Mrs Harris Goes To Paris And Mrs Harris Goes To New York Part 15

'Love,' said Mrs Harris, 'there's nuffink we wouldn't want to do for you to repay you for your kindness to us, and for giving little 'Enry a 'ome and a chance in life, but we've talked it over - we carn't, we just carn't.'

Mr Schreiber, who saw his wife's disappointment, said, 'What's the matter? Don't you like America?'

'Lor' love yer,' said Mrs Harris fervently, 'it ain't that. It's wonderful. There's nuffink like it anywhere else in the world. Ain't that so, Violet?'

Mrs b.u.t.terfield's emotions were such that she was able to do no more than nod acquiescence.

'Well then, what is it?' persisted Mr Schreiber. 'If it's more money you want, we could- '

'Money!' exclaimed Mrs Harris aghast. 'We've had too much already. We wouldn't take another penny off you. It's just - just that we're 'omesick.'

'Homesick,' Mr Schreiber echoed, 'with all you've got over here? Why, we've got everything.'

'That's just it,' said Mrs Harris. 'We've got too much of everything 'ere - we're 'omesick for less. Our time is up. We want to go back to London.' And suddenly, as though it came forth from the deep and hidden wells of her heart, she cried with a kind of anguish that touched Mrs Schreiber and penetrated even to her husband, 'Don't ask us to stay, please - or ask us why.'

For how could she explain, even to the Schreibers who knew and had lived in and loved London themselves, their longing for the quieter, softer tempo of that great, grey, sprawling city where they had been born and reared?

The tall, glittering skysc.r.a.pers of New York raised one's eyes into the heavens, the incredible crash and bustle and thunder of the never-still traffic, and the teeming canyons at the bottom of the mountainous buildings excited and stimulated the nerves and caused the blood to pump faster, the glorious shops and theatres, the wonders of the supermarkets, were sources of never-ending excitement to Mrs Harris. How, then, explain their yearning to be back where grey, drab buildings stretched for seemingly never-ending blocks, or turned to quaint, quiet, tree-lined squares, or streets where every house was painted a different colour?

How to make their friends understand that excitement too long sustained loses its pitch, that they yearned for the quiet and the comforting ugliness of Willis Gardens, where the hooves of the old horse pulling the flower vendor's dray in the spring sounded cloppety-cloppety-cloppety in the quiet, and the pa.s.sage of a taxicab was almost an event?

What was there to compare, Mrs Harris and Mrs b.u.t.terfield had decided, in all this rush, scurry, litter, and hurry, this neon-lit, electricity-blazing city where they had indeed been thrilled to have been a part of it for a short time, with the quiet comfort of cups of tea that they drank together on alternate evenings in their little bas.e.m.e.nt flats in their own particular little corner of London?

Nor could they, without hurting the feelings of these good people, tell them that they were desperately missing quite a different kind of excitement, and that was the daily thrill of their part-time work.

In London each day brought them something different, some new adventure, some new t.i.tbit of gossip, something good happened, something bad, some cause for mutual rejoicing or mutual indignation. They served not one but each a dozen or more clients of varying moods and temperaments. Each of these clients had a life, hopes, ambitions, worries, troubles, failures, and triumphs, and these Mrs Harris and Mrs b.u.t.terfield shared for an hour or two a day. Thus instead of one, each of them lived a dozen vicarious lives, lives rich and full, as their part-time mistresses and masters confided in them, as was the custom in London between employer and daily woman.

What would Major Wallace's new girl be like, the one he had carefully explained as his cousin just arrived from Rhodesia, but whom Mrs Harris knew he had encountered at the 'Antelope' two nights before? What new demands of service to be joyously, fiercely, and indignantly resisted would the Countess Wyszcinska present on the morrow? Did the Express Express have a juicy scandal story of how Lord Whosit had been caught by his wife canoodling with Pamela Whatsit among the potted palms at that gay Mayfair party? Mrs Fford Ffoulkes, she of the twin Fs and the social position of a witty and attractive divorcee, would have been there, and the next afternoon when Mrs Harris arrived to 'do' for her between the hours of three and five she would have the story of what really happened, and some of the riper details that the have a juicy scandal story of how Lord Whosit had been caught by his wife canoodling with Pamela Whatsit among the potted palms at that gay Mayfair party? Mrs Fford Ffoulkes, she of the twin Fs and the social position of a witty and attractive divorcee, would have been there, and the next afternoon when Mrs Harris arrived to 'do' for her between the hours of three and five she would have the story of what really happened, and some of the riper details that the Express Express had been compelled by the laws of libel to forgo. had been compelled by the laws of libel to forgo.

