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Once a Week

<h3>SILVER LININGS</h3> "We want some more coal," said Celia suddenly at breakfast. "Sorry," I said, engrossed in my paper, and I passed her the marmalade. "More coal," she repeated. I pushed across the toast. Celia sighed and held up her hand. "Please may I speak to you a moment?" she said, trying to snap her fingers. "Good; I've caught his eye. We want——" "I'm awfully sorry. What is it?" "We want some more coal. Never mind this once whether Inman beat Hobbs or not. Just help me." "Celia, you've been reading the paper," I said in surprise. "I thought you only read the feuill—the serial story. How did you know Inman was playing Hobbs?" "Well, Poulton or Carpentier or whoever it is. Look here, we're out of coal. What shall I do?" "That's easy. Order some more. What do you do when you're out of nutmegs?" "It depends if the nutmeg porters are striking." "Striking! Good heavens, I never thought about that." I glanced hastily down the headlines of my paper. "Celia, this is serious. I shall have to think about this seriously. Will you order a fire in the library? I shall retire to the library and think this over." "You can retire to the library, but you can't have a fire there. There's only just enough for the kitchen for two days." "Then come and chaperon me in the kitchen. Don't leave me alone with Jane. You and I and Jane will assemble round the oven and discuss the matter. B-r-r-r. It's cold." "Not the kitchen. I'll assemble with you round the electric light somewhere. Come on." We went into the library and rallied round a wax vesta. It was a terribly cold morning. "I can't think like this," I said, after fifteen seconds' reflection. "I'm going to the office. There's a fire there, anyway." "You wouldn't like a nice secretary," said Celia timidly, "or an office girl, or somebody to lick the stamps?" "I should never do any work if you came," I said, looking at her thoughtfully. "Do come." "No, I shall be all right. I've got shopping to do this morning, and I'm going out to lunch, and I can pay some calls afterwards." "Right. And you might find out what other people are doing, the people you call on. And—er—if you should be left alone in the drawing-room a moment ... and the coal-box is at all adjacent.... You'll have your muff with you, you see, and—— Well, I leave that to you. Do what you can." I had a good day at the office and have never been so loth to leave. I always felt I should get to like my work some time. I arrived home again about six. Celia was a trifle later, and I met her on the mat as she came in. "Any luck?" I asked eagerly, feeling in her muff. "Dash it, Celia, there are nothing but hands here. Do you mean to say you didn't pick up anything at all?" "Only information," she said, leading the way into the drawing-room. "Hallo, what's this? A fire!" "A small involuntary contribution from the office. I brought it home under my hat. Well, what's the news?" "That if we want any coal we shall have to fetch it ourselves. And we can get it in small amounts from greengrocers. Why greengrocers, I don't know." "I suppose they have to have fires to force the cabbages. But what about the striking coal porters? If you do their job, won't they picket you or pickaxe you or something?" "Oh, of course, I should hate to go alone. But I shall be all right if you come with me." Celia's faith in me is very touching. I am not quite so confident about myself. No doubt I could protect her easily against five or six great brawny hulking porters ... armed with coal-hammers ... but I am seriously doubtful whether a dozen or so, aided with a little luck, mightn't get the better of me. "Don't let us be rash," I said thoughtfully. "Don't let us infuriate them." "You aren't afraid of a striker?" asked Celia in amazement. "Of an ordinary striker, no. In a strike of bank-clerks, or—or chess-players, or professional skeletons, I should be a lion among the blacklegs; but there is something about the very word coal porter which—— You know, I really think this is a case where the British Army might help us. We have been very good to it." The British Army, I should explain, has been walking out with Jane lately. When we go away for week-ends we let the British Army drop in to supper. Luckily it neither smokes nor drinks nor takes any great interest in books. It is a great relief, on your week-ends in the country, to know that the British Army is dropping in to supper, when otherwise you might only have suspected it. I may say that we are rather hoping to get a position in the Army Recruiting film on the strength of this hospitality. "Let the British Army go," I said. "We've been very kind to him." "I fancy Jane