Mrs Harris Goes To Paris And Mrs Harris Goes To New York Part 7

Among the clients for whom Mrs Harris 'did' not only with regularity but enthusiasm, since she had her favourites, were Mr and Mrs Joel Schreiber, who had a six-roomed flat on the top floor of one of the reconditioned houses in Eaton Square. Joel and Henrietta Schreiber were a middle-aged, childless American couple who had made their home in London for the last three years, where Mr Schreiber had acted as European representative and distribution manager for North American Pictures and Television Company.

It was through the kindness of Henrietta Schreiber originally that Mrs Harris had been able to change her hard-earned pounds for the necessarily exportable dollars which had enabled her to pay for her Dior dress in Paris. Neither of them had had any inkling that they were breaking the law in doing this. As Mrs Schreiber saw it, the pound notes were remaining with her in England, and not leaving the country, which was what the British wanted, wasn't it? But then Mrs Schreiber was one of those muddled people who never quite catch on to the way things operate, or are supposed to operate.

With the daily help and advice of Mrs Harris she had been able to accustom herself to keeping house in London, shopping in Elizabeth Street, and doing her own cooking, while Mrs Harris's energetic appearance for two hours a day kept her flat immaculate. Any sudden changes or problems turning up were likely to send Mrs Schreiber into a flutter. As one who before coming to England had been compelled to cope with the type of servants available in Hollywood and New York, Henrietta was a fervent admirer of Mrs Harris's speed, efficiency, skill at making the dust fly, and above all her ability to cope with almost any situation which arose.

Joel Schreiber, like Napoleon's every-man soldier who carried a marshal's baton in his knapsack, possessed an imaginary president's corporation seal in his briefcase. A hard-headed businessman who had worked his way up in North American Pictures from office boy to his present position, but always on the business side, he also had nourished dreams of arts and letters, and what he would do if he were president of North American, a contingency so remote that he never even so much as discussed it with his Henrietta. The kind of job Mr Schreiber had did not lead to presidencies, formations of policy, and conferences with the great and near-great stars of the film and television world.

Yet when the already-mentioned conference in Hollywood was over and the cablegram dispatched, it was to none other than Joel Schreiber, with instructions to move his offices as well as his domicile to New York for the tenure of a five-year contract as President of North American Pictures and Television Company Inc. Two power combines battling for control of North American, neither strong enough to win, and facing exhaustion, had finally agreed upon Schreiber, a darkhorse outsider, as a compromise candidate and eventual President of North American.

Following upon the cablegram which reached Schreiber at his office that afternoon were long-distance telephone calls, miraculous 'conference' conversations spanning oceans and continents, in which five people - one in London, two in California, two in New York - sat at separate telephones and talked as though they were all in one room, and by the time Mr Schreiber, a stocky little man with clever eyes, returned home that early evening, he was simply bursting with excitement and news.

There was no holding it in, he spilled it all in one load upon the threshold as he entered his flat. 'Henrietta, I'm IT! I got news for you. Only it's real news. I'm President of North American Pictures, in charge of everything! They're moving the offices to New York. We've got to leave in two weeks. We're going to live there in a big apartment on Park Avenue. The Company found one for me already. It's a double penthouse. I'm the big squeeze now, Henrietta. What do you think of it?'

They were a loving and affectionate couple, and so they hugged one another first, and then Mr Schreiber danced Henrietta around the apartment a little, until she was breathless and her comfortable, matronly figure was heaving.

She said, 'You deserve it, Joel. They should have done it long ago.' Then, to calm herself and collect her thoughts, she went to the window and looked out on to the quiet, leafy shade of Eaton Square, with its traffic artery running down the middle, and with a pang thought how used she had become to this placid way of life, how much she had loved it, and how she dreaded being plunged back into the hurly-burly and manic tempo of New York.

Schreiber was pacing up and down the flat with excitement, unable to sit down, as dozens of new thoughts, thrills, and ideas connected with his newly exalted position shot through his round head, and once he stopped and said, 'If we'd had a kid, Henrietta, wouldn't he have been proud of his old man at this minute?'

The sentence went straight to Henrietta's heart, where it struck and quivered like a dart thrown into a board. She knew that it was not meant as a reproach to her, since her husband was not that kind of man - it had welled simply from the need he had felt so long to be a father as well as a husband. And now that overnight he had become Somebody, she understood how the need had become intensified. When she turned away from the window there were tears br.i.m.m.i.n.g from the corners of her eyes and she could only say, 'Oh Joel, I'm I'm so proud of you.' so proud of you.'