Then there was the excitement connected with her other bachelor client, Mr Alexander Hero, whose business it was to poke his nose into haunted houses, who maintained a mysterious laboratory at the back of his house in Eaton Mews, and whom she looked after and mothered, in spite of the fact that she was somewhat afraid of him. But there was a gruesome thrill in being connected with someone who was an a.s.sociate of ghosts, and she revelled in it.

Even such minor items as whether Mr Pilkerton would have located his missing toupee, the progress of convalescence of the Wadhams' orange-coloured toy poodle, a dear little dog who was always ill, and whether Lady Dant's new dress would be ready in time for the Hunt Ball, made each day an interesting one for them.

And furthermore there was the excitement of the sudden decision to discard a client who had gone sour on them or overstepped some rule of deportment laid down by the chars' union, and the great adventure of selecting a new one to take his or her place; the call at the employment office or Universal Aunts, the interrogating of the would-be client, the final decision, and then the thrill of the first visit to the new flat, a veritable treasure palace of new things to be snooped at and gone over.

What was there in New York, even though it was the greatest city in the world, to compare with that?

The littlest things were dragging Mrs Harris and Mrs b.u.t.terfield homeward. Never had food been presented more enticingly yet, alas, more impersonally, than in the giant supermarket where they shopped. Every chop, every lettuce leaf, every gleaming, scrubbed carrot, had its cellophane envelope on its s.h.i.+ning counter, washed, wrapped, packed, ticketed, priced, displayed, untouched by human hands. What both Mrs b.u.t.terfield and Mrs Harris longed for was the homeliness of Warbles', the corner grocer's shop with its display of tired greens, dispirited cabbages, and overblown sprouts, but smelling of spices and things well-remembered, and presided over by fat Mr Warbles himself. They wanted to see Mr Hagger, the butcher, slice off a chop, fling it on to the scales with a 'There you are, dear, as fine a bit of English lamb as ever you'll set your teeth in. One and tuppence-ha'penny, please,' wrap it in a piece of last month's newspaper and hand it over the counter with the air of one bestowing a great gift.

They had sampled all of the fabulous means of snacking in New York - the palatial Child's with their griddle cakes and maple syrup, to which Mrs Harris became pa.s.sionately addicted, the automats where robots miraculously produced cups of coffee, and even the long drugstore counters where white-coated attendants squirted soda-water into chocolate syrup, and produced triple- and quadruple-tiered sandwiches of regal splendour. But the two women born within the sound of Bow Bells, and whom London fitted like a well-worn garment, found themselves yearning for the clatter of a Lyons' Corner House, or the warm redolency and pungent aroma of a fish and chip shop.

The bars and grills on Lexington and Third Avenues they sometimes visited for a nip were glittering places of mirror gla.s.s, mahogany, and gilt, each with a free television show included, but the Mesdames Harris and b.u.t.terfield longed for the drab mustiness of the 'Crown' close to their demesne, and the comfort of its public bar, where two ladies could sit quietly sipping beer or gin, indulging in refined conversation, or an occasional game of darts.

The police of New York were strong, handsome men, mostly Irish, but they just weren't Bobbies. Mrs Harris remembered with ever-increasing nostalgia the pauses for chats about local affairs with P.C. Hooter, who was both guardian and neighbourhood psychiatrist, of their street.

The sounds, the smells and rhythms, the skies, the sunsets, and the rains of London were all different from those of the fabulous city of New York, and she craved for all of them. She yearned even to be lost and gasping in a good old London pea-soup fog.

But how convey all this to the Schreibers?

Perhaps the Schreibers with their own memories of a beloved and happy stay in London were more sensitive than she had thought, for they heeded her cry and questioned her no more. Mr Schreiber only sighed and said, 'Well, I suppose when you gotta go, you gotta go. I'll fix it up for you.'

