‘Get a beetle-man – sort of pied piper, who lures them to their fate.’
Arrived on the premises of the canteen-to-be, they were joined by Ruth La Fontaine, of Norah Curfew’s ‘gang’, and descended to the dark and odorous kitchen. Michael struck a match, and found the switch. Gosh! In the light, surprised, a brown-black scuttling swarm covered the floor, the walls, the tables. Michael had just sufficient control of his nerves to take in the faces of those three – Fleur’s shuddering frown, Mr Blythe’s open mouth, the dark and pretty Ruth La Fontaine’s nervous smile. He felt Fleur clutch his arm.
‘How disgusting!’
The disturbed creatures were finding their holesor had ceased to scutde; here and there, a large one, isolated, seemed to watch them.
‘Imagine!’ cried Fleur. ‘And food’s been cooked here all these years! Ugh!’
‘After all,’ said Ruth La Fontaine, with a shivery giggle, ‘they’re not so b-bad as b-bugs.’
Mr Blyhthe puffed hard at his cigar. Fleur muttered:
‘What’s to be done, Michael?’
Her face was pale; she was drawing little shuddering breadis; and Michael was thinking: ‘It’s too bad; I must get her out of this!’ when suddenly she seized a broom and rushed at a large cockroach on the wall. In a minute they were all at it – swabbing and sweeping, and flinging open door and windows.
Chapter Two
ON THE ‘PHONE
WINIFRED DARTIE had not received her Morning Post. Now in her sixty-eighth year, she had not followed too closely the progress of events which led up to the general strike – they were always saying things in the papers, and you never knew what was true; those Trades union people, too, were so interfering, that really one had no patience. Besides, the Government always did something in the end. Acting, however, on the advice of her brother Soames, she had filled her cellars with coal and her cupboards with groceries, and by ten o’clock on the second morning of the strike, was seated comfortably at the telephone.
‘Is that you, Imogen? Are you and Jack coming for me this evening?’
‘No, Mother. Jack’s sworn in, of course. He has to be on duty at five. Besides, they say the theatres will close. We’ll go later. Dat Lubly Lady’s sure to run.’
‘Very well, dear. But what a fuss it all is! How are the boys?’
‘Awfully fit. They’re both going to be little “specials”. I’ve made them tiny badges. D’you think the child’s department at Harridge’s would have toy truncheons?’
‘Sure too, if it goes on. I shall be there today; I’ll suggest it. They’d look too sweet, wouldn’t they? Are you all right for coal?’
‘Oh, yes. Jack says we mustn’t hoard. He’s fearfully patriotic.’
‘Well, good-bye, dear! My love to the boys!’
She had just begun to consider whom she should call up next when the telephone bell rang.
‘Yes?’
‘Mr Val Dartie living there?’
‘No. Who is speaking?’
‘My name is Stainford. I’m an old college friend of his. Could you give me his address, please?’
Stainford? It conveyed nothing.
‘I’m his mother. My son is not in town; but I daresay be will be before long. Can I give him any message?’
‘Well, thanks! I want to see him. I’ll ring up again; or take my chance later. Thanks!’
Winifred replaced the receiver.
Stainford! The voice was distinguished. She hoped it had nothing to do with money. Odd, how often distinction was connected with money! Or, rather, with the lack of it. In the old Park Lane days they had known so many fashionables who had ended in the bankruptcy or divorce courts. Emily – her mother – had never been able to resist distinction. That had been the beginning of Monty – he had worn such perfect waistcoats and gardenias, and had known so much about all that was fast – impossible not to be impressed by him. Ah, well! She did not regret him now. Without him she would never have had Val, or Imogen’s two boys, or Benedict (almost a colonel), though she never saw him now, living as he did, in Guernsey, to grow cucumbers, away from the income tax. They might say what they liked about the age, but could it really be more up-to-date than it was in the ‘nineties and the early years of the century, when income tax was at a shilling, and that considered high! People now just ran about and talked, to disguise the fact that they were not so ‘chic’ and up-to-date as they used to be.
Again the telephone bell rang. ‘Will you take a trunk call from Wansdon?’…
‘Hallo! That you, Mother?’