“That’s uncle,” Rummy explained, “been here every day, so they say, since his wife died twenty-five years ago. But never mind about him. How’s Mr. Trent?”
“Somewhat better, I’m told.”
“That’s something, anyway. Funny his being taken queer like that.”
“Very,” Rendell agreed. “I’ll have a glass of sherry. What are you going to have?”
“I’ll have a packet of cigarettes, if you don’t mind.”
She got his drink, then, as a number of men entered the bar, she was busy for some minutes.
Rendell amused himself by watching the expressions of the men she was serving. Most of them looked at her with varying degrees of appetite. One calculated her points with the cynical appraisement of long experience: another adopted a confidential air implying intimacy: a third inquired loudly as to her activities the night before, guffawing answers to his own questions: a fourth leered at her, believing he was smiling: while the fifth stared at her breasts with an expression of leaden apathy. All were over fifty. There were not more than three young men in the crowded bar.
Having served their drinks, Rummy returned to Rendell.
“Yes, funny being taken queer like that,” she began, picking up their conversation where they had dropped it. “Did give me a shock when I saw that paragraph. Couldn’t believe it. Quite upset me, it did.”
“Did you know where he lived, Rummy?”
“No. I didn’t know anything about him—really. Just knew his name and that he wrote books. That’s all. Sometimes he wouldn’t come in for months together.”
While she spoke, she wiped the counter, or emptied an ash-tray, or rinsed a glass in a hidden receptacle, or polished it till it was ready for use. But she performed these activities automatically, giving Rendell her essential attention. Also, while she talked, she glanced round mechanically, noting arrivals and departures, distributing salutations—and frequently darted away to execute an order or to receive payment.
“Yours is a hell of a life, Rummy!” Rendell exclaimed when she returned after her sixth trip to a customer.
“Oh well, it’s a job. You last about twelve years in a bar, you know—if you’re lucky.”
“And then?”
“Well, if you’re in a place like this, and you want to stay on, you become a dispensing barmaid.”
“A
“Dispensing barmaid. You know—you’re not in a public bar like this, you’re in a bar behind, and serve the waiters who come with orders from the café.”
“That must be pretty uproarious, I imagine. What do they pay you?”
“Twenty-six shillings a week. But there’s tips, of course.”
“There would need to be. And what time do you start?”
Rummy laughed gaily.
“Well, I never! You’re just like Mr. Trent. He always wanted to know everything about my job. Ask questions, and listen for hours—sometimes he would.”
“Well, and what time
“Nine thirty. You see, all these racks here have to be scrubbed each morning. We do two hours charing first thing. Look at my hands! And then there’s requisitions and stock to check, and one thing and another.”
“Tell me this—do you have all the drinks you’re stood?”
“Oh no—couldn’t! We keep one under the counter and produce it for the customer to see. Then, later, we take the money. Some of them give us money. Sometimes we say we’d rather have cigarettes—like I did to you.”
Again she laughed.
Rendell gazed at her in silence. Here she was, in this bar—young, attractive, virginal—for hours every day, surrounded by smoke, laughter, coarse jokes. A human target!
“What are you thinking about?” she asked.
“I was thinking that it’s a hell of a world, Rummy.”
“Well, really, I shall begin to think you
“Didn’t talk about himself much, then?”
“Oh no! He’s not like the others. He’s strong, so he doesn’t have to tell you all his troubles, like most of them. I never guessed he was so well known. The paper said
“Ever read any of his books?”
“Yes, I read one. He knows everything, if you ask me.
Rendell got off the stool and held out his hand.
“I must go, but I’ll come again.”
They shook hands.
“I’ve enjoyed our talk,” he added.
“So have I. Do come again. It makes such a difference having a chat with someone—well, you know—like you—sometimes. If it’s only for a few minutes. You’ve no idea what a difference it makes. You get miserable sometimes—feel you’d do anything—then someone comes in, not like the usual lot, and you feel all right again.”
“I’ll come in before long.”
“Will you? I’d be glad if you would. Good night.”
“Good night, Rummy.”
He bought a paper as he left the bar, then went to dine at an obscure restaurant where he was unlikely to find anyone he knew.