“Mr. Chowser has given me two days leave to attend to some personal business. I must have a new hat and—”
“Yes, I can see the new hat. It is quite captivating.”
“Do you not think so? The Milltown milliner is a marvel. What is his name? Ah, Mr. Glamour! Mr. Glamour the milliner is a rare marvel.”
Antonia nodded and smiled and touched the nap of Miss Finching’s new bonnet — a riot of colourful ribbons and artificial flowers — and found pleasure in its softness.
“And a new lace tucker since my present one has unraveled and withered itself before the hot stove. And, of course, a brand new frock.” This statement came accompanied by a titter. “Oh, dear me. ‘Frock’ is much too slender a word for a woman of my capacious girth. Let us simply call it a ‘dress.’ A ‘dress for a woman of a certain overwhelming size.’”
“My dear Miss Finching, there is no profit in speaking of yourself in such self-depreciating terms.”
“You’re right. Nor was that even an accurate depiction of myself. The Finching women have always had large bones. I’m the first in my line who didn’t spend her life milking and calving. I’m proud of my position as cook for all of those hungry boys. And Mr. Chowser has been a most generous employer. And my size, besides, is no detriment to my duties, and upon occasion, I dare say it can even be an asset, especially when there is a side of meat to be conveyed from the butcher’s waggon to the kitchen and no hobbledeboy nearby to impress into my temporary employ.”
Throughout the preceding proclamation Maggy Finching had directed her gaze not at Antonia Bocker but out the front window and toward the busy street that passed the stationer’s shop. Antonia could not help noticing. “Miss Finching, is there someone you’re expecting to see out there?”
“Oh, no. Not particularly.”
“Then let us do business together. How may I be of service to you?”
“Yes, yes. I have letter paper with the name of the school in the heading, you see, and Mr. Chowser wishes — because there is a little bit of school business that I must transact on my trip as well — wishes a crimpled edge along the sides as one finds in the finest handmade paper. Can you crimple the edges for a not unreasonable sum?”
“I believe that I can.”
“Happy day! I will leave it here then and—” Suddenly, something caught Maggy Finching’s eye. It produced a little gasp in the viewer, and from this point forward hustled and compacted all of her remaining words to Antonia, so that they ran together in one long unbroken torrent: “ExcellentnowpleasetakethesesheetsandsendthembyPPDSifyouwillImustgoIreallymustTataMissBockerandgoodday!”
With that, Miss Finching hurriedly tied the strings of her new peach bonnet and waved herself out the door in a quick waddle.
Once in the street, Miss Finching said “oh dear” to herself perhaps three times and looked ahead, peering beneath the shade of her flattened palm, and then groaned a little to think that the object of her search, just a moment ago caught within her sights, had now eluded her. But then in a trice she re-discovered that which she had sought—he—not so far ahead that she could not catch it—him—for it was a man. A man whom she knew.
“Hurry up, you fool!” she mumbled to herself in a most distressful tone. “You cannot let him get away!”
For Miss Finching’s quarry was indeed “getting away,” having stopt for only the briefest of moments to peer through the window of the miniature painter’s equally diminutive gallery, there to squint at the tiny paintings set upon dolls’ easels, and there to curse his ineffectual eyesight for missing the smaller details, and then to move quickly along.
“Perhaps he’ll glance back and see me,” she said quite aloud to herself, “but no, I shan’t have that, for my plan is to stroll up to him casually and as if unawares.”
Whilst Miss Finching continued to ponder her predicament as the object of her interest put greater and greater distance between himself and his unknown pursuer, there was a private family drama taking place in the jewellry shop on the other side of the street at very nearly the same time (for this be the memory of all parties who imparted to me what was happening as the minute hand of the clock crept to that spot in which all hands pointed upward). Mrs. Rose Fagin had shut the door and latched it and turned to her daughter Susan who sat upon a skirted stool beside the flat, glass-covered display cabinet, which showed an eye-catching array of coral bracelets and polished jet necklaces and gem rings that sparkled in the gentle gaslight. The third player in the drama, Herbert Fagin, stood next to his daughter with his delicate fingers (much the better for jewellry handling and watch repair) resting upon his daughter’s heaving shoulders.
Susan Fagin had been crying even before she arrived at her parents’ shop, but now the bung had been fully removed and the tears fell quite gushingly.
“Have a blow,” said Mrs. Fagin, offering her daughter a handkerchief. Susan took the handkerchief and blew her nose loudly with it and dabbed at her moist eyes (but not in that order) and sat down quietly, without telling a word of what had brought her to such a sorrowful state.
“Take all the time you need, my love,” said Rose, seating herself at the side of her only child.
Susan nodded and blew her nose again and prepared herself to tell what the matter was.
Outside the jewellry shop the man urgently sought by Maggy Finching stopt again to take a toothpick to his teeth (having eaten a late breakfast at his habitual chop-house and finding some portion of it still residing within his mouth.) Being offered now the opportunity she desired to come upon him as if by chance, Miss Finching executed that very feint, right there in the street with nearly half of Milltown hurrying hither and thither to conduct their commerce before the close of this business half-day.
“Sheriff Muntle!” she declared with a manufactured look of surprise, “How pleasant it is to see you here!”
Taking her hand warmly in his own, Muntle smiled and said, “The pleasure is entirely mine, Miss Finching. And quite the good fortune, for is it not the case, my dear woman, that you seldom take yourself this far from the school?”
“Yes, yes, relatively speaking of course, as one must speak of all things within the Dell. You see, I am on my annual shopping excursion.” Miss Finching touched the brim of her bonnet by way of illustration.
“Aye. Fetching,” said Muntle with a nod. “I recall that it was during your last year’s sojourn that we enjoyed that pleasant little interlude at the Municipal Cemetery. You with all your parcels and bandboxes piled about you—”
“And you with — well, yourself.”
“Right you are, old girl, and we had that most delightful little chat about — now what was it we discussed, Miss Finching?”
“Cheese, Mr. Muntle, and how much we both adored it.”
Muntle smiled and nodded. “I recall it as if it were only yesterday. And have you time for another interlude, Miss Finching? Could you make time to sit with a dear old friend and sip something warm or perhaps cool— whichever suits your fancy on this day that wants neither to be too hot nor too cold?”
“I am charmed by the very possibility of it,” said Miss Finching, having obviously been asked that very thing that had been her heart’s objective all along.
The two repaired to the Chuffey Bakery, which had chairs and tables inside where those who could not wait to devour their loaves and pastries at home were given leave to wash them down right there upon the premises with milk or tea or chicory.
“I make better buns within my own kitchen,” confided Miss Finching proudly, “and will make some for you on your next visit to the school.”