The Complete Short Stories Part 11

'I do, man,' said Isa. 'I do, eh.'

From my room it was impossible not to overhear all that was going on in the p.a.w.nshop, just beneath my window.

'I hope it doesn't disturb you,' said Mrs Jan Cloote, with a sideways glance at her two elder daughters.

'No,' I thought it best to say, 'I don't hear a thing.'

'I always tell the girls,' said Mrs Jan Cloote, 'that there is nothing to be ashamed of, being a PB.'

'PB?' asked the young clerk, who had a friend who played the drums in the Police Band.

Mrs Jan Cloote lowered her voice. 'A p.a.w.nbroker,' she informed him rapidly.

'That's right,' said the young man.

'There's nothing to be ashamed of in it,' said Mrs Jan Cloote. 'And of Course I'm only down as a PB's wife, not a PB.'

'We keep the shop beautiful, man,' said Maida.

'Have you seen it?' Mrs Jan Cloote asked me.

'No,' I said.

'Well, there's nothing to see inside, really,' she said; 'but some PB shops are a sight enough. You should see some of the English ones. The dirt!'

'Or so I'm told,' she added.

'They are very rough-and-tumble in England,' I admitted.

'Why,' said Mrs Jan Cloote, 'have you been inside one?'

'Oh, yes, quite a few,' I said, pausing to recollect; '... in London, of course, and then there was one in Manchester, and -'

'But what for, man?' said Greta.

'To p.a.w.n things,' I said, glad to impress them with my knowledge of their trade. 'There was my compa.s.s,' I said, 'but I never saw that again. Not that I ever used the thing.'

Mrs Jan Cloote put down her cup and looked round the room to see if everyone had unfortunately heard me. She was afraid they had.

'Thank G.o.d,' she said; 'touch wood I have never had to do it.'

'I can't say that I've ever popped anything, myself,' said Mrs Marais.

'My poor mother used to take things now and again,' said Mr Marais.

'I dare say,' said Mrs Marais.

'We get some terrible sc.u.m coming in,' said the p.a.w.nbroker's wife.

'I'm going to the PB's dinner-dance,' said Isa. 'What'll I way?' she added, meaning what would she wear. The girls did not p.r.o.nounce the final 'r' in certain words.

'You can way your midnight blue,' said Greta.

'No,' said her mother, 'no, no, no. She'll have to get a new dress.'

'I'm going to get my hay cut short,' announced Isa, indicating her yellow pigtails.

Her mother squirmed with excitement at the prospect. Greta and Maida blushed, with a strange and greedy look.

At last the door was opened a few inches and we were allowed to file out, one by one.

Next morning as usual I heard Mrs Jan Cloote opening up the p.a.w.nshop. She dealt expertly with the customers who, as usual, waited on the doorstep. Once the first rush was over, business generally became easier as the day progressed. But for the first half-hour the bell tinkled incessantly as sailors and other troops arrived, anxious to deposit cameras, cigarette cases, watches, suits of clothes, and other things which, like my compa.s.s, would never be redeemed. Though I could not see her, it was easy to visualize what actions accompanied the words I could hear so well; Mrs Jan Cloote would, I supposed, examine the proffered article for about three minutes (this would account for a silence which followed her opening 'Well?'). The examination would be conducted with utter intensity, seeming to have its sensitive point, its a.s.sessing faculty, in her long nose. (I had already seen her perform this feat with Isa's treasures.) She would not smell the thing, actually; but it would appear to be her nose which calculated and finally judged. Then she would sharply name her figure. If this evoked a protest, she would become really eloquent; though never unreasonable, at this stage. A list of the object's defects would proceed like ticker tape from the mouth of Mrs Jan Cloote; its depreciating market value was known to her; this suit of clothes would never fit another man; that ring was not worth the melting. Usually, the p.a.w.ners accepted her offer, after she ceased. If not, the p.a.w.nbroker's wife turned to the next customer without further comment. 'Well?' she would say to the next one. Should the first-comer still linger, hesitant, perplexed, it was then that Mrs Jan Cloote became unreasonable in tone. 'Haven't you made up your mind yet?' she would demand. 'What are you waiting for, what are you waiting for?' The effect of this shock treatment was either the swift disappearance of the customer, or his swift clinching of the bargain.

