Read Online The Dreaming Suburb by R.F. Delderfield - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: R.F. Delderfield
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lacking those rashes and pimples that trouble adolescence. To these physical advantages he added a studied affability, a judicious mixture (reserved for this type of after-hours customer) ofmild jocularity and moderate respect. This approach, he had found, paid off handsomely. Customers who knew they were breaking the law resented easy familiarity and distrusted servility. What was needed, on these occasions, was something in between, and Archie had good reason to believe upon the compound.
“The groceries, Ma'am, plus the usual,” he told her, with the ghost of a wink.
Rita gave her kimono cord a hitch, and glanced at the box he placed on the table. She knew nothing of Letty's private arrangements with the provision merchants, but simply that the girl was marvellous at getting everything they needed, notwithstanding all this paper talk about shortages, and U-Boat blockades. Archie's manner, however, and the slight smile that lurked at the corner of his wide mouth, informed her that there was something more in his whistle and wink than a desire to see the provisions checked. She picked up the bill, crossed to the dresser, found her purse and added half-a-crown to the total, putting the money on the kitchen table.
“Is that what Letty usually gives you?” she asked him.
Archie toyed with the idea of earning an extra shilling or two but decided, almost immediately, that the ultimate risk was not worth the immediate gain. This woman looked hard-bitten and he did not want to upset the sound business-like relationship he had established with her maid.
“That's about usual,” he told her, pocketing the half-crown, and slipping the rest of the money into his leather satchel.
On impulse she took out the bottle of hock that stood among the packages.
“Did Letty ever give you anything else ... a drink, for instance?”
“Never,” said Archie, truthfully. Letty was a wooden sort of girl and he had never made much impression on her.
“I was just going to get myself a snack. Are you hungry?” she asked him.
He was surprised and flattered. The woman was too old and too classy for a frolic, of course, even if she wanted one, which he could hardly believe, but she had a well-stockedlarder, as he was well aware, and a change from Louise's eternal, warmed-up suppers would be welcome.
“It's very kind of you,” he said, taking a chair. “Do you mind if I smoke?”
“Not at all,” said Rita, promptly; “have one of these,” and she took a small silver case from her kimono pocket, and gave him a flat Turkish cigarette.
“How old are you?” she asked him, as she busied herself at the gas stove, and the smell of fried eggs, bacon, and tomatoes (what a business it had been to get those tomatoes) began to fill the cosy room.
“Nineteen,” he replied, promptly. His age jumped about between sixteen and twenty-one; according to possible advantages in the offing. She did not suspect a lie. He looked nineteen.
“How have you managed to dodge call-up?”
He considered for a moment. She was obviously not a flag-flapper, none of his special customers were, and he did not want to say anything that might spoil the good impression his physique had obviously made upon her.
“I don't believe in it,” he said, finally.
She laughed outright, and crossed over with the grill.
“Shall I tell you something ... what's your name?”
“Archie, Archie Carver, Ma'am!”
“Shall I tell you something I've never told anyone else? Don't call me ma'am; it makes me feel my age. I don't believe in it either, and what's more, I never have, not even in poor little Belgium!”
After that they both relaxed. She told him about Reggie, and he told her about his father, more than three years in the line, and still only a sergeant. He told her some of the things he had noticed on his rounds and, once the hock had been finished and she had poured him a whisky, he spoke frankly of his dealings with the late Mr. Cole.
She listened
“The groceries, Ma'am, plus the usual,” he told her, with the ghost of a wink.
Rita gave her kimono cord a hitch, and glanced at the box he placed on the table. She knew nothing of Letty's private arrangements with the provision merchants, but simply that the girl was marvellous at getting everything they needed, notwithstanding all this paper talk about shortages, and U-Boat blockades. Archie's manner, however, and the slight smile that lurked at the corner of his wide mouth, informed her that there was something more in his whistle and wink than a desire to see the provisions checked. She picked up the bill, crossed to the dresser, found her purse and added half-a-crown to the total, putting the money on the kitchen table.
“Is that what Letty usually gives you?” she asked him.
Archie toyed with the idea of earning an extra shilling or two but decided, almost immediately, that the ultimate risk was not worth the immediate gain. This woman looked hard-bitten and he did not want to upset the sound business-like relationship he had established with her maid.
“That's about usual,” he told her, pocketing the half-crown, and slipping the rest of the money into his leather satchel.
On impulse she took out the bottle of hock that stood among the packages.
“Did Letty ever give you anything else ... a drink, for instance?”
“Never,” said Archie, truthfully. Letty was a wooden sort of girl and he had never made much impression on her.
“I was just going to get myself a snack. Are you hungry?” she asked him.
He was surprised and flattered. The woman was too old and too classy for a frolic, of course, even if she wanted one, which he could hardly believe, but she had a well-stockedlarder, as he was well aware, and a change from Louise's eternal, warmed-up suppers would be welcome.
“It's very kind of you,” he said, taking a chair. “Do you mind if I smoke?”
“Not at all,” said Rita, promptly; “have one of these,” and she took a small silver case from her kimono pocket, and gave him a flat Turkish cigarette.
“How old are you?” she asked him, as she busied herself at the gas stove, and the smell of fried eggs, bacon, and tomatoes (what a business it had been to get those tomatoes) began to fill the cosy room.
“Nineteen,” he replied, promptly. His age jumped about between sixteen and twenty-one; according to possible advantages in the offing. She did not suspect a lie. He looked nineteen.
“How have you managed to dodge call-up?”
He considered for a moment. She was obviously not a flag-flapper, none of his special customers were, and he did not want to say anything that might spoil the good impression his physique had obviously made upon her.
“I don't believe in it,” he said, finally.
She laughed outright, and crossed over with the grill.
“Shall I tell you something ... what's your name?”
“Archie, Archie Carver, Ma'am!”
“Shall I tell you something I've never told anyone else? Don't call me ma'am; it makes me feel my age. I don't believe in it either, and what's more, I never have, not even in poor little Belgium!”
After that they both relaxed. She told him about Reggie, and he told her about his father, more than three years in the line, and still only a sergeant. He told her some of the things he had noticed on his rounds and, once the hock had been finished and she had poured him a whisky, he spoke frankly of his dealings with the late Mr. Cole.
She listened
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