EVEN though it takes place almost weekly in New York, there is always something, exciting and dramatic about the sailing of a great liner, and in particular the departure of that hugest of all s.h.i.+ps ever to sail the seven seas, the though it takes place almost weekly in New York, there is always something, exciting and dramatic about the sailing of a great liner, and in particular the departure of that hugest of all s.h.i.+ps ever to sail the seven seas, the Queen Elizabeth Queen Elizabeth.

Especially in the summertime, when Americans swarm to the Continent for their holidays, is the hubbub and hurly-burly at its peak, with the approaches to Pier 90 beneath the elevated highway at Fiftieth Street packed solid with Yellow Cabs and stately limousines delivering pa.s.sengers and their luggage. The pier is a turmoil of travellers and porters, and aboard the colossal steamer there appears to be one huge party going on, cut into smaller ones only by the walls of the companionways and cabins, as in each room departing pa.s.sengers entertain their friends with champagne, whisky, and canapes canapes.

There is a particular, infectious gaiety about these farewell parties aboard s.h.i.+p, a true manifestation of a holiday spirit, and of all those taking place on the Queen Elizabeth Queen Elizabeth on her scheduled summer sailing of the 16th of July, none was gayer, happier or more infectious than that which took place in Cabin A.59, the largest and best apartment in Tourist-Cla.s.s, where at three o'clock in the afternoon prior to the five o'clock sailing, Mesdames Harris and b.u.t.terfield held court from amidst a welter of orchids and roses. on her scheduled summer sailing of the 16th of July, none was gayer, happier or more infectious than that which took place in Cabin A.59, the largest and best apartment in Tourist-Cla.s.s, where at three o'clock in the afternoon prior to the five o'clock sailing, Mesdames Harris and b.u.t.terfield held court from amidst a welter of orchids and roses.

Reporters do not visit Tourist-Cla.s.s on sailing day, reserving their attentions for the celebrities certain to be spotted in the luxury quarters. In this case they missed a bet, and just as well, for the guests collected at Mrs Harris's sailing party were not only celebrated but heterogeneous. There was, for instance, the French Amba.s.sador to the United States, the Marquis Hypolite de Cha.s.sagne, accompanied by his chauffeur, Mr John Bayswater of Bayswater, London.

Then they would have come upon Mr Joel Schreiber, President of North American Pictures and Television Company Inc., recently celebrated for his signing of Kentucky Claiborne to a ten-million-dollar contract, accompanied by his wife, Henrietta, and their newly adopted son, Henry Brown Schreiber, aged almost nine.

A fortunate thing indeed that the sharp-eyed minions of the New York press did not see this family, else they would have some questions to ask of how the erstwhile son of Lord Dartington of Stowe and grandson of the Marquis de Cha.s.sagne, whose arrival in the United States had been signalised with story and photograph, had suddenly meta-morphosed into the adopted son of Mr and Mrs Schreiber.

Further, among the guests were a Mr Gregson, a Miss Fitt, and a Mrs Hodge, respectively butler, parlourmaid, and cook of the household staff of the Schreibers.

And finally the party was completed by a number of the George Browns of New York who had fallen for Mrs Harris, and whom during the course of her search she had added to her ever-growing collection of international friends. There was Mr George Brown, the barker, very spruce in an alpaca suit, with a gay band on his straw boater; Captain George Brown, master of the Siobhan O'Ryan Siobhan O'Ryan, his muscles bulging through his blue Sunday suit, towing his little wife behind him somewhat in the manner of a dinghy; there was the elegant Mr George Brown of Gracie Square; two Browns from the Bronx; the nostalgic chocolate-coloured one from Harlem; one from Long Island, and a family of them from Brooklyn.

The true ident.i.ty of little Henry's father had been kept a secret, but Mrs Harris had apprised them all of the happy ending to the affair, and they had come to celebrate this conclusion and see her off.

If the centres of attraction, Mrs Harris and Mrs b.u.t.terfield, had worn all of the sprays of purple orchids sent them by their guests, they would have staggered under the load. As it was, Mrs Harris's sense of protocol decreed that they should wear the offering of the Marquis de Cha.s.sagne, whose orchids were white and bound with ribbons which mingled the colours of France, Great Britain, and the United States. Waiters kept the champagne flowing and the canapes canapes moving. moving.