has left the service. I don't know why." "Probably they quarrelled because she gave him caviare two nights running," I said. "Well, I suppose I shall have to go. But it will be no place for women. To-morrow afternoon I will sally forth alone to do it. But," I added, "I shall probably return with two coal porters clinging round my neck. Order tea for three." Next evening, after a warm and busy day at the office, I put on my top-hat and tail-coat and went out. If there was any accident I was determined to be described in the papers as "the body of a well-dressed man"; to go down to history as "the remains of a shabbily dressed individual" would be too depressing. Beautifully clothed, I jumped into a taxi and drove to Celia's greengrocer. Celia herself was keeping warm by paying still more calls. "I want," I said nervously, "a hundredweight of coal and a cauliflower." This was my own idea. I intended to place the cauliflower on the top of a sack, and so to deceive any too-inquisitive coal porter. "No, no," I should say, "not coal; nice cauliflowers for Sunday's dinner." "Can't deliver the coal," said the greengrocer. "I'm going to take it with me," I explained. He went round to a yard at the back. I motioned my taxi along and followed him at the head of three small boys who had never seen a top-hat and a cauliflower so close together. We got the sack into position. "Come, come," I said to the driver, "haven't you ever seen a dressing-case before? Give us a hand with it or I shall miss my train and be late for dinner." He grinned and gave a hand. I paid the greengrocer, pressed the cauliflower into the hand of the smallest boy, and drove off.... It was absurdly easy. There was no gore at all. <hr class="min" /> "There!" I said to Celia when she came back. "And when that's done I'll get you some more." "Hooray! And yet," she went on, "I'm almost sorry. You see, I was working off my calls so nicely, and you'd been having some quite busy days at the office, hadn't you?" <hr /> <h3>THE ORDER OF THE BATH</h3> "We must really do something about the bath," said Celia. "We must," I agreed. At present what we do is this. Punctually at six-thirty or nine, or whenever it is, Celia goes in to make herself clean and beautiful for the new day, while I amuse myself with a razor. After a quarter of an hour or so she gives a whistle to imply that the bathroom is now vacant, and I give another one to indicate that I have only cut myself once. I then go hopefully in and find that the bath is half full of water; whereupon I go back to my room and engage in Dr. Hugh de Sélincourt's physical exercises for the middle-aged. After these are over I take another look at the bath, discover that it is now three-eighths full, and return to my room and busy myself with Dr. Archibald Marshall's mental drill for busy men. By the time I have committed three Odes of Horace to memory, it may be low tide or it may not; if not, I sit on the edge of the bath with the daily paper and read about the latest strike—my mind occupied equally with wondering when the water is going out and when the bricklayers are. And the thought that Celia is now in the dining-room eating more than her share of the toast does not console me in the least. "Yes," I said, "it's absurd to go on like this. You had better see about it to-day, Celia." "I don't think—I mean, I think—you know, it's really your turn to do something for the bathroom." "What do you mean, my turn? Didn't I buy the glass shelves for it? You'd never even heard of glass shelves." "Well, who put them up after they'd been lying about for a month?" said Celia. "I did." "And who bumped his head against them the next day? I did." "Yes, but that wasn't really a useful thing to do. It's your turn to be useful." "Celia, this is mutiny. All household matters are supposed to be looked after by you. I do the brain work; I earn the money; I cannot be bothered with these little domestic worries. I have said so before." "I sort of thought you had." You know, I am afraid that is true. "After all," she went on, "the drinks are in your department." "Hock, perhaps," I said; "soapy water, no. There is a difference." "Not very much," said Celia. By the end of another week I was getting seriously alarmed. I began to fear that unless I watched it very carefully I should be improving myself too much. "While the water was running out this morning," I said to Celia, as I started my breakfast just about lunch-time, "I got Paradise Lost off by heart, and made five hundred and ninety-six revolutions with the back paws. And then it was time to shave myself again. What a life for a busy man!" "I don't know if you know that it's no——" "Begin again," I said. "—that it's no good waiting