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“I can’t have this,” she said firm, “not possibly. I’m a respectable married woman I’d have you know. And I couldn’t
say what became of his daughter. How would I? We were never related,” she said. “But if you don’t think to ask him, there’s Mr Middlewitch,” she said to rid herself of Charley Summers. It did the trick.

“Middlewitch,” he stammered, with renewed dread. And made off fast.

When he got to the next call box, he rang this man at the C.E.G.S. But he was out. Then Charley walked a great distance unseeing. Until he found himself by a park. He awkwardly sat under a tree. He collapsed at once into deep sleep. And, when he woke some hours later, he was a little recovered, but so sad and excited he could hardly bear it.

It was the last good sleep he was to have for some time.

He went back to the office next morning. He had only been gone a day. Watching himself in a mirror in the lavatory, because he always washed face and hands the moment he arrived, he could see no change. It was a shock that he did not look different.

“Oh there you are,” Miss Pitter said. She was made harsh by the relief she unexpectedly felt at the sight of him.

“Yes,” he said.

“I thought perhaps you’d gone off to Birmingham, then when I looked in your engagements, there was nothing,” she went on, still sharp. “And yesterday we had that special batch of reminders.”

He did not reply. He was pawing through his mail.

“Oh, and Purdews phoned,” she said with relish. “They’ve had the Admiralty down. Those trays are put right back. Their Mr Ricketts is very sorry but they’ve had to sign an undertaking. Number something priority, he said, way in front of ours.”

He passed no comment.

“I explained you weren’t here,” she went on to get some reason out of Charley, “I told him you’d had to go to Birmingham. And then I tried to get any kind of a promise, I mean about when we could expect the trays, or racks, or whatever you call them,” she interpreted herself, quite unnecessarily, “and d’you know what? He just laughed. Quite the comedian.”

She was leaning now on one of the card indexes, gazing at the top of his head. He went on handling the post. She lowered
a forearm down along the green steel front, perhaps so he could notice. But he didn’t.

“Is anything wrong?” she asked.

He looked at her. There was something dreadful in his eyes. She saw that. She wondered the more.

“No,” he said. “Why?”

“I only asked,” she said. “So I told him you’d be bound to ring back when you got in, when you did come, I mean. I know I shouldn’t, but I do get worried,” she lied, because she must find out what was up.

He lowered his eyes again to the mail. There was a pause. She powdered her nose.

“Because I’m not fretting to be left alone with this lot,” she said, and gave the card indexes a sour look, “with you away ill or unable, not little Dot, thanks all the same,” she said.

She did not know him well enough to ask such questions, but she couldn’t leave things where they were. He had been so dependable. It had come as a shock not knowing where he was yesterday, and now doubly so on account of his eyes. Yet she told herself it was only she would not be left alone with those cards if she could help.

“What were you doing yesterday? Did you go out with a girl, and celebrate, or what?” she said.

He gave her a frightful look, which she misinterpreted on purpose.

“Is that what a hangover is, then?” she trilled. “You know I’ve never had one of those. Of course I’ve been a trifle dizzy now and again, but not enough for mum to spot when I came in. And what mum doesn’t notice where I’m concerned is nobody’s business.”

He sat on. She could see he was not pretending.

“Just two glasses of port,” she said, “and something went through my nose right up to my head, I suppose it was the fumes rose …” she said, then fell silent as she saw the spasm pass across his face.

“Are you all right?” she enquired.

“A bit faint,” he said.

“Put your head between your knees, then, while I get you a glass of water.” He sat hunched there. When she came back she said,

“Well, all I can say is, after seeing the effect it’s had on you, that I’ll pass it up,” she lied, referring to the hangover she pretended to suspect.

“Thanks,” he said. He did not drink the water. She was silent for a bit.

Before she could begin again the telephone bell rang. He picked up the receiver, put it to his ear and waited.

“That you Dot?” asked Corker’s secretary.

“Yes,” he said.

“Oh Mr Summers. Good morning Mr Summers. Mr Mead says can you spare him a moment.”

“When?” he said. “Now?”

“Yes please. Thank you,” she said, and hung up. Mr Corker Mead was the boss.

“Corker,” he told Miss Pitter in explanation as he walked out.

“Gosh,” she said, and meant it.

Mr Mead waited. He had expected Summers to be several days absent. Every morning a little list of those who were away was put on his desk, first thing. It surprised him to find that young Summers was back. For he thought it likely these young men coming home from the war might be a bit wild for a period, it would only be natural. He had considered the matter, foreseen that. He had even had a little talk prepared for Charley, who was the first to return. And now Corker was ready to deliver, even though the lad had only taken a day. For Corker was mustard.

“Good morning,” he said. “Sit down. Well how’s everything? Cigarette?”

“We’re late with the first plant,” Charley said, hopelessly. “We’re nine weeks overdue.”

“That’s nothing these days,” Corker said. “We can stand it. No, I meant in yourself?”

“I’m O.K.” Charley said.

“That’s fine,” Corker agreed. “Bit difficult, I shouldn’t wonder, for you young fellows, after what you’ve been through?”

Charley did not answer. He was looking at the photo of Mrs Mead on his chief’s desk. She had a goitre.

“Though, mind you, the war’s not been a surprise in this. The civilians have had their share, this time,” Mr Mead went on, keeping strictly to what he had thought out. “Yes, we’ve had our shares” he said.

There was no reply.

“Would you fancy a few days off?” he enquired, with no trace of sarcasm. “Takes time to settle down I shouldn’t wonder.”

“No thanks, Mr Mead.”

