Mor loved Tim’s shop. The wooden shutters which covered the shop windows at night made it quite dark now within and in the dim light of the lamp it looked like some treasure cave or alchemist’s den. Near the front there was a certain amount of order. Two large counters, each in the form of a glass-topped cabinet, faced each other near to the street door. But beyond these the long shop became gradually chaotic. Loaded and untidy shelves, from floor to ceiling, ran round the three walls, well barricaded by wooden display cases of various types which stood, often two or three deep, in front of them. Between these, and in the rest of the available space, there were small tables, some of them also topped with glass and designed for display purposes. The more precious jewellery, such of it as was not behind the bars of the shop window, or hidden in safes in the back room, was laid out in the glass-topped cabinets, and ranged in fair order. Tim, when he tried, knew how to display his wares. He loved the stones, and treasured and displayed them according to his own system of valuation, which did not always accord with their market prices. This week, Mor noticed, one of the cabinets was given over to a display of opals. Set in necklaces, ear-rings, and brooches they lay, black ones and white ones, dusky ones flecked with blue or grey patches, and glowing water opals like drops of water frozen thick with colour. The other cabinet was full of pearls, the real ones above, the cultured ones below, and worked golden objects, seals, rings, and watches. Mor had learnt a certain amount about stones during his long friendship with Tim. This had been somewhat against his will, since for reasons which were never very clear to him, he rather disapproved of his friend’s profession.
The front of the shop was orderly. But the cheaper jewellery, which lay behind, seemed to have got itself into an almost inextricable mess. Within the squat glass-topped tables especially, ropes of beads were tangled together into a solid mass of multi-coloured stuff, and bold was the customer who, pointing to some identifiable patch of colour, said, ‘I’ll have that one.’ Heaped together with these were clips and ear-rings, their fellows often irrevocably missing, brooches, bracelets, buckles, and a miscellany of other small adornments. Tim Burke was not interested in the cheap stuff. He seemed to acquire his stock more or less by accident in the course of his trade and dispose of it without thought or effort to such determined individuals as were prepared to struggle for what they wanted, often searching the shop from end to end to find the second ear-ring or the other half of the buckle. The remoter parts of the shop were also found to contain other objects, varying in value, such as snuff boxes, pieces of embroidery, foreign coins, pewter mugs, fans, paper-weights, and silverhilted daggers — concerning all of which Tim Burke would declare that really he had no idea how the creatures got there for he couldn’t for the life of him remember buying them.
Tim Burke brought chairs and his guests sat down in the main part of the shop between the counters, while he disappeared into the back regions to fetch glasses and biscuits and the milk which he would offer to Nan and Donald and the whiskey which he would offer to Mor and himself. Behind the shop was Tim’s workshop and his kitchen, and a whitewashed yard with a single sycamore tree in it. Above was the small cottage bedroom with its tiny windows looking on to the street. Mor spread his legs. He was always a bit excited at finding himself inside a closed-up shop. There was something privileged and unnatural about it. On these occasions he noticed a similar excitement in his wife and son. In Tim Burke’s shop they were always agitated and restless. They would not sit down for long, but soon would be roaming about, opening cases and fingering objects. This behaviour made Mor uneasy. It was as if he were watching his family stealing. It never failed, however, to delight Tim Burke, who urged them on.
Tim returned with a large tray, which he set on the counter. He stirred some Ovaltine into a cup of cold milk for Nan, and set the biscuits at her elbow. He said to Mor, ‘What about giving the boy a shot of whiskey this week?’ Tim always said this.
Mor replied, as he always did, ‘Well, not yet I think. What do you say, Don?’
‘I don’t want any,’ said Donald crossly. Tim passed him the milk.
Mor sat swishing his whiskey round thoughtfully, inside a cut-glass tumbler. He had decided to outstay his family and return on the midnight train. He wanted badly to talk with Tim alone. He settled down to wait with impatience.