for the last inch or two to go out by itself. Because it won't. You have to—to hoosh it out." "I do. And I sit on the taps looking like a full moon and try to draw it out. But it's no good. We had a neap tide to-day and I had to hoosh four inches. Jolly." Celia gave a sigh of resignation. "All right," she said, "I'll go to the plumber to-day." "Not the plumber," I begged. "On the contrary. The plumber is the man who stops the leaks. What we really want is an unplumber." We fell into silence again. "But how silly we are!" cried Celia suddenly. "Of course!" "What's the matter now?" "The bath is the landlord's business! Write and tell him." "But—but what shall I say?" Somehow I knew Celia would put it on to me. "Why, just—say. When you're paying the rent, you know." "I—I see." I retired to the library and thought it out. I hate writing business letters. The result is a mixture of formality and chattiness which seems to me all wrong. My first letter to the landlord went like this:— "Dear Sir,—I enclose cheque in payment of last quarter's rent. Our bath won't run out properly. Yours faithfully." It is difficult to say just what is wrong with that letter, and yet it is obvious that something has happened to it. It isn't right. I tried again. "Dear Sir,—Enclosed please find cheque in payment of enclosed account. I must ask you either to enlarge the exit to our bath or to supply an emergency door. At present my morning and evening baths are in serious danger of clashing. Yours faithfully." My third attempt had more sting in it:— "Dear Sir,—Unless you do something to our bath I cannot send you enclosed cheque in payment of enclosed account. Otherwise I would have. Yours faithfully." At this point I whistled to Celia and laid the letters before her. "You see what it is," I said. "I'm not quite getting the note." "But you're so abrupt," she said. "You must remember that this is all coming quite as a surprise to him. You want to lead up to it more gradually." "Ah, perhaps you're right. Let's try again." I tried again, with this result:— "Dear Sir,—In sending you a cheque in payment of last quarter's rent I feel I must tell you how comfortable we are here. The only inconvenience—and it is indeed a trifling one, dear Sir—which we have experienced is in connection with the bathroom. Elegantly appointed and spacious as this room is, commodious as we find the actual bath itself, yet we feel that in the matter of the waste-pipe the high standard of efficiency so discernible elsewhere is sadly lacking. Were I alone I should not complain; but unfortunately there are two of us; and, for the second one, the weariness of waiting while the waters of the first bath exude drop by drop is almost more than can be borne. I speak with knowledge, for it is I who——" I tore the letter up and turned to Celia. "I'm a fool," I said. "I've just thought of something which will save me all this rotten business every morning." "I'm so glad. What is it?" "Why, of course—in future I will go to the bath first." And I do. It is a ridiculously simple solution, and I cannot think why it never occurred to me before. <hr /> <h3>A TRUNK CALL</h3> Last Wednesday, being the anniversary of the Wednesday before, Celia gave me a present of a door-knocker. The knocker was in the shape of an elephant's head (not life-size); and by bumping the animal's trunk against his chin you could produce a small brass noise. "It's for the library," she explained eagerly. "You're going to work there this morning, aren't you?" "Yes, I shall be very busy," I said in my busy voice. "Well, just put it up before you start, and then if I have to interrupt you for anything important, I can knock with it. Do say you love it." "It's a dear, and so are you. Come along, let's put it up." I got a small screw-driver, and with very little loss of blood managed to screw it into the door. Some people are born screwists, some are not. I am one of the nots. "It's rather sideways," said Celia doubtfully. "Osso erry," I said. "What?" I took my knuckle from my mouth. "Not so very," I repeated. "I wish it had been straight." "So do I; but it's too late now. You have to leave these things very largely to the screw-driver. Besides, elephants often do have their heads sideways; I've noticed it at the Zoo." "Well, never mind. I think it's very clever of you to do it at all. Now then, you go in, and I'll knock and see if you hear." I went in and shut the door, Celia remaining outside. After five seconds, having heard nothing, but not wishing to disappoint her, I said, "Come in," in the voice of one who has been suddenly disturbed by a loud "rat-tat." "I haven't knocked yet," said Celia from the other side of the door. "Why not?" "I was admiring