Mrs. Hetherington Smith had not forgotten her decision to send the Hoggs a present of money for a holiday. She thought about it a good deal, and the more she thought about it the more it seemed a dull unsatisfactory thing to do. She could send them the money, but she would never know whether they really used it for the purpose. She would not be able to visualise the Hoggs at Brighton—or Southend—because she would not know whether they had gone there or not. Thinking so much about the Hoggs brought them vividly before her eyes. She had seen and heard nothing of them for three years. Every Christmas she sent them the biggest hamper she could buy, but she sent it anonymously, so she never knew if they enjoyed it—or at any rate she could not enjoy their enjoyment.
Arthur had forbidden her to have anything to do with the Hoggs. When they drove away from the house in the Edgware Road, which had been their home for four years, they had left that life behind—they had cast it off like a worn garment. He had spoken to her about it in the taxi—“That’s finished,” he had said with a sigh of relief as he drew up the window with unnecessary vigour. “That’s finished and done with. Remember, Mary, you’re Mrs. Hetherington Smith now. Mrs. Smith is dead. Mrs. Hetherington Smith can have no part nor lot with the Hoggs or the Wilkes or any of that crew.”
“I can write and tell her—” began the newly born Mrs. Hetherington Smith.
“No,” he said firmly; “no letters—nothing. You’re a different person now. Wash out the Edgware Road and all that it stood for.”
“But, Arthur—Mrs. Hogg will wonder—”
“Let her wonder. Make a clean break. Don’t mention their names,” he cried vehemently, “I never want to hear of any of those people again.”
Looking back, Mary Hetherington Smith thought it was really rather wonderful how easily they had managed to cast off their old life. It was Arthur’s doing, he had arranged the whole thing. They had driven in the taxi to a quiet comfortable hotel, and it was there that the metamorphosis had taken place. She had spent hours at a Beauty Parlour being waved and manicured, and more hours at a dressmaker’s being moulded into shape and fitted with fine raiment; and, at last, from the chrysalis of Mrs. Smith the butterfly of Mrs. Hetherington Smith had emerged.
They had climbed up before, of course, but never so high, and never so suddenly. This time there was no intermediate stage in their development, no gradual transition from the Edgware Road to Surbiton, and from Surbiton to St. John’s Wood and Kensington into Mayfair—that was not Arthur’s idea at all—no, with one immense stride they had moved from the Edgware Road to Berkeley Square, pausing, for a moment only, at the quiet hotel to dry their wings in the sun. The thing would have been impossible if the Edgware Road had been their natural sphere, or if they had had no experience in their strangely chequered career of other spheres of existence. And it would have been impossible if Mary had been a foolish woman, or one less sensitive to the feelings of her fellow creatures, or less adaptable to their manners and customs. For Arthur the transition was not so swift. He had been meeting business men all the time, mixing with them, watching them, learning all he could learn—not only about the business of getting rich but about the business of being rich. Arthur had seen the truth of the saying that nothing succeeds like success. Once you were rich and everyone knew you were rich, there was no end to the money you could make—literally no end to it. But you had to be rich first. Arthur set out to be rich. He piled up money, selling and buying stocks and shares, watching successful men and following them, taking a risk here and a risk there—it was a great game. Arthur came home to the Edgware Road only to sleep.
Men really had two lives, Mrs. Hetherington Smith reflected—sometimes more than two lives, of course, but always two: their home life and their business life. It didn’t matter whether a man were a stockbroker or a navvy, it was the same thing really. Women had no such dual existence. They lived their home life and no other, and they had to find their interests where they could.
I would like to see the Hoggs, she thought again. Arthur said Mrs. Hetherington Smith must have nothing to do with the Hoggs, but he didn’t say that Mrs. Smith must not. Suppose I was to be Mrs. Smith again—just for one afternoon—what harm would there be in that? What harm could there be?
It was a brilliant idea. Mrs. Hetherington Smith wondered why it had never occurred to her before. Arthur wouldn’t approve of it, of course—she knew that—but Arthur would never know. And it would be nice to see the children and have a nice chat with Mrs. Hogg. She thought: none of my clothes will do. I’ll have to get a cheap coat and hat—I’ll take a few little presents for the children—her eyes gleamed with pleasure at the thought.
A few days later Mrs. Smith got out of a bus at the Marble Arch and walked slowly up the Edgware Road. She felt she had journeyed hundreds of miles—not only in distance but in time—it was a different country she was entering, inhabited by a totally different race of beings. Mrs. Smith was dressed in a brown cloth coat with a cheap fur collar—probably cat. She wore a black felt hat, and her shoes and stockings and gloves were all in keeping with her part. When you do a thing, do it thoroughly, Mrs. Hetherington Smith had thought when she was making her purchases. It was no good doing it at all unless you did it thoroughly. Her shoes—made specially for her at Hamble’s—would have given her away in a moment to a much less perspicacious observer than Mrs. Hogg.