Nan had got up, and holding her mug of Ovaltine in one hand, began to wander about in the back of the shop, picking up objects here and there. Mor watched her uneasily, Tim Burke with a curious half-concealed satisfaction. The single lamp in the corner cast a golden glow upon the worm-eaten oak shelves, and Nan’s face was bright and dark by turns as she roamed to and fro. Tim Burke, his head turned back, and the darkened side of his face towards Mor, was marked by a golden line down his brow and nose. Donald turned his face into the light, wistful and restless. He rose too and began to walk about, crossing the path of his mother. The whiskey bottle gleamed upon the tray and the glasses flashed intermittently in the hands of the two men - while here and there in the shop the glow of the lamp had found the surface of a precious stone which transformed it and tossed it back as a glittering splinter of light.
Nan had opened one of the cabinets and was picking over a heap of necklaces. She seemed unusually gay and animated. Donald was now at the very back of the shop and had mounted on a chair to examine some shelves. Mor wished that they would stop. He looked at his watch. It was still early.
Donald had found something. He got down and came rather shyly towards Tim Burke with an object in his hand. It was a small ivory box. ‘You still haven’t sold this box, Tim,’ said Donald.
Really! thought Mor, doesn’t Don know how Tim always responds to any remark of this sort - and if he does know, why does he make it?
‘What, that old thing still there?’ cried Tim. ‘You have it, my boy, it’s no use to me. No, of course you can’t pay for it, the tupenny ha’penny thing it is, I got it in a job lot, I daresay, and it cost me nothing. You’ll please me by keeping it.‘
‘What do you want that box for?’ said Mor sharply. ‘Whatever will you use it for?’ He immediately regretted these words. Nan turned quickly towards him, Tim Burke averted his face, and Don blushed scarlet.
‘It’s a nice box,’ Don said, ‘I shall keep things in it.’ He sounded childish in his reply.
Mor wished he could blot out his words. Donald suddenly looked to him extremely young and touching. If he had been a small child Mor might have taken him in his arms to erase the words. As it was, there was nothing to be done, and the words had to stay, wounding both of them. Mor was silent.
Tim, wanting to smooth things over, got up and took his keys and began to open the drawers at the back of the counter. Tim loved showing things. Usually he had his waistcoat pockets full of little nicknacks, rings, cigarette lighters, watches, and such, which he would produce and place suddenly in the hand of his interlocutor. Mor had often seen him do this in a pub. Now Tim began to rifle the drawers and show-cases, keeping up a continuous patter as he did so. ‘See these pearls, the rosy sheen is best, from the Gulf they came, the Persian Gulf — and see how different they look from the cultured ones, your cultured pearl won’t last so well anyhow, though these are good ones indeed — and here, how are these for colour, a pair of sapphires as blue as a cornflower, and if it’s green you want, a fine emerald — afine emerald is the king of gems, an emerald does your eye good, they say, and it will blind a snake. There are no snakes on the Emerald Isle, just paradise without a serpent — and now will you just cast a look at these rocks, how’s that for rocks?’
Tim lifted up a diamond necklace and swung it gently to and fro, holding it by one end. With a rippling movement the stones flashed. Look at the light of it! he said. ‘It needs a fine woman’s neck to show it off. Let me put it on your wife.’
Mor disliked this. It was something Tim often did, and Nan never protested. She came forward now with docility and took off her coat. She was wearing a round-necked summer dress. T
im fixed the diamonds round her neck and stood back to look. The necklace was impressive, but Mor thought it looked out of place. Nan hurried forward to look at herself in the mirror which was fixed behind one of the counters.
‘Diamonds have no mercy,’ said Tim, ‘they will show up the wearer if they can. But you have nothing to fear from them. A queen is the one who can wear them, and a queen you are.’ He was looking over her shoulder into the mirror. He often talked in this flowery strain to Nan, but Mor suspected that he was more aware of the jewels than the woman.