He saw at once that he had hurt her, and going to her he put his arm around her shoulder and said, 'There, Henrietta, I didn't mean it like it sounded. You don't need to cry. We're a very lucky couple. We're important now. Think of the wonderful times we're going to have in New York, and the dinner parties you're going to give for all them famous people. You're really going to be the hostess with the mostes', like in the song.'

'Oh Joel,' Henrietta cried, 'it's been so long since we've lived in America, or New York - I'm frightened.'

'Psha,' comforted Mr Schreiber. 'What you got to be frightened of ? It'll be a breeze for you. You'll do wonderful. We're rich now, and you can have all the servants you want.'

But that was just what Mrs Schreiber was was worrying about, and which continued to worry her the following morning long after Mr Schreiber had floated away to his office on a pink cloud. worrying about, and which continued to worry her the following morning long after Mr Schreiber had floated away to his office on a pink cloud.

Her confused and excited imagination ranged over the whole monstrous gamut of international slatterns, b.u.ms, laggards, and good-for-nothings who sold their services as 'trained help'. Through her hara.s.sed mind marched the parade of Slovak, Lithuanian, Bosnian-Herzegovinian butlers or male servants with dirty fingernails, yellow, cigarette-stained fingers, who had worked for her at one time or another, trailing the ashes of their interminable cigarettes all over the rugs behind them. She had dealt with ox-like Swedes, equally bovine Finns, impudent Prussians, lazy Irish, lazier Italians, and inscrutable Orientals.

Fed up with foreigners, she had engaged American help, both coloured and white, live-in servants who drank her liquor and used her perfume, or daily women who came in the morning and departed at night usually with some article of her clothing or lingerie hidden upon their persons. They didn't know how to dust, polish, sweep, rinse out a gla.s.s, or clean a piece of silver, they left pedestal marks on the floor where, immobile like statues, they had leaned for hours on their brooms doing nothing. None of them had any pride of house or beautiful things. They smashed her good dishes, china, lamps, and bric-a-brac, ruined her slipcovers and linen, burnt cigarette holes in her carpets, and wrecked her property and peace of mind.

To this appalling crew she now added a long line of sour-faced cooks, each of whom had made her contribution to the grey hairs that were beginning to appear on her head. Some had been able to cook, others not. All of them had been unpleasant women with foul dispositions and unholy characters, embittered tyrants who had taken over and terrorized her home for whatever the length of their stay. Most of them had been only a little batty; some of them just one step from the loony bin. None of them had ever shown any sympathy or kindliness, or so much as a single thought beyond the rules they laid down for their own comfort and satisfaction.

A key rattled in the door, it swung open and in marched Mrs Harris carrying her usual rexine bag full of goodness-only knows - what that she always brought with her on her rounds, and wearing a too-long, last year's coat that someone had given her, with a truly ancient flowerpot hat, relic of a long-dead client, but which now by the rotation of styles had suddenly become fas.h.i.+onable again.

'Good morning, ma'am,' she said cheerily. 'I'm a bit early this morning, but since you said you was 'aving some friends for dinner tonight, I thought I'd do a real good tidying up and 'ave the plyce lookin' like apple pie.'

To Mrs Schreiber, her mind hardly cleared of the ghastly parade of remembered domestic slobs, Ada Harris looked like an angel, and before she knew what she was doing, she ran to the little char, threw her arms about her neck, hugged her, and cried, 'Oh Mrs Harris, you don't know how glad I am to see you - how very glad!'

And then unaccountably she began to cry. Perhaps it was the comfort of the return hug and pat that Mrs Harris gave her, or release from the emotional strain following the good news of her husband's promotion, but she sobbed, 'Oh Mrs Harris, something wonderful has happened to my husband. We're going to New York to live, but I'm so frightened - I'm so terribly afraid.'

Mrs Harris did not know what it was all about, but there was no doubt in her mind as to the cure: she put down her carry-all, patted Mrs Schreiber on the arm and said, 'There, there now, dear, don't you take on so. Just you let Ada 'Arris make you a cup of tea, and then you'll feel better.'