As she walked up the street, jostled by the crowds that surged backwards and forwards intent upon their own affairs, she felt like a ghost returning to its haunt. She felt invisible, a mere wraith, bodiless, a trifle forlorn. She passed the butcher’s shop where she had haggled for “neck-ends” and “shins,” and saw it filled with a crowd of Mrs. Smiths all haggling for “shins” and “neck-ends,” scraggy and chilled. She passed the grocer at the corner where she had bought half-pounds of tea and margarine and sugar. She had once owed him seventeen shillings—a vast amount it had seemed—and he had been very kind about it and had waited patiently for weeks until she had been able to pay it off. She was glad when she reached the corner, for the strings of the parcels she carried were cutting into her fingers through the cheap gloves, and the cheap shoes had rubbed a sore place on one heel. Goodness, I am getting soft! she thought as she climbed the stairs—I’ll have to take more exercise. I’ll have to see I don’t get soft inside as well as out. . . .
Mrs. Hogg came to the door herself. “Mary Smith, I do declare!” she cried. “Well now, isn’t that nice? It’s donkey’s years since you’ve bin ’ere! Well, I never! Come in, my dear. The kettle’s just on the boil—I was going to make myself a nice cup o’ tea.”
“How’s everyone?” enquired Mrs. Smith, sitting down in the well-remembered chair and looking round the small, clean, shabby room with interest and affection. It seemed to have grown smaller with the passing years—and shabbier—but it was warm and comfortable still.
“Everyone’s O.K.,” replied her hostess, busying herself with the tea-things. “Mary’s five now. Quite a big girl. Annie’s taken ’er out for a message. They’ll be back direckly. Mary’s the last—thank goodness—at least it looks like it, but I better tap wood. You never know, do you? No need to ask ’ow you are,” continued Mrs. Hogg, looking critically at her unexpected guest. “Ten years younger you look—and smart—why, I ’ardly knew you! When I opened the door an’ saw you standing there I thought you must be the districk visitor at first—”
Mrs. Smith laughed heartily.
“Ow’s Mr. Smith doin’?” enquired Mrs. Hogg when they had both enjoyed the joke to its fullest extent. “But I don’t need to ask that, neither. Look at you. ’E always ’ad brains. I knew ’e’d go far. Often an’ often I’ve said to Bert when we was talkin’ about you, I’ve said, ‘Mark my Words, Mr. Smith ’as brains. ’E won’t be content ’ere all the day,’ I’ve said. Bert’s a good ’usband, I will say that, but ’e ’asn’t no ambition—that what’s the matter with ’im. Quite content to live ’ere all ’is days and get ’is money regular.”
“There’s advantages in that,” said Mrs. Smith, whose husband had an overdose of the virtue referred to.
“Well, of course you do know where you are with regular money,” agreed Mrs. Hogg, missing the point completely. “You do know where you are. There’s that to be said. And when you know what you’ve got to make do on, you can plan accordingly.”
“I mean you can have too much ambition,” explained Mrs. Smith.
“Well, perhaps; but you can ’ave too little. When a man’s got so little ambition ’e won’t take a ’arf share of a ticket in the Derby Sweep it’s a bit discouraging. ‘What would we do if we got the money?’ ’e said (would you believe that?). ‘What would we do?’ I said. ‘I’d soon show you what we’d do. Think of the lovely ’oliday we could ’ave at Southend-on-Sea!’ We shan’t be able to afford it this year—couldn’t last year either, an’ I do miss it. It’s ’ard on the children, too.”
Mrs. Smith nodded sympathetically.
“The stair isn’t the same since you left,” continued Mrs. Hogg, making the tea and setting the big brown teapot on the hob to draw. “People called Regan in your old ’ouse. She’s a nice little thing, but ’e drinks something awful. Comes ’ome drunk every Friday like clockwork, and goes for ’er with the poker. Bert ’ad to go in the other night—I thought ’e was killing ’er by the screams—”
Mrs. Smith nodded. She knew what it was like to have your night’s rest disturbed by screams, and to argue with your husband and try to persuade him to interfere. Husbands never liked interfering, of course, and they were usually right. But it was difficult to settle down to sleep when you didn’t know what had happened—somebody might be dead or dying, or, again, it might be nothing at all.
“Did he really go in?” enquired Mrs. Smith with interest.
“I made ’im go,” replied Mrs. Hogg. “It’s been better since.”
“Poor soul!” said Mrs. Smith easily. “Are the Wilkes still here?”
“Yes, Mrs. Wilke ’ad ’er sixth last night. I didn’t ’arf ’ave a time with ’er. Bert ’ad to go for the doctor—but she’s all right, and the baby’s sweet.”