him. He is jolly. Do come and look at him again." I went out and looked at him again. He really gave an air to the library door. "His face is rather dirty," said Celia. "I think he wants some brass polish and a—and a bun." She ran off to the kitchen. I remained behind with Jumbo and had a little practice. The knock was not altogether convincing, owing to the fact that his chin was too receding for his trunk to get at it properly. I could hear it quite easily on my own side of the door, but I felt rather doubtful whether the sound would penetrate into the room. The natural noise of the elephant—roar, bark, whistle, or whatever it is—I have never heard, but I am told it is very terrible to denizens of the jungle. Jumbo's cry would not have alarmed an ant. Celia came back with flannels and things and washed Jumbo's face. "There!" she said. "Now his mother would love him again." Very confidently she propelled his trunk against his chin and added, "Come in." "You can hear it quite plainly," I said quickly. "It doesn't re—rever—reverberate—is that the word?" said Celia, "but it's quite a distinctive noise. I'm sure you'd hear it." "I'm sure I should. Let's try." "Not now. I'll try later on, when you aren't expecting it. Besides, you must begin your work. Good-bye. Work hard." She pushed me in and shut the door. I began to work. I work best on the sofa; I think most clearly in what appears to the hasty observer to be an attitude of rest. But I am not sure that Celia really understands this yet. Accordingly, when a knock comes at the door I jump to my feet, ruffle my hair, and stride up and down the room with one hand on my brow. "Come in," I call impatiently, and Celia finds me absolutely in the throes. If there should chance to be a second knock later on, I make a sprint for the writing-desk, seize pen and paper, upset the ink or not as it happens, and present to any one coming in at the door the most thoroughly engrossed back in London. But that was in the good old days of knuckle-knocking. On this particular morning I had hardly written more than a couple of thousand words—I mean I had hardly got the cushions at the back of my head comfortably settled when Celia came in. "Well?" she said eagerly. I struggled out of the sofa. "What is it?" I asked sternly. "Did you hear it all right?" "I didn't hear anything." "Oh!" she said in great disappointment. "But perhaps you were asleep," she went on hopefully. "Certainly not. I was working." "Did I interrupt you?" "You did rather; but it doesn't matter." "Oh, well, I won't do it again—unless I really have to. Good-bye, and good luck." She went out and I returned to my sofa. After an hour or so my mind began to get to work, and I got up and walked slowly up and down the room. The gentle exercise seemed to stimulate me. Seeing my new putter in the corner of the room, I took it up (my brain full of other things) and, dropping a golf ball on the carpet, began to practise. After five or ten minutes, my ideas being now quite clear, I was just about to substitute the pen for the putter when Celia came in. "Oh!" she said. "Are—are you busy?" I turned round from a difficult putt with the club in my hand. "Very," I said. "What is it?" "I don't want to disturb you if you're working——" "I am." "But I just wondered if you—if you liked artichokes." I looked at her coldly. "I will fill in your confession book another time," I said stiffly, and I sat down with dignity at my desk and dipped the putter in the ink. "It's for dinner to-night," said Celia persuasively. "Do say. Because I don't want to eat them all by myself." I saw that I should have to humour her. "If it's a Jerusalem artichoke you mean, yes," I said; "the other sort, no. J. Arthur Choke I love." "Right-o. Sorry for interrupting." And then as she went to the door, "You did hear Jumbo this time, didn't you?" "I believe that's the only reason you came in for." "Well, one of them." "Are you coming in again?" "Don't know," she smiled. "Depends if I can think of an excuse." "Right," I said. "In that case——" There was nothing else for it; I took up my pen and began to work. But I have a suggestion to make to Celia. At present, although Jumbo is really mine, she is having all the fun with him. And as long as Jumbo is on the outside of the door there can never rise an occasion when I should want to use him. My idea is that I should unscrew Jumbo and put him on the inside of the door, so that I can knock when I come out. And then when Celia wants to come in she will warn me in the old-fashioned way with her knuckles ... and I shall have time to do something about it. <hr /> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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