It was a comfort to Mrs Schreiber to let her do so, and she said, 'If you'll make yourself one too,' and as the two women sat in the kitchen of the flat sipping their brew, Mrs Schreiber poured it all forth to her sympathetic sister-under-the-skin, Mrs Harris - the great good fortune that had befallen her husband and herself, the change that would take place in their lives, the monstrous, gaping, two-storeyed penthouse apartment that awaited them in America, the departure in two weeks, and above all her qualms about the servant problem. With renewed gusto she narrated for Mrs Harris's appreciative ears all the domestic horrors and catastrophes that awaited her on the other side of the Atlantic. It relieved her to do so, and gave Mrs Harris a fine and satisfying sense of British superiority, so that she felt an even greater affection for Mrs Schreiber.

At the conclusion of her narrative she looked over at the little apple-cheeked char with a new warmth and tenderness in her own eyes and said, 'Oh, if only there were someone like you in New York to help me out, even if just for a little until I could get settled.'

There then fell a silence, during which time Henrietta Schreiber looked across the table at Ada Harris, and Ada Harris over the empty teacups regarded Henrietta Schreiber. Neither said anything. It would not have been possible by any scientific precision instrument known to man to have measured any appreciable interval as to which of them was. .h.i.t by the great idea first. If such a thing were possible, the two pennies dropped at one and the same moment. But neither said anything.

Mrs Harris arose, clearing the tea-things, and said, 'Well, I'd best be gettin' on with me work, 'adn't I?' and Mrs Schreiber said, 'I suppose I ought to look over the things I mean to take with me.' They both then turned to what they had to do. Usually when they were in the flat together they nattered, or rather, Mrs Harris did and Mrs Schreiber listened, but this time the little char worked in thoughtful silence, and so did Mrs Schreiber.

That night when Mrs Harris forgathered with Mrs b.u.t.terfield she said, ' 'Old on to your hair, Vi, I've got something to tell you. We're going to America!'

Mrs b.u.t.terfield's scream of alarm rang through the area with such violence that doors and windows were opened to check its source. After Mrs Harris had fanned her back to coherence she cried, ' 'Ave you gone out of yer mind? Did you say we're we're going?' going?'

Mrs Harris nodded complacently. 'I told yer to 'ang on to yer hair,' she said. 'Mrs Schreiber's going to ask me to go along with her until she can get settled into 'er new plyce in New York. I'm going to tell 'er I will, but not unless she tykes you along as cook. Together we're going to find little 'Enry's father!'

That night when Mr Schreiber came home Henrietta broke a long period of taciturnity on her part by saying, 'Joel, don't be angry with me, but I have an absolutely hopelessly mad idea.'

In his present state of euphoria nothing was likely to anger Mr Schreiber. He said, 'Yes, dear, what is it?'

'I'm going to ask Mrs Harris to come to New York with us.'

Schreiber was not angry, but he was certainly startled. He said, 'What?'

'Only for a few months perhaps, until we get settled in and I can find someone. You don't know how wonderful she is, and how she keeps this place. She knows how I like things. Oh Joel, I'd feel so - secure.'

'But would she come?'

'I don't know,' Henrietta replied, 'but - but I think so. If I offered her a lot of money she'd have to come, wouldn't she? And I think she might just because she likes me, if I begged her.'

Mr Schreiber looked doubtful for a moment and said, 'A c.o.c.kney char in a Park Avenue penthouse?' But then he softened and said, 'If it'll make you feel better, Baby, go ahead. Anything you want now, I want you should have.'

EXACTLY fourteen and a half hours after Mrs Harris had told Mrs b.u.t.terfield she was about to be propositioned by Mrs Schreiber to go to America, it happened. Mrs Schreiber proposed the very next morning, shortly after Mrs Harris had arrived, and was enthusiastically accepted upon one condition - namely, that Mrs b.u.t.terfield be included in the party, and at a wage equal to that promised to Mrs Harris. fourteen and a half hours after Mrs Harris had told Mrs b.u.t.terfield she was about to be propositioned by Mrs Schreiber to go to America, it happened. Mrs Schreiber proposed the very next morning, shortly after Mrs Harris had arrived, and was enthusiastically accepted upon one condition - namely, that Mrs b.u.t.terfield be included in the party, and at a wage equal to that promised to Mrs Harris.

'She's me oldest friend,' explained Mrs Harris. 'I've never been away from London more than a week at a time in me life. If I 'ad 'er with me I wouldn't feel so lonely. Besides, she's a ruddy good cook - cooked for some of the best 'ouses before she retired from steady work. You ask old Sir Alfred Welby who he got 'is gout from.'