Drink, and in particular the bubbly wine, is a necessity at these affairs, for the conversation just before departure tends to stultify, when people rather incline to repeat the same things over and over again.

Mr Schreiber repeated to the Marquis, 'The kid's going to be a great ball player. I'm telling you. He's got an eye like Babe Ruth had. I threw him my sinker the other day, figuring he'd be lucky to get a piece of it. You know what he did?'

'No,' said the Marquis.

'He takes a cut like Di Maggio used to and hoists the apple into the next lot. What do you think of that?'

'Astonis.h.i.+ng,' said the Marquis, who had not understood a word that Mr Schreiber had said, beyond meaning that Henry had performed another prodigy of some kind, and remembering that the President of the United States himself seemed to be impressed with the young man's athletic abilities.

'Give my regards to Leicester Square,' said Mr George Brown of Harlem. 'Some day I'm going back there. It was good to us boys in the war.'

'If I ever run across the George Brown that took a powder on the kid, I'll poke him one just for luck,' promised the Coney Island Brown.

'You soi'nly desoive a lotta credit,' repeated the Brooklyn Browns.

'Some day we're gonna come over there and look you up,' prophesied a Brown from the Bronx.

'I suppose White's and Buck's are just the same,' sighed the Gracie Square Brown. 'They'll never change.'

'Dear,' said Mrs Schreiber for the fourth time, 'when you go past our flat on Eaton Square, throw in a kiss for me. I wonder who's living there now?' And then wistfully as she thought of the good days that had been when life was not so complicated, 'Maybe you'll even go there and work for them. I'll never forget you or what you did for us. Don't forget to write and tell me how everything is.'

Bayswater hovered on the outskirts rather silently and seemingly lost, for what with little Henry, who somehow no longer looked so little, his body having begun to grow to his head size, and all the sadness having been wiped for ever out of his eyes, hugging the two women, and the others all making a fuss over them, it seemed impossible to get close to give Mrs Harris what he had for her.

Yet somehow he contrived to catch her eye and hold it for a moment while he raised his own eyebrows and moved one shoulder imperceptibly in the direction of the door, but sufficient for Mrs Harris to get the message and escape momentarily from the cordon.

' 'Old the fort for a minute,' she said to Mrs b.u.t.terfield, 'while I look what's become of me trunk.'

'You won't be gettin' off the boat will yer?' said Mrs b.u.t.terfield in alarm - but Mrs Harris was already out of the door.

Down the pa.s.sageway a bit, to the accompaniment of the clink of gla.s.ses, shrieks of laughter, and cries of farewell from parties in near-by cabins, Mrs Harris said, 'Whew. I didn't know how I was goin' to get away to arsk you - was it a 'airpin?'

In reply Mr Bayswater reached into the pocket of his uniform where a bulge somewhat interfered with its elegant line, and handed Mrs Harris a small package. It contained a bottle of Eau de Cologne, and represented a major effort on the part of the chauffeur, for it was the first such purchase and the first such gift he had ever made to a woman in his life. Affixed to the outside of it with a rubber band was a large and formidable-looking black wire hairpin.

Mrs Harris studied the specimen. 'Lumme,' she said, 'ain't it a whopper?'

Mr Bayswater nodded. 'There she is. Something like that gets into a Rolls and it can sound like your rear end's dropping out. I'd never have looked for it if it hadn't been for you. The scent's for you.'

Mrs Harris said, 'Thank you, John. And I'll keep the 'airpin as a souvenir. I suppose we'd better go back.'

But Mr Bayswater was not yet finished, and now he fussed and stirred uneasily with a hand in his pocket, and finally said, 'Ah - Ada, there was something else I wanted to give you, if you wouldn't mind.' He then withdrew his hand from his pocket and disclosed therein something that Mrs Harris had no difficulty in recognizing with even an odd little thrill of forewarning as to what it might be about.

'They're the keys of my flat,' said Mr Bayswater. 'I was wondering if sometime you might have a moment to look in for me, just to make sure everything's all right - sixty-four Willmott Terrace, Bayswater Road, Bayswater.'

