LITMIR.BIZ

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ten pounds in rent at the sound of her pitiful voice, and ran my pencil through every address below that figure.

      Ten separate flats did we visit in the course of that day, and it was a proof of what Aunt Emmeline would call my stubbornness that I came through the ordeal without wavering. Regardless of Bridget’s appealing eyes, I led the way forward, always affecting a buoyant hope that our next visit would be successful, while mentally I was holding a Jekyll and Hyde argument with my inner self, as follows:—

      “Impossible to live in such warrens!”

      “Other people manage to live in them all the year round!”

      “But, as Bridget says, I have been used to the best.”

      “Quite time, then, that you take your share of the worst!”

      “My health might suffer—”

      “You have a good chance to recruit.”

      “I might lose my looks—”

      “Disagreeable—but the world would go on, even if you did. Incidentally, you might improve the looks of other women!”

      “It would be awfully dull!”

      “At first—yes! Not when you get into stride. Helping other people is the most exhilarating of tonics.”

      “I have never lived in a town. I should feel cramped, prisoned, stifled for air.”

      “But think how you would feel when the day came to return to Pastimes! Wouldn’t that first hour in the garden be glorious enough to repay you for all the exile?”

      Bridget’s wheedling voice broke in on my argument:—

      “Miss Evelyn, dear, I’ve been thinking—wouldn’t it be a duty-like, to be having a bit of sun? Seems like we could wrestle along a bit better if we faced the right way!”

      Poor dear! Above all the drawbacks, it was the darkness of the interiors of those small flats which most perplexed the good countrywoman: the passages lighted only through the ground glass panels of bedroom doors; the windows shadowed by walls of other buildings, which towered up at but a few yards’ distance; the kitchens staring blankly into a “well,” ornamented with the suggestive spirals of a fire-escape.

      “If we could maybe face somewhere where there was a bit of green!” pleaded the eloquent Irish voice. “Sure the leddies and gentlemen you are meaning to help—you’ll be more likely to find them in the place you’d choose yourself, if you were settling in earnest?” Bridget rolled an eye at blocks E, F, and G of a colossal pile of buildings which stretched their inky length over the two blocks of a narrow thoroughfare. “Cast your eye over them window curtains!” said she scathingly. “Ye can tell what’s inside without troubling to look. A dirty, idle set that will sponge on you, and laugh behind your back!”

      I looked, and shuddered, and was thankfully convinced. In my efforts not to aim too high, my standard had fallen impossibly low, and Bridget’s keen common sense had been right in prophesying that I was more likely to find a congenial type of people in a neighbourhood which appealed to my own taste.

      No sooner said than done! I escorted Bridget to a restaurant, and fed her and myself with lots of good hot food, and then straightway hired a taxi, and drove back to the agents to demand addresses of flats a little further afield, which should have at least a modicum of light and air.

      It appeared that I had demanded the thing above all others for which tens of thousands of other women were already clamouring!

      “Everybody wants a cheap flat in an open and airy situation. For one that is to let we have a hundred applicants. Of course, if you are prepared to pay a long price—”

      “But I am not.”

      “Quite so. Otherwise I have some fine sites in Campden Hill. Lift. Central heating. Every convenience.”

      “Seventy pounds is the utmost—”

      “Quite so. Then we must rule out Campden Hill, or Hampstead, or Kensington.” The agent switched over the leaves of his book, ran his finger down a list, and hesitated, frowning. “There is one vacancy which might suit—a small block of flats on the borders of Hammersmith. The postal address is Kensington. I don’t know if you are particular as to address?”

      “Not a bit.”

      “Ah!” The agent evidently thought small beer of me for the admission. “Most ladies are. In this case we can ask an extra five pounds a year because of the Kensington address, and the class of tenants is much better than in the adjoining blocks a few hundred yards off, where the postal address is Hammersmith.”

      Bridget coughed in an impressive fashion which was intended to say, “Better class! Hark to that now! That’s the place for us!” As for me, I was torn between amusement at the rank snobbery of it all, and a tender pity for the pathos that lay behind! Poor strugglers, clinging on to the fringe of society, squeezing out the extra pounds so badly needed for necessities, for—what? The satisfaction of seeing a certain word written on an envelope, or of impressing a shop assistant with its sound. In some cases no doubt there were deeper reasons than snobbishness, and it was thought of them which supplied the pathos. Some careworn men and women had weighed that extra rent in the balance, and had considered that it was “worth while,” since a good address might prove an asset in the difficult fight for existence, or perchance some loved one far away had vicariously suffered in past privations, and might be deluded into believing in a false prosperity by the high-sounding address. My ready imagination pictured the image of an invalid mother contentedly informing her neighbours: “My daughter has moved to Kensington. Yes! Such a charming neighbourhood. The gardens, you know. And the royal palace!” Five pounds a year might be worthily expended on such a gain as this!

      Well, there seemed nothing for it but to prospect Weltham Mansions at once, so we chartered yet another taxi, and hurried off without delay to have daylight for our inspection. We drove for miles, through streets at first wide and handsome, then growing ever dingier and more “decayed”. Is there anything in the world more depressing than a third-rate English suburb? I can imagine being poor contentedly in almost every other land—in India, for instance, I know of impecunious couples who have lived in two tents beneath two mango trees with comfort and enjoyment, but it takes a super Mark Tapley to enjoy poverty in London!

      We had left the gardens a long way behind before at long last we reached a block of dull red buildings, the various doorways of which were decorated with different letters and numbers. A 1 to 40—C 41 to 80—D 81 to 120—etcetera, etcetera. The windows were flat, giving a prison-like effect to the exterior, and I was just saying devoutly to myself, “Thank goodness, that’s not—” when the taxi stopped, and my eyes caught the fateful letters carved on a dull grey stone!

      It was Weltham Mansions, and there were two flats to be let. The porter produced the keys and led us up, up, endless flights of stairs to a crow’s nest near the roof, and then down, down again to what was described as the “sub-basement,” which, being interpreted, meant that the level of the rooms was a few feet beneath that of the road. Now I had always set my affections on a basement flat, chiefly—let me confess—because the sound of it appealed to my ears as so suitable and appropriate to my new rôle. Also, to be able to walk in and out, without mounting the stairs, minimised the risk of discovery, which was no light point under the circumstances, but it was a distinct surprise to find that the flat itself appealed to me more than any which I had yet seen. Why? Not because of the rooms themselves, for they were ordinary and prosaic enough, but because the bank which sloped from the floor of the area to the street railings was of grass, closely-growing, well-conditioned grass, broken here and there by tiny, sprouting leaves of—yes! extraordinary as it seems, there could be no doubt about it, for both Bridget and I recognised them in one lightning glance—primroses! Some former tenant who loved the country had planted those roots in a hopeful mood, and they had taken hold, and grown, and multiplied. When spring came the owner of that basement flat would have a primrose

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