Mrs Schreiber was almost beside herself with joy at the prospect of not only having Mrs Harris to look after her during the first months of her return to the United States, but also at one and the same time acquiring a good cook who would get on well with the little char and keep her from getting too lonely. She knew Mrs b.u.t.terfield and liked her, for she had subbed for Mrs Harris during the latter's expedition to Paris to acquire her Dior dress. 'But do you think she would come?' she asked of Mrs Harris anxiously.

'At the drop of a brick,' replied the latter. 'Adventurous, that's what she is. Always wantin' to rush off into the unknown. Sometimes I can 'ardly keep 'er back. Oh, she'll come all right. Just you leave it to me to put it to 'er in the right way.'

Mrs Schreiber was delighted to do so, and they began to discuss details of departure - Mr Schreiber was planning to sail in the French liner Ville de Paris Ville de Paris from Southampton within ten days - as though everything was all set and arranged for the two of them. from Southampton within ten days - as though everything was all set and arranged for the two of them.

Mrs Harris chose the psychological moment to move to the attack upon her friend, namely, the witching hour of that final mellow cup of tea they shared before retiring, and this time in Mrs b.u.t.terfield's ample kitchen, well stocked with cakes and biscuits, jams and jellies, for as her figure indicated, Mrs b.u.t.terfield liked to eat well.

At first it seemed as though Mrs Harris had committed a tactical error in approaching her friend on her own home ground instead of getting her away from her familiar surroundings, for Mrs b.u.t.terfield was adamant in her refusal to budge and appeared to have an answer to every argument put forth by Mrs Harris.

'What?' she cried. 'Me go to America at my age, where they do all that inflation and shooting and young people killing one another with knives? Don't you read the papers? And let me tell you something else, if you go it'll be the death of you, Ada 'Arris - and don't say I didn't warn you.'

Mrs Harris tried the financial offensive. 'But Violet, look at the money she's offered to pay you - American wages, a hundred quid a month and keep. You don't earn that much in three months 'ere. You could rent your flat while you was away, yer widow's pension'd be piling up, you'd have no expenses of any kind - why, you'd like as not have five hundred quid by the time you came 'ome. Look what a 'oliday you could 'ave with that. Or put it into Premium Bonds and win a thousand quid more. You'd never 'ave to do another stroke of work.'

'Money ain't everything,' Mrs b.u.t.terfield countered. 'You'd know that, Ada 'Arris, if you read your Bible more. The root of all evil, that's what it is. Who's got the most trouble in this world, who's always being dragged into Court and getting their nymes in the papers? Millionaires. I can make enough for me needs right 'ere, and that's where I'm stayin'. Anyway, I wouldn't go to that Soda and Gomorrow, what they say New York is, for five hundred quid a month.'

Mrs Harris moved up her inter-continental missile with megaton warhead. 'What about little 'Enry?' she said.

Mrs b.u.t.terfield regarded her friend with some alarm. 'What about 'im?' she asked, to gain time, for in the excitement and terror of Mrs Harris's proposition she had quite forgotten who and what lay behind it all.

'To find 'is dad and give the poor little tyke a decent life, that's what's all about 'im, Violet b.u.t.terfield, and I'm surprised and ashymed at you forgettin'. If you've 'eard it once, you 've 'eard me say a 'undred times, if I could only get to America I'd find 'is dad and tell 'im where 'is kid was and what was 'appening to 'im. Well now, 'ere's our chance to go and do just that, and you ask me what about little 'Enry! Don't you love 'im?'

This was almost attacking below the belt, and Mrs b.u.t.terfield let out a howl of protest. 'Ow, Ada, 'ow can you say such a thing? You know I do. Ain't I always feeding 'im up and cuddling 'im like a mother?'

'But don't you want to see 'im 'appy and safe with 'is father?'

'Of course I do,' said Mrs b.u.t.terfield, and then produced to her own great surprise out of her own locker an atomic-ray defence, which nullified Mrs Harris's attack. 'Oo's to look after 'im while you're away if I go too? What's the use of you turning up 'is old man only to 'ave 'im come over 'ere and find the poor little tyke starved to death? One of us 'as got to stay 'ere.'

There was intrinsically so much logic in this statement that for the moment Mrs Harris was nonplussed and could not think of an answer, and so with an extraordinary heaviness about her heart she looked down into her teacup and said simply, 'I do wish you'd come to America with me, Vi.'