Mrs Harris looked down at the keys in Mr Bayswater's palm and felt a curious warmth surging through her such as she had not known since she was a young girl.

Mr Bayswater too was feeling very odd, and perspiring slightly under his linen collar. Neither of them was aware of the symbolism of the handing over of the keys, but both felt as though they were in the grip of something strange, momentous, and pleasant.

Mrs Harris took them out of his hand, and they felt hot to the touch as he had been clutching them. 'Coo,' she said, 'by now I'll bet the plyce could do with a bit of a turn out. Do you mind if I dust about a bit?'

'Oh, I didn't mean that that,' said Mr Bayswater, 'I wouldn't dream of asking you. It was just that I felt that if you might look in occasionally - well then - I'd know everything was all right.'

'You'll be a long time away, won't you?' said Mrs Harris.

'Not so long,' said Mr Bayswater, 'I'll be home in another six months. I've given my notice.'

Mrs Harris looked horrified. 'Given your notice, John! Why, whatever's got into you? What will the Marquis do?'

'He understands,' said Bayswater somewhat mysteriously. 'A friend of mine is taking over.'

'But the car,' said Mrs Harris, 'ought you to be leaving it?'

'Oh, I don't know,' said Mr Bayswater. 'Maybe one ought to take things a little easier. The affair of the hairpin came as a bit of a shock to me. Opened my eyes somewhat. It's time I was thinking of retiring, anyway. I've saved up all the money I shall ever need. I'd only signed to come out for a year. If I stay away longer I find I get a bit homesick for Bayswater.'

'Like me,' said Mrs Harris, 'and Willis Gardens. Cosy, that's what it is, at night with the curtains drawn and Mrs b.u.t.terfield in for a cuppa tea.' And then instinctively but unconsciously paraphrasing, 'There's no plyce like it.'

'Will I be seeing you when I get back?' asked Mr Bayswater, the question showing his state of mind, since he had just turned over the keys to his flat.

'If you 'appen to come by,' said Mrs Harris with equal and elaborate falseness, since she now held his keys in her own gnarled hand. 'Number five's the number, Willis Gardens, Battersea. I'm always in after seven, except Thursdays when Mrs b.u.t.terfield and I go to the flicks. But if you'd like to drop me a postcard we could make it another night.'

'No fear,' said Mr Bayswater. 'I will. Well, I suppose we'd better be getting back to the rest.'

'Yes, I guess we 'ad.'

They went. In Mrs Harris's hand was the earnest and the promise that some day in the not too far distant future she would see him again. And in the emptiness of Mr Bayswater's pocket where the keys no longer were, was the guarantee that with them in her possession he would see Ada Harris back home.

As they came back into the cabin Mr Schreiber was just finis.h.i.+ng putting little Henry through his catechism for the benefit of the Marquis. For the first time it seemed to Mrs Harris that she saw the difference in the child, the st.u.r.diness that had come to his figure, and the fact that all the wariness and expectation of cuffs and blows had left his expression. Little Henry had never been a coward or a sniveller - his had been the air of one expecting the worst, and usually getting it. So soon, and already he was a whole boy; not too much longer and he would be on his way to becoming a whole man. Mrs Harris was not versed in official prayers of grat.i.tude, and her concept of the Deity was somewhat muddled and ever-changing, but he loomed up to her as benign now, as kind and loving as ever she could conceive of someone. And to her concept of that figure which looked rather like the gentle, bearded figure of the Lord depicted on religious postcards, she said an inward, 'Thank you.'

'What are you going to be when you grow up?' asked Mr Schreiber.

'A baseball player,' replied little Henry.

'What position?' asked Mr Schreiber.

Little Henry had to reflect over that one for a moment, and then said, 'Middle fielder.'

'Centre fielder,' corrected Mr Schreiber. 'That's right. All the great hitters played in the outfield - Ruth, Cobb, Di Maggio, Meusel. What team you going to play on?'

Little Henry knew that one all right. 'The New York Yankees,' he said.

'See?' said Mr Schreiber, glowing. 'A regular American already.'