“Sure? Because you’d be welcome. Well don’t worry your head too much over that contract. You’re doing quite nicely, Summers. That’s all. But give us a ring next time.”

Again Charley said nothing, left without another word. That was one point Mr Mead did not like about the little talk. The other was, that he had not called him sir.

Miss Pitter nervously waited back in their room.

“Well, you do look down,” she began, at his face, when he came in. “He didn’t give you the sack, surely?” she asked, to be playful. But he ignored her.

“You were only away twenty-four hours, when all’s said. But in any case you’ve got your full six months, I mean you’re entitled to that, aren’t you, after discharge from the army?” Her voice was more serious. She could not make him out at all. “They must keep you the full six months,” she ended.

He said nothing. She lost interest. Then he did a thing he had never done. Taking up the receiver he said, “Excuse me. Private business.”

“You’d rather I went out for a minute? Why sure.”

But she remembered the cupboard outside, from which you could hear anything in this room. She thought he was going to ring his girl, in which case there might be something that rated an eavesdrop. She shut herself in, unobserved.

He began hurriedly speaking.

“Middlewitch?” he asked, “Middlewitch?”

“Middlewitch that you? I say about Rose …,” then his voice stopped. If she could have seen him, she would have noticed he kept swallowing hard.

“Charley Rose?” Mr Middlewitch returned. “Ran across him the day before yesterday. We were talking about you. Why? D’you want him?”

“Charley Rose?” Mr Summers stammered, and with a sigh Miss Pitter left the cupboard. After all it wasn’t very nice to listen to someone else’s private conversation.

“Must see you some time?” Charley managed to bring out.

But Mr Middlewitch had pretty well had enough of Summers. In his shrewd opinion Charley was moonstruck. That time they had lunch together the man hardly behaved as if he knew what to do with his knife and fork, even. Here and now, on the phone, it was worse than ever. Long crazy silences. And not ten o’clock yet. So he said,

“Why, my dear old boy, what a question. Any day you choose. Look, I tell you what. You ring me up next week. I’m a bit snowed under, just at present. Why, what on earth’s old Charley Rose been doing?”

“Not Charley Rose,” the voice came back, and seemed to be short of breath, “Rose,” it said.

“Got to go now. You give me a tinkle next week,” and Mr Middlewitch rang off then. And he forgot.

So Middlewitch, in one manner or another, managed to avoid him. It was harder for Mrs Frazier to keep out of the way. But she was no help, for she seemed to know so very little. All she would admit, when he got at her, was that she had never met Rose, that, years ago, she was acquainted with Mr Grant, who had recommended Middlewitch, as he had recommended Charley. No more than that.

His work at the office began to suffer seriously.

Then, one afternoon, while Dot was doing her best to keep him straight with the correspondence, he again saw this whole thing as a whole. What he saw was that, somehow or other, Rose had, in fact, become a tart, gone on the streets.

Once he realized, everything seemed to fit. And he made sure he must deliver her.

He did not hesitate, he shot out of the office while Miss Pitter was in the middle of what she was saying. He did remember to mention he had a call to make. And then, with what he considered to be extraordinary cunning, he bought a cup and saucer to take along, intending that this should be his excuse when she answered the door.

He hurried. The shop girl had liked his eyes and wrapped the china up. He took this off while he was still on Miss Whitmore’s stairs. He knocked, carefully holding the crockery to his chest. Surprisingly enough she was up and in. She opened.

It was Rose again.

He forgot the plans he had made.

“It’s about me,” he said in haste, “about myself,” he explained, slipping past her.

“No you don’t,” she said. “Not now.”

“I can’t help myself. I’m desperate.”

“Well so am I, that is whensoever I see you. So get out.” She held the door ajar, behind.

“I brought the cup and saucer,” he said. But it was probably the look in his eyes, like a dog’s. Anyhow she seemed to soften.

“Right,” she said. “Thanks. Now then be off.” She spoke as though she did not mean to deny him.

“Had to do this,” he explained.

“There’s no more tea,” she replied. “I’m short.”

He took heart at these last two words. But she had the door open yet. He felt and felt what to say. He said nothing.

It did the trick. She shut the door.

“I can’t make you out,” she said. “What is the matter with you? Why don’t you come out with it? Not that that will be any use,” she ended, her voice hardening.

They stood facing each other.

“Look we’ve got to do something over this,” he began.

“Over what?”

He could not go on.

“Are you proposing to have another of your turns?” she asked. “Well, I suppose you’d better sit then.” He took a seat.

“Oh Rose,” he said.

“Here we go round the old mulberry bush,” she answered. “But at least this time you can’t do any damage now you’re seated. I hurt my side with you, you know.”

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled, obviously taken up with just gazing at her. She became quite gay.

“I’m crazy really, that’s what I’m like on occasions.” She lit a cigarette. “There you are, a stranger I’ve never seen but once, and then how, and here’s me entertaining you. What d’you think?”

He thought nothing. He took out a handkerchief, sat watching his hands as he dried them.

“Now what about if I ask one or two questions since you are here,” she said. “Just for a change? How did you get this address?”

He muttered a request to her not to be angry with him, keeping his eyes down.

“No, go on,” she said. “That other day you caught me bending. It doesn’t mean a thing. Why should it?”

“Mr Grant,” he explained, as though guilty. He was terribly confused.

“Well?” she asked. “What about my old dad? And what is he up to, sending you? That is, if you’re to tell the truth?”

“Then he is … you are …?” and he could not go on. He was looking at her in a way she could not understand.

“Why stare at me like that?” she said. “Don’t you smoke?” He shook his head.

“Here, what is the matter with your leg? Were you really wounded?”