It was now Mrs b.u.t.terfield's turn to look at her friend with astonishment. Sincerity brought forth an equal measure of sincerity in herself. Gone now were all the subterfuges and she replied, 'I don't want to go to America - I'm afraid to go.'

'So am I,' said Mrs Harris.

Mrs b.u.t.terfield's astonishment turned now to amazement. 'What!' she cried. 'You, Ada 'Arris, afraid! Why, I've known you for more than thirty-five years, and you've never been afraid of anything in your life.'

'I am now,' said Mrs Harris. 'It's a big step. It's a strange country. It's a long way off. Who's to look after me if anything happens? I wish you were coming with me. One never knows, does one?'

It might have sounded like irony, this sudden switch in the accustomed roles of the two women: Mrs Harris the adventurous optimist suddenly turned into a kind of b.u.t.terfield timorous pessimist. But the truth was that there was no irony whatsoever in her remark. It was just that the realization had suddenly come upon her of the enormity of the undertaking into which she had thrust herself so light-heartedly and with her usual sense of excitement and adventure. New York was not only a long way off, it would be totally different from anything she had ever experienced. True, Paris had been utterly foreign, but if you looked at a map, Paris was just across the street. America would be English-speaking, it was true, and yet in another sense more foreign than France, or perhaps even China. She was going to uproot herself from that wonderfully secure and comfortably-fitting London which had sheltered her for all her life and about whose streets and rhythm and noises and manifold moods she knew her way blindfolded. And she was no longer young. She knew of the many British wives who, having married Americans, had come running home, unable to adjust themselves to American life. She was sixty-one, a sixty-one that felt full of energy and br.i.m.m.i.n.g with life it is true, but one never did know, did one? Supposing she fell ill? Who in a strange land would provide the necessary link between herself and her beloved London? Yes, for that instant she was truly and genuinely afraid, and it showed in her eyes. Violet b.u.t.terfield saw it there.

'Oh dear,' said the fat woman, and her round chins began to quiver, 'do you mean it, Ada? Do you really need me?'

Mrs Harris eyed her friend, and knew that she really did want this big, bulky, helpless but comfortable woman to lean on a little. 'Yes, love,' said Mrs Harris, 'I do.'

'Then I'll come with you,' said Mrs b.u.t.terfield, and began to bawl. Mrs Harris started to cry too, and immediately the two women were locked in one another's arms, weeping together for the next few minutes, and having a most lovely time.

The die, however, had been cast, and the trip was on.

Anyone who knew the worth of Mrs Harris and Mrs b.u.t.terfield to their clients would not have been surprised had they come into Belgravia to have found large sections of this exclusive area decorated with black crepe crepe hung out after the two widows had notified their clients that within one week's time they were departing for the United States and would not be available for at least three months thereafter, and perhaps longer. hung out after the two widows had notified their clients that within one week's time they were departing for the United States and would not be available for at least three months thereafter, and perhaps longer.

However, such is the toughness of the human spirit, as well as the frame, and likewise so stunning the news and excitement engendered by the fact that Mrs Harris and Mrs b.u.t.terfield were going out to what some of them still persisted in referring to as 'the colonies', that the blow was taken more or less in stride.

Had the two women merely announced a one- or twoday, or a week's hiatus, there would then have been such revolutions in the area as to shake every mews, crescent, square, and lane - but three months meant forever, and const.i.tuted one of the hazards of modern living. With a sigh most of them resigned themselves to renewed visits to the employment office, and a further period of trial and error until another such gem as Mrs Harris or Mrs b.u.t.terfield could be found.

EVER afterwards Mrs Harris swore that the thought of kidnapping little Henry from the disgusting Gussets, stowing him away aboard the afterwards Mrs Harris swore that the thought of kidnapping little Henry from the disgusting Gussets, stowing him away aboard the Ville de Paris Ville de Paris, and taking him bodily to his father in America would never have occurred to her but for the astonis.h.i.+ng coincidence of the episode in the home of the Countess Wyszcinska, whose London pied-a-terre pied-a-terre in Belgrave Street Mrs Harris brightened between the hours of five and six. It was that same Countess with whom she had had the in Belgrave Street Mrs Harris brightened between the hours of five and six. It was that same Countess with whom she had had the contretemps contretemps over the new Hoover and who, contrary to the gloomy prognostications of Mrs b.u.t.terfield, had known what was good for her and produced one. over the new Hoover and who, contrary to the gloomy prognostications of Mrs b.u.t.terfield, had known what was good for her and produced one.

