beside the window – ‘Peggy said there’s someone living up in the attic – an old man. What about him? Wouldn’t he like his room done up? and the electric light up there? The men told Mr Pearson it doesn’t go up that far.’
In spite of the kindness of the speech, Gladys felt her usual impulse to defend Mr Fisher from intrusion, however wellmeant, and exclaimed sharply:
‘I couldn’t answer for him, no I couldn’t, he don’t never let anyone up there, he likes it kep’ private, I been up there sometimes to inquire like but he keeps the door half shut, he’s got his home up there, see, all his bits of things it’s only natural, been there years now, it’s only natural, his home.’
‘But surely – electric light …’ The voice died away. The huge eyes stared.
‘Someone’s coming now,’ Peggy interrupted. ‘Is this him?’
Gladys peered down the street in the direction of the light advancing footsteps. It undeniably was Mr Fisher, and the knowledge that it was now December, and he would therefore be appearing under a new name, occurred to her, together with the irritated conviction that another jawing-set-out would now keep her out here in the cold for goodness knew how long, and Annie thinking she was hit on the head.
The problem of these names was embarrassing. She did not want Mrs Pearson to think Mr Fisher was mental. Yet it certainly did sound mental – giving yourself a new name every month. She plunged into explanations even as the footsteps drew level with them.
‘Likes his little joke,’ she gabbled, ‘sounds funny I know but he calls himself something different every month, wonder what it’ll be this evening? Hullo, Mr Fisher!’ she called, when he was upon them, ‘what’s your name this evening? Here’s Mrs Pearson wants to put the electric light up your room and do it up for you – nice Christmas surprise for you, innit?’
The old man had been going past the car and the group gathered about it without a glance, and this increased his champion’s annoyance. No point in upsetting people. Rude, too. No harm in just saying ‘good-evening’.
However, he paused, and turned round. About his neck, slung from a piece of thick string, he carried a small tray woven of some kind of shining straw, and on it were grouped three or four little dolls, made of the same material, and decorated with gilt braid and coloured beads. He looked solemnly into the car, and leisurely too, as if considering its occupants, then said, turning to Gladys:
‘Good-evening, Miss Gladys.’ At the same time, he made a silent bow in the direction of Peggy, then a second more ceremonious one to the window of the car. But to the question he did not reply.
‘What’s your name this month, Mr Fisher?’ repeated Gladys. ‘I was just telling Mrs Pearson … This here lady is Mrs Pearson, you know, our new landlady.’
‘Thomas Browne, this month. During December this year, I am Thomas Browne. He wrote a beautiful book, very grandly written it was – A Physician’s Faith .’
Gladys glanced at the audience, pleased that he should be showing himself in character.
‘Oh don’t talk about names –’ Mrs Pearson had fallen again into inexplicable agitation. ‘You must never play about with your name like that – names are … it’s very dangerous – you don’t understand –’ A torrent of near whispers poured out, in the dimness.
‘Mother, are you going in to see the house?’ Peggy interrupted, ‘because, if you aren’t, I must get over to Hampstead, she’s expecting me at nine.’
‘What, lovey?’ Mrs Pearson broke off, thrusting her face forward, ‘Oh … yes … of course … Mrs Corbett … I’d forgotten. Er’ – timidly to the chauffeur – ‘may we go to Hampstead, now, please … MacLeod House, Heathwood Avenue … no, Peggy, I won’t come in now, I’ll see it when it’s finished … have you seen my stair-carpet?’ to Gladys, ‘it’s so pretty. Pink and
In spite of the kindness of the speech, Gladys felt her usual impulse to defend Mr Fisher from intrusion, however wellmeant, and exclaimed sharply:
‘I couldn’t answer for him, no I couldn’t, he don’t never let anyone up there, he likes it kep’ private, I been up there sometimes to inquire like but he keeps the door half shut, he’s got his home up there, see, all his bits of things it’s only natural, been there years now, it’s only natural, his home.’
‘But surely – electric light …’ The voice died away. The huge eyes stared.
‘Someone’s coming now,’ Peggy interrupted. ‘Is this him?’
Gladys peered down the street in the direction of the light advancing footsteps. It undeniably was Mr Fisher, and the knowledge that it was now December, and he would therefore be appearing under a new name, occurred to her, together with the irritated conviction that another jawing-set-out would now keep her out here in the cold for goodness knew how long, and Annie thinking she was hit on the head.
The problem of these names was embarrassing. She did not want Mrs Pearson to think Mr Fisher was mental. Yet it certainly did sound mental – giving yourself a new name every month. She plunged into explanations even as the footsteps drew level with them.
‘Likes his little joke,’ she gabbled, ‘sounds funny I know but he calls himself something different every month, wonder what it’ll be this evening? Hullo, Mr Fisher!’ she called, when he was upon them, ‘what’s your name this evening? Here’s Mrs Pearson wants to put the electric light up your room and do it up for you – nice Christmas surprise for you, innit?’
The old man had been going past the car and the group gathered about it without a glance, and this increased his champion’s annoyance. No point in upsetting people. Rude, too. No harm in just saying ‘good-evening’.
However, he paused, and turned round. About his neck, slung from a piece of thick string, he carried a small tray woven of some kind of shining straw, and on it were grouped three or four little dolls, made of the same material, and decorated with gilt braid and coloured beads. He looked solemnly into the car, and leisurely too, as if considering its occupants, then said, turning to Gladys:
‘Good-evening, Miss Gladys.’ At the same time, he made a silent bow in the direction of Peggy, then a second more ceremonious one to the window of the car. But to the question he did not reply.
‘What’s your name this month, Mr Fisher?’ repeated Gladys. ‘I was just telling Mrs Pearson … This here lady is Mrs Pearson, you know, our new landlady.’
‘Thomas Browne, this month. During December this year, I am Thomas Browne. He wrote a beautiful book, very grandly written it was – A Physician’s Faith .’
Gladys glanced at the audience, pleased that he should be showing himself in character.
‘Oh don’t talk about names –’ Mrs Pearson had fallen again into inexplicable agitation. ‘You must never play about with your name like that – names are … it’s very dangerous – you don’t understand –’ A torrent of near whispers poured out, in the dimness.
‘Mother, are you going in to see the house?’ Peggy interrupted, ‘because, if you aren’t, I must get over to Hampstead, she’s expecting me at nine.’
‘What, lovey?’ Mrs Pearson broke off, thrusting her face forward, ‘Oh … yes … of course … Mrs Corbett … I’d forgotten. Er’ – timidly to the chauffeur – ‘may we go to Hampstead, now, please … MacLeod House, Heathwood Avenue … no, Peggy, I won’t come in now, I’ll see it when it’s finished … have you seen my stair-carpet?’ to Gladys, ‘it’s so pretty. Pink and
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