Mrs. Smith leaned forward, drinking it all in. This was life. This was what she wanted. She asked about all the people who had lived on the stair, and she heard all about their lives at first hand. Mrs. Hogg was only too pleased to have such an attentive audience. They pulled their chairs in to the table and had tea while Mrs. Hogg gave a long and detailed account of everything that had happened—who had gone and why they found it necessary, and who had come in their stead. She told of the babies and the diseases, the accidents and the quarrels—it was all vitally interesting to her listener.
Mrs. Hogg began to feel sorry for her old friend. She thought shrewdly: Pore Soul, she must be lonely or she wouldn’t take so much interest! It’s a shame, that’s what it is.
“Look ’ere,” she said suddenly. “Why don’t you pop in oftener, Mary? Come an’ ’ave a cup o’ tea an’ a nice chat often. It’s nice seeing old friends.”
Mrs. Smith blinked her eyes. “Well, you see, we live a long way from here,” she said. “I’d have been back to see you before, but it’s a long way—”
“Shepherd’s Bush, is it?” suggested Mrs. Hogg, who had been there once to see a married friend’s baby and had formed the opinion that Shepherd’s Bush was at the ends of the earth.
“That sort of direction,” agreed Mrs. Smith uncomfortably.
“Well, it was friendly of you to come so far. I’m glad I wasn’t out.”
“So am I.”
The children came in at this moment, so there was no more chance of quiet. Mrs. Smith distributed her parcels. It was a little disappointing to find that the children didn’t remember her—she remembered them so well—but three years was a long time in their short lives. They were not used to visitors who brought parcels, and the elder ones looked at their mother rather anxiously to see whether they might open them at once, or whether they must possess their fouls in patience until the visitor was gone. Mary was less severely disciplined and had already started to tear hers open.
“Oh, you didn’t ought to ’ave brought them presents!” cried Mrs. Hogg. “Yes, Annie, you can open them if Mrs. Smith says you may. Now, Mary, what are you going to say to Mrs. Smith—she’s just dazed, Mary is—she ’asn’t ever seen a doll like that before, far less ’ad one. What a beauty—oh, Mary, you didn’t ought to ’ave done it!”
“Done what?” enquired the child.
“Nothing,” her mother replied. “I was talking to Mrs. Smith. ’Er name’s Mary and that’s why you were named Mary—she’s your godmother, see?”
The child scarcely heard the explanation—she was holding the doll gingerly in her skinny arms—it was so beautiful she was almost afraid. “Can I keep it, Ma?” she enquired.
“Keep it? Of course you can keep it, silly. Mrs. Smith gave it you. You ’aven’t even said thank you to ’er, yet.”
She was far beyond saying thank you. “Oo!” she said, gazing at her new acquisition with starry eyes. “Oo my! I’ll call ’er Princess Mar’gret Rose—that’s wot I’ll call ’er.”
Meanwhile the other children had opened their parcels—sweets and cakes and oranges were piled up upon the table with cries of astonishment and delight. (Mrs. Smith had intended to take small presents for the Hogg family, but once let loose in Harrod’s Stores she had been completely carried away by her generous impulses. Her presents were on the Hetherington Smith scale, nothing like it had been seen in the Hogg home before.)
Mrs. Hogg was speechless with amazement. Mary must be rich, she thought, Mary must be rich. Why, these things must ’ave cost pounds and pounds. Those ’ampers at Christmas that we couldn’t think where on earth they came from—well, they must ’ave been her. Mary’s ’er godchild, of course. Goodness me! Goodness me, it’s like Aladdin’s lamp! She stole a glance at Mary’s fairy godmother and saw her sitting forward in her chair with beaming eyes fixed upon the children. (She was thoroughly enjoying herself, enjoying their pleasure, the babble of talk, the squeaks of delight as each new wonder was revealed) and she thought a very curious thought indeed: Pore Soul, she thought.
Mrs. Smith came away very soon after that. She felt a subtle difference in her hostess’s manner. It was not exactly that Mrs. Hogg was less friendly, but there was something—her words suddenly ceased to pour out in the old careless friendly way—there was a difference in her attitude to her guest. I’ve spoilt it, thought Mrs. Smith sadly—I meant well bringing all those things for the children, but they’ve made a sort of wall between us. She knows I must be rich—that’s what it is, I suppose. We can’t ever be real friends again. I can help her, and do things for her, but we can’t ever be friends.
Before she came away she stuffed a fat envelope down the back of the chair where she was sitting. Not so far down that it wouldn’t be found, but far enough for it to remain hidden until the cushion was shaken up in the morning when Mrs. Hogg did the room. The fat envelope contained money for the holiday at Southend-on-Sea. She cheered up a little when she had done that—it was nice to be able to help people and give them pleasure, even if they couldn’t be real friends with you any more—and when she came away she was nearly as happy as she had been before the parcels were opened—but not quite.