Thus, she was in the flat of the Countess when a parcel arrived for that august lady from her eighteen-year-old nephew in Milwaukee, Wisconsin. The contents of the parcel proved to be the most awful eyesore the Countess had ever beheld - a horribly encrusted beer stein with an imitation silver lid and 'Souvenir of Milwaukee' emblazoned on its side. Unfortunately, so thoroughly had this revolting objet d'art objet d'art been wrapped in and stuffed out with old newspapers that it had arrived in unbroken condition. been wrapped in and stuffed out with old newspapers that it had arrived in unbroken condition.

The Countess with an expression of distaste about her aristocratic countenance said, 'Ugh! What in G.o.d's name?' And then, aware of Mrs Harris's interested presence, quickly corrected herself and said, 'Isn't it lovely? But I just don't know where to put it. There's so much in this little place already. Would you like to take it home with you, Mrs Harris?'

Mrs Harris said, 'Wouldn't I just. "Souvenir of Milwaukee" - I might be going there to visit when I'm in America.'

'Well, just get it out of here - I mean, I'm glad you like it. And throw all that trash away while you're at it,' pointing to the papers that had preserved its life. Thereupon the Countess departed, wondering what had got into chars nowadays that they seemed always to be travelling.

Left to herself, Mrs Harris then indulged in one of her favourite pastimes, which was the reading of old newspapers. One of her greatest pleasures when she went to the fishmonger's was to read two-year-old pages of the Mirror Mirror lying on the counter and used for wrapping. lying on the counter and used for wrapping.

Now she picked up a page of a newspaper called The Milwaukee Sentinel The Milwaukee Sentinel, eyed the headline 'Dominie Seduced Schoolgirl in Hayloft', enjoyed the story connected therewith, and thereafter leafed through the other pages of the same instrument of public service until she came to one labelled 'Society Page', on which she found many photographs of young brides, young grooms-to-be, and young married couples.

Always interested in weddings, Mrs Harris gave these announcements more undivided attention, until she came upon one which caused her little eyes almost to pop out of her head, and led her to emit a shriek, 'Ruddy gor'-blimey - it's 'im! It's 'appened! I felt it in me bones that something would.'

What she was looking at was the photograph of a handsome bridal couple over which was the caption, 'BrownTracy Nuptials', and underneath the story under the dateline of Sheboygan, Wisconsin, 23 January: 'The wedding was celebrated here today at the First Methodist Church on Maple Street, of Miss Georgina Tracey, daughter of Mr and Mrs Frank Tracey of 1327 Highland Avenue, to Mr George Brown, only son of Mr and Mrs Henry Brown of 892 Delaware Road, Madison, Wisconsin. It was the bride's first marriage, the groom's second.

'The bride, one of the most popular graduates of East-lake High School, has been a leader in the social activities of the younger debutante set. The groom, aged 34, an electronics engineer, was formerly in the U.S. Air Force, stationed in England. The couple will make their home in Kenosha, Wisconsin.'

Clutching the paper fiercely between her thin, veined hands, Mrs Harris performed a little solo dance about the Countess's drawing room, shouting, 'It's 'im! It's 'im! I've found little 'Enry's father!' There was not the least shadow of doubt in her mind. He was handsome; he resembled little 'Enry in that he had two eyes, a nose, a mouth, and ears; he was of the right age; he was well-to-do, had a n.o.ble look about his eyes, as Mrs Harris had imagined him, and now he was married to a fine-looking girl, who would be just the mother for little 'Enry. Popular the paper said she was, but Mrs Harris also noted that she had a good, open countenance, and nice eyes. What clinched it and made it certs was the name of Mr Brown's father - Henry Brown: of course the grandchild would be named after him.

Mrs Harris ceased her dance, looked down upon the precious photograph and said, 'George Brown, you're going to get your baby back,' and at that moment, for the first time, the thought of abstracting little 'Enry from the Gussets and of taking him to his father immediately smote her between the eyes. True, she didn't have his address, but there would be no difficulty in locating him once she got herself and little 'Enry to Kenosha, Wisconsin. If this was not a sign from On High as to where her duty lay and what she ought to do about it, Mrs Harris did not know signs from Above, which she had been encountering and interpreting more or less successfully ever since she could remember.