The hooter hooted three times, there was a trampling of feet on the companionway without and an attendant pa.s.sed by banging on a gong and shouting, 'Visitors ash.o.r.e, please. All ash.o.r.e that's going ash.o.r.e.' Now as they moved to the door with Mrs b.u.t.terfield sobbing audibly, the farewells were redoubled: 'Goodbye Mrs Harris. G.o.d bless you,' cried Mrs Schreiber. 'Don't forget to look who's living in our apartment.'

'Goodbye, Madame,' said the Marquis, bent over her, took her hand in his and brushed it with his white moustache. 'You should be a very happy woman for the happiness you have brought to others - including, I might add, to me. All in all, it was a real lark. I have told everyone my grandson has returned to his father in England, so there will be no further difficulties.'

'Goodbye - good luck!' echoed all the Browns.

'Goodbye - good luck!' said Mr Schreiber. 'You need anything, you write and tell me. Don't forget, we got a branch office over there. They can fix you up any time.'

Little Henry went up to them with a new shyness, for in spite of everything, his experiences and his experience, he was still a small boy, and emotions, particularly those strongly felt, embarra.s.sed him. He could not see into his future, but there was no doubt in his mind as to the present, as well as the past from which these two women had rescued him, even though the memory of his life with the Gussets was already beginning to fade.

But Mrs b.u.t.terfield had no such inhibitions. She gathered little Henry to her, drowning his face in her billowy bosom and interfering seriously with his breathing as she hugged, cuddled, wept and sobbed over him, until finally Mrs Harris had to say to her, 'Come on, dearie. Don't carry on so. 'E isn't a baby any more - 'e's a man now,' and thus earning more grat.i.tude from the boy even than for his rescue.

He went to Mrs Harris and throwing his arms about her neck whispered, 'Goodbye Auntie Ada. I love you.'

And those were the last words spoken as they filed out, and until they all stood at the end of the pier and watched the magnificent liner back out into the busy North River, bra.s.s portholes reflecting the hot July sun, and the thousand faces dotting the gleaming white of the decks and super-structure. Somewhere forward would be the dots that represented Mrs b.u.t.terfield and Mrs Harris. The great siren of the liner bayed three times in farewell, and the Marquis Hypolite de Cha.s.sagne p.r.o.nounced a kind of a valedictory.

'If I had my way,' he said, 'I would rear a statue in a public square to women like that, for they are the true heroines of life. They do their duty day in, day out, they struggle against poverty, loneliness, and want, to preserve themselves and raise their families, but still they are able to laugh, to smile, to find time to indulge in dreams.' The Marquis paused, reflected a moment, sighed and said, 'And this is why I would rear them their statue, for the courage of these dreams of beauty and romance that still persist. And see,' he concluded, 'the wondrous result of such dreaming.'

The Queen Elizabeth Queen Elizabeth bayed again. She was now broad-side to the pier, and in midstream. Her screws threshed and she began to glide down towards the sea. The Marquis raised his hat. bayed again. She was now broad-side to the pier, and in midstream. Her screws threshed and she began to glide down towards the sea. The Marquis raised his hat.

Aboard the liner Mrs Harris and Mrs b.u.t.terfield, the eyes of both reddened with tears now, repaired to their cabin, whence came their steward.

'Twigg's the name,' he said. 'I'm your steward. Your stewardess is Evans. She'll be along in a minute.' He gazed at the banked-up flowers. 'Cor blimey if it don't look as if somebody died in 'ere.'

'Coo,' said Mrs Harris, 'you watch yer lip or you'll find out 'oo died in 'ere. Them flowers is from the French Amba.s.sador, I'll 'ave you know.'

' 'Ello, 'ello,' said the steward as the familiar accent fell upon his ears, and not at all abashed by the reproof, 'Don't tell me now, but let me guess - Battersea, I'll wager. I'm from Clapham Common meself. You never know 'oo yer meets travellin' these days. I'll 'ave yer tickets, please.' And then as he departed, 'Cheer-oh, lydies. You can rely on Bill Twigg and Jessie Evans to look after yer. Yer couldn't be on a better s.h.i.+p.'

Mrs Harris sat on her bed and sighed with contentment. 'Clapham Common' had fallen gently and gratefully upon her ears too. 'Lor' love yer, Violet,' she said, 'ain't it good to be 'ome?'