Like most establishments in those parts, Mrs Jan Cloote's p.a.w.nshop was part.i.tioned off into sections, rather like a public house with its saloon, public and private bars. These compartments separated white customers from black, and black from those known as coloured - the Indians, Malays and half-castes.

Whenever someone with a tanned face came in at the white entrance, Mrs Jan Cloote always gave the customer the benefit of the doubt. But she would complain wearily of this to Maida and Greta as she rushed back and forth.

'Did you see that coloured girl that went out?' she would say. 'Came in the white way. Oh, coloured, of course she was coloured but you daren't say anything. We'd be up for slander.'

This particular morning, trade was pressing. A troopship had come in. 'Now that was a coloured,' said Mrs Jan Cloote in a lull between shop bells. 'He came in the white way.'

'I'd have kicked his behind,' said Isa.

'Listen to Isa, eh!' giggled Maida.

'Isa's the one!' said the mother, as she rushed away again, summoned by the bell.

This time the voices came from another part of the shop set aside from the rest. I had noticed, from the outside, that it was marked OFFICE-PRIVATE.

'Oh, it's you?' said Mrs Jan Cloote.

'That picture,' said the voice. 'Here's the ticket.'

'A month late,' she said. 'You've lost it.'

'Here's the fifteen bob,' said the man.

'No, no,' she said. 'It's too late. You haven't paid up the interest; it's gone.

'I'll pay up the interest now,' he said. 'Come now,' he said, 'we're old friends and you promised to keep it for me.

'My grandfather painted that picture,' he said.

'You promised to keep it for me,' he said.

'Not for a month,' she said at last. 'Not for a whole month. It was only worth the price of the frame.'

'It's a good picture,' he said.

'A terrible picture,' she said. 'Who would want a picture like that? It might bring us bad luck. I've thrown it away.

'Listen, old dear -' he began.

'Out!' she said. 'Outside!'

'I'm staying here,' he said, 'till I get my picture.'

'Maida! Greta!' she called.

'All right,' he said, hopeless and lost. 'I'm going.'

A week later Mrs Jan Cloote caught me in the hall again. 'A little cup of tea,' she whispered. 'Come in for a chat, just with ourselves and young Mr Fleming, tonight.'

It was imperative to attend these periodic tea sittings. Those of Mrs Jan Cloote's lodgers who did not attend suffered many discomforts; rooms were not cleaned nor beds made; morning tea was brought up cold and newspapers not at all. It was difficult to find rooms at that time. 'Thank you,' I said.

I joined the family that night. The Marais couple had left, but I found the young clerk there. Isa came in, painted up as before.

There was one addition to the room; a picture on the wall. It was dreadful as a piece of work, at the same time as it was fascinating on account of the period it stood for. The date of this period would be about the mid-1890s. It represented a girl bound to a railway line. Her blue sash fluttered across her body, and her hands were raised in anguish to her head, where the hair, yellow and abundant, was spreading over the rails around her. Twenty yards away was a bend on the rail-track. A train approached this bend, full-steam. The driver could not see the girl. As you know, the case was hopeless. A moment, and she would be pulp. But wait! A motor car, one of the first of its kind, was approaching a level crossing nearby. A group of young men, out for a joy-ride, were loaded into this high, bright vehicle. One of them had seen the girl's plight. This Johnnie was standing on the seat, waving his motoring cap high above his head and pointing to her. His companions were just on the point of realizing what had happened. Would they be in time to rescue her? - to stop the onrushing train? Of course not. The perspective of the picture told me this clearly enough. There was not a chance for the girl. And anyhow, I reflected, she lies there for as long as the picture lasts; the train approaches; the young mashers in their brand-new automobile - they are always on the point of seeing before them the girl tied to the rails, her hair spread around her, the ridiculous sash waving about, and her hands uplifted to her head.