Little Henry Brown was aged eight in terms of the tenure of his frail body, eighty in the light of the experience of the harsh and unhappy world into which that body had been ushered. In his brief sojourn he had learned all of the tricks of the persecuted - to lie, to evade, to steal, to hide - in short, to survive. Thrown on his own in the concrete desert of the endless pavements of London, he very early acquired the quickness of mind and the cunning needed to outwit the wicked.

Withal, he yet managed to retain a childish charm and innate goodness. He would never scupper a pal or do the dirty on someone who had been kind to him. Someone, for instance, like the two widow charladies, Mrs Ada Harris, and Mrs Violet b.u.t.terfield, in whose kitchen he was now momentarily concealed, involved in a thrilling and breathless conspiracy.

He sat there looking rather like a small gnome, gorging himself on tea and buns to the point of distension (since one of the things life had taught him was whenever he came across any food that appeared to be unattached, the thing to do was to eat it quickly, and as much of it as he could hold), while Mrs Harris unfolded the details of the plot.

One of Henry's a.s.sets was his taciturnity. Among other things he had learned to keep his mouth shut. He was eloquent rather by means of a pair of huge, dark, sad eyes, eyes filled with knowledge that no little boy of that age should have, and which missed nothing that went on about him.

Because he was thin and somewhat stunted in growth, his head had the appearance of being too large and old, rather an adult head, with a shock of darkish hair, underneath which was a pale and usually dirty face. It was to his eternal credit that there was still some youth and sweetness left in him - adversity had not made him either mean or vengeful.

Whatever the steps he took to make life as easy for himself as possible under the circ.u.mstances, they were dictated purely by necessity. He rarely spoke, but when he did it was to the point.

And now as Mrs Harris continued to unfold yet more details of the most fascinating scheme ever devised to free a small boy from hideous tyranny and guarantee him three square meals a day, he sat silently, his mouth stuffed full of bun, but nodding, his huge eyes filled with intelligence and understanding while Mrs Harris enumerated each point of what he was to do when, where, and under various circ.u.mstances. In these same eyes was contained also considerable wors.h.i.+p of her.

It was true, he loved the occasional cuddle pillowed upon the pneumatic bosom of Mrs b.u.t.terfield, though he did not go for too much of that soft stuff, or would not let himself, but it was he and Mrs Harris who were kindred souls. They recognized something in one another, the independent spirit, the adventurous heart, the unquenchable soul, the ability to stand up to whatever had to be stood up to, and get on.

Mrs Harris was not one to fuss and gush over him, but she addressed him like an equal, for equal they were in that nether world of hard and unremitting toil to feed and clothe oneself, where life is all struggle and the helping hands are one's own.

In so many ways they were alike. For instance, no one had ever heard Henry complain. Whatever happened to him, that's how things were. No one had ever heard Mrs Harris complain either. Widowed at the age of thirty, she had raised, educated, and married off her daughter, and kept herself and her self-respect, and all on her hands and knees with a scrubbing brush, or bent over mop and duster, or sinks full of dirty dishes. She would have been the last person to have considered herself heroic, but the strain of simple heroism was in her, and Henry had it too. He also had that quick understanding that gets at the heart of the situation. Whereas Mrs Harris had to go into long and elaborate explanations of things to Mrs b.u.t.terfield, and she did so with great patience, little Henry usually got it in one, and would nod his acquiescence before Mrs Harris was half way through exposing what she had on her mind.

Now when Mrs Harris had finished rehearsing step by step how the plan was to work, Mrs b.u.t.terfield, who for the first time was hearing what seemed to her to be the concoction of a mad woman, threw her ap.r.o.n over her head and began to rock and moan.

'Ere, 'ere, love, what's wrong?' said Mrs Harris. 'Are you ill?'

'Ill,' cried Mrs b.u.t.terfield, 'I should think so! Whatever it's called, what you're doing, it's a jyle offence. You can't get away with it. It'll never work.'

Little Henry stuffed the last of a sugar bun into his mouth, washed it down with a swig of tea, wiped his lips with the back of his hand and turning his large eyes upon the quivering figure of Mrs b.u.t.terfield said simply, 'Garn, why not?'

Mrs Harris threw back her head and roared with laughter. 'Oh 'Enry,' she said, 'you're a man after me own 'eart.'