‘They are dazzling!’ said Nan. She took the necklace off and held it in her hand. Then that excitement began to take hold of her which Mor had seen come upon her in the past in Tim Burke’s shop. An animation which he himself could never seem to inspire glowed in her whole person. She wound the diamonds loosely round her wrist like a bracelet, and be — gan to skip about the shop, picking up tiny things, trying on an ear-ring and running to see how it looked, disentangling a string of beads, spreading a fan and fanning herself ostenta — tiously. Donald had resumed his prowling in the back regions. Tim Burke was still rifling the forward cases, drawing Nan’s attention to rings and brooches. The pinpoint fire of jewels lit up here and there throughout the shop, like stars that appear and disappear upon a cloudy night.
‘It’s time you two went,’ said Mor.
‘Ah, it’s early yet,’ said Tim.
‘If you don’t want to rush, you should leave now,’ said Mor. I want to stay and talk shop with Tim.‘ It irritated him to see Nan so gay, and he was aggrieved that he had offended Don and no way had been allowed him to repair his fault.
‘Don’t bother to see us to the station,’ said Nan. ‘Donald will protect me. Don’t let Bill miss his train.’ Serenely she passed into the street. Donald followed, still clutching his box. Mor contrived to touch his shoulder as he went by, but got no answering look. The door closed behind them.
‘Have some more drink, then,’ said Tim Burke.
Mor handed over his glass. The diamond necklace was lying in a heap on one of the tables. Mor picked it up and put it back into the drawer. ‘You’re very casual with these valuable things, Tim,’ he said. ‘How much is that worth?’
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ said Tim carelessly. ‘These values are so artificial. Maybe five hundred guineas.’
The thought of Miss Carter flashed immediately into Mor’s mind. He had not thought of her all the evening. With extreme vividness there was present to him again the absurd scene of the previous day in Bledyard’s bedroom. The memory was disturbing. He wondered if he would tell Tim Burke about it, and decided not to. He also remembered that it was tomorrow that he was to have lunch with Mr Everard, in the company of Miss Carter and Bledyard. Mor felt interest at the thought of this meal, which was bound to offer some curious features. The mood of gloom and emptiness which had possessed him earlier in the evening seemed to be lifting. Once more he felt a sense of purpose and direction, a sense of the future.
He was about to speak to Tim Burke about the matter which was to be settled between them when Tim said, ‘I wish you’d take something for the wife. No, don’t take on, I’ll not offer you the diamonds! What about these ear-rings? She cared for them, I could see. She put them on herself this time, and last time too. And they become her. Why not take them? They’re but cheap things that I’ll never sell. I’ll wrap them up for you now.’
The ear-rings were blue, as far as Mor could see of lapis lazuli, and did not seem to him to be especially cheap. He checked Tim, who was producing tissue paper and a little box.
‘You’re too good to me. No, said Mor.
‘It’s your wife I want to be good to!’ said Tim.
‘Well, no, you mustn’t really,’ said Mor. ‘We’ve already taken one thing off you this evening. Another time, Tim. Now, listen, we must talk business.’
‘All right,’ said Tim, reluctantly replacing the ear-rings. ‘Is it yes or no?’
Mor sat forward stiffly in his chair. In the face of this rather fierce question he suddenly realized that he was, that he had been perhaps for some time, in the position of the coy maiden who has made up her mind but who puts up a show of resistance merely in order to be persuaded. Mor hated vain shows. He felt that his wishes had crystallized. He felt it with a certain surprise and with an intimation of joy. He said, ‘The answer is yes, of course. But there are a number of difficulties.’
Tim turned on him. ‘Yes, is it?’ he cried. ‘Holding out on us, were you? And I thought you would surely say no, and no again for the next months!’
‘You seem disappointed!’ said Mor, smiling faintly.
‘Disappointed! cried Tim. ’I could embrace you! Here, have some more whiskey, and if I could dissolve a pearl in it I would!‘
‘Not so fast,’ said Mor. ‘I want to carry out this plan, and I have now, I must say, absolutely no doubt but that I will carry it out. All the same, to throw up my job and be a parliamentary candidate at my time of life — it’s not all that simple. I suppose there’s no doubt I’d get in?’