On the whole, I liked the picture. It was the prototype of so many other paintings of its kind; and the prototype, the really typical object, is something I rarely have a chance of seeing.

'You're looking at Isa's picture,' said Mrs Jan Cloote.

'It's a very wonderful picture,' she declared. 'A very famous English artist flew out on a Sunderland on purpose to paint Isa. The RAF let him have the plane and all the crew so that he could come. As soon as they saw Isa's photo at the RAF Headquarters in London, they told the artist to take the Sunderland.

'He put Isa in that pose, doing her hair,' Mrs Jan Cloote continued, gazing fondly at the picture.

I said nothing. Nor did the young clerk. I tried looking at the picture with my head on one side, and, indeed, the girl bore a slight resemblance to Isa; the distracted hands around her head did look rather as if she were doing her hair. Of course, to get this effect, one had to ignore the train, and the motor car, and the other details. I decided that the picture would be about fifty years old. Undoubtedly, it was not recent.

'What do you think of it?' said Mrs Jan Cloote.

'Very nice,' I said.

The young clerk was silent.

'You're very quiet tonight, Mr Fleming,' said Maida.

He gave a jerky laugh which nearly knocked over his cup.

'I saw Mrs Marais today,' he ventured.

'Oh, her,' said Mrs Jan Cloote. 'Did you speak?'

'Certainly not,' he said; 'I just pa.s.sed her by.'

'Quite right,' said Mrs Jan Cloote.

'I gave them notice,' she explained to me. 'Mr wasn't so bad, but Mrs was the worst tenant I've ever had.'

'The things she said!' Greta added.

'I showed her every consideration,' said the p.a.w.nbroker's wife, 'and all I got was insults.'

'Insults,' Mr Fleming said.

'Mr Fleming was here when it happened,' said Mrs Jan Cloote.

'We were showing her Isa's picture,' she continued, 'and do you believe it, she said it wasn't Isa at all. To my face she as good as called me a liar, didn't she, Mr Fleming?'

'That's true,' said Mr Fleming, examining a tea-leaf on his spoon.

'Mr Marais, of course, was in an awkward position,' said Mrs Jan Cloote. 'You see, he's right under his wife's thumb, and he didn't dare contradict her. He only said there might be some mistake. But she sat on him at once. "That's not Isa," she said.'

'Poor Mr Marais!' said Greta.

'I'm sorry for Mr Marais,' said Maida.

'He's soft in the head, man,' said Isa.

'Isa's a real scream,' said her mother when she had recovered from her gust of laughter. 'And she's right. Old Marais isn't all there.'

'What was it again?' she inquired of the young clerk. 'What was it again, that old Marais told you afterwards, about Isa's picture?'

The young clerk looked at me, and quickly looked away.

'What did Mr Marais say about the picture?' I said insistently.

'Well,' said Mr Fleming, 'I don't really remember.'

'Now, you remember all right,' said Mrs Jan Cloote. 'Come on, give us a laugh.'

'Oh, he only said,' Mr Fleming replied, gazing manfully at the painting, 'he only said there were railway lines and a train in the picture.'

'Only said!' Mrs Jan Cloote put in.

'Well, poor thing,' said Mr Fleming; 'he can't help it, I suppose. He's mad.'

'And didn't he say there was an old-fashioned car in the picture, man?' said Greta. 'That's what you told us, man.

'Yes,' said the clerk, with a giggle, 'he said that too.'

'So you see,' said Mrs Jan Cloote. 'The man's out of his mind. A railway in Isa's picture! I laugh every time I think of it.'

'As for Mrs Marais,' she added; 'as for her, I never trusted the woman from the start. "Mrs Marais," said I, "you'll take a week's notice." And they left the next day.'

'Good riddance to the old b.i.t.c.h,' said Isa.

'She was jealous of Isa's picture, eh,' chuckled Greta.