes with one finger:
“I’m not in the mood. He,” jerking her head towards David, “he wants to hear Jenny, not me.”
Aside, Jenny gave a superior little laugh:
“She only wants to be coaxed.”
Sally flared instantly:
“All right, then, Miss Sweet Marie Sunley, I’ll do it without the coaxing.” She straightened herself upon the stool.
At fifteen, Sally was still small and tubby, but she had something, a queer something that gripped and fascinated. Now her short figure became electric. She frowned, then into her plain little face there flowed an irresistible mockery. She struck a frightful discord.
“By special request,” she mimicked, “the other Miss Sunley will sing Molly o’ Morgan.” And she let herself go.
It was good, terribly good. The song was nothing, just a popular number of the day, but Sally made it something. She did not sing the song; she parodied it: she burlesqued it; she went falsetto; she suddenly went soulfuclass="underline" she wept almost, for the tragedy of Molly’s forsaken lovers.
Forgetting what Jenny would have called her manners, she concluded with a disgraceful impersonation of the monkey which might reasonably have been expected to accompany Miss o’ Morgan’s organ.
Everyone but Jenny was convulsed. But Sally, without giving them time to recover, dashed into I was standing at the corner of the street. She ceased to be the monkey. She became Jack Pleasants; she became a dull bumpkin, sluggish as a turnip, supporting the wall of the village pub. You saw the straw in her hair as she sang:
Vociferously Alf clapped his appreciation. Sally smiled at him wickedly from the corner of her eye; she winked, restoring her sex, and sang Yip I addy I ay. She developed a bosom, a rich deep voice and wonderful hips. It was Florrie Forde. Florrie, to the life.
She ended suddenly. She slid from the stool, swung round, and faced them, smiling.
“Rotten,” she exclaimed, screwing up her nose. “Not worth a slab of toffee. Let me get out before the ripe tomatoes come.” And she skipped out of the room.
Later, Jenny apologised to David for Sally’s oddity.
“You must excuse her, she’s often terribly queer. And temper. My! I’m afraid,” lowering her voice. “It’s very stupid, but I’m afraid she’s rather inclined to be jealous of me.”
“Surely not,” David smiled. “She’s just a kid.”
“She’s getting on for sixteen,” Jenny contradicted primly. “And she really does hate to see anyone paying me attention. I can tell you it makes things pretty difficult for me. As if I could help it.”
Assuredly Jenny could not help it: Heavens! that was like blaming a rose for its perfume, a lily for its purity.
David went home that night more convinced than ever that she was adorable.
He began to call regularly, to drop in of an evening. Occasionally he encountered Joe; more often he did not. Joe, with an air of tremendous preoccupation, was working overtime feverishly and seldom in evidence at No. 117A. Then David asked Jenny to go out with him: they began to take excursions together, curious excursions for Jenny, walks on the Aston Hills, a ramble to Liddle, a picnic, actually to Esmond Dene. Secretly, Jenny was contemptuous of all this junketing. She was accustomed to Joe’s lordly escort, to the Percy Grill, the Bioscope, Carrick’s—“going places” meant, for Jenny, crowds, entertainment, a few glasses of port, money spent upon her. David had no money to spend upon her. She did not for a moment doubt that he would have taken her to all her favourite resorts had his purse permitted. David was a nice young man, she liked him, though occasionally she thought him very odd. On the afternoon they went to Esmond Dene he quite bewildered her.