‘None, me boy,’ said Tim Burke. ‘Ten thousand majority last time. Saint Francis wasn’t a surer candidate for heaven than you for Westminster.’
‘Well, then,’ said Mor, ‘there are a lot of financial considerations. I won’t bother you with these just now. And St Bride’s must be squared. I’m not giving them much notice. But that leaves the gravest thing of all, and that’s my wife. You know that Nan is very much opposed to the idea, she won’t even hear it spoken of.’
Tim looked grave. ‘I’d gathered,’ he said, ‘that she’s against it. But she’ll come round surely.’
‘I suppose she will,’ said Mor. ‘She’ll have to. But it won’t be easy. Why did you mention it tonight, by the way, you fathead? Nothing annoys Nan as much as the notion that people are making plans without consulting her. I’d hoped you might have some influence on her - only now she’ll think we’ve been plotting this for months. Do you think it would be any use if you talked to her alone?’
Tim looked down. ‘No,’ he said, ‘it would be no use. You must handle it. But, as you say, she will agree because she must. I’m glad to hear at last that courage in you. If you really will a thing, Mor, that thing will be. We shall all support you in every way possible. But this thing you must do for yourself alone.’
‘Well, it will be done,’ said Mor. He felt deeply encouraged by Tim Burke. ‘Only not a word about this to anyone for the moment. I shall have to discuss my resignation with Mr Everard. And I shall have to persuade Nan. When that’s done I’ll let you know and then you can tell the Party and the Press.’
‘Splendid!’ cried Tim Burke, his eyes shining, his glass held aloft. ‘When shall I see you?’
‘We’ll talk of it again, said Mor, ’when, now? What about the day of the House Match - you’re coming over then, aren’t you? It’s my house against Prewett’s this time.‘ Invited originally by Donald, Tim Burke usually came over to St Bride’s for the final summer House Match, which was also something of a social occasion. ’I hope I’ll be able to give you the all clear,‘ said Mor, ’and we can go ahead. But till then, not a word!‘
‘You must go for your train,’ said Tim Burke. ‘I’ll see you down the road.’
‘You know,’ said Mor, ‘perhaps after all I’ll take those ear-rings for Nan. Only you must let me pay something for them.’
‘I’ll not hear of it!’ said Tim. ‘You oblige me by taking them. Here, I’ll pack them up nicely, handy to give. Now please me, Mor, in this way too.’
Mor protested, smiled, and finally put the ear-rings in his pocket. They left the shop together.
Chapter Five
WHEN Mor awoke next morning he found, with his first W consciousness, that he felt extremely light-hearted. It was as if a good angel had passed in the night. For a while he lay marvelling vaguely at his condition. Then it came back to him that of course he had now at last decided. In the light of the actual decision the moves necessa
ry to carry it out seemed very much easier. What was necessary was possible. Recalling the previous evening, and asking himself what exactly had happened, it seemed to Mor that Tim Burke had suddenly been able to communicate to him a new sort of confidence. He wondered why. His thoughts switched to Miss Carter, whom he would be seeing at lunch-time today; and then it seemed to him that in some strange way it was Miss Carter who had been responsible for his ability to decide, having given him, by her mere existence, a fresh sense of power and possibility. Mor mused for a while upon this mystery. Eccentric people, he concluded, were good for conventional people, simply because they made them able to conceive of everything being quite different. This gave them a sense of freedom. Nothing is more educational, in the end, than the mode of being of other people.
The morning passed quickly, and a little before one o‘clock Mor set out on his bicycle for Mr Everard’s luncheon party. In the bicycle basket he had placed a small packet which contained the complete works of Demoyte and which in accordance with his promise he was taking to Miss Carter. A cycle track, for the use of masters only, led down the hill through the wood towards the neglected garden of the Headmaster’s house. As Mor free-wheeled through the trees, his bicycle bumping about agreeably on the undulating track, he experienced a profound sense of well-being and general benevolence. The weather was still extremely sunny, but today there was a soft breeze which seemed to bring, from not so very far away in the south, the freshness of the sea.