Free Flowers on the Grass by Monica Dickens Page A

she heard Mr. Parker blowing his nose on the stairs, she felt as if she had been through something out of Dick Barton. She would have liked to convey to Mr. Brett an idea of what she had accomplished, but although he thanked her politely—he had a nice voice, she’d say that for him—he seemed to find nothing exceptional in what she had done. Took it for granted. That was the way he asked you to do things. He didn’t ask as a favour; just asked, and took it for granted you would do it. He could not have had much experience of private hotels.
    Although it was long after her time, she had just to stay and watch the dog eat. He was such a dainty feeder. It always seemed so clever of dogs to teach themselves to eat with mouths that shape.
    Mr. Brett unwrapped a bottle of whiskey from brown paper and poured some into a tooth-glass. “Oh dear,” sighed Doris, “now that’s two things you didn’t ought to have up here. Mrs. P. won’t have spirits in the house, except just for the Christmas pudding.”
    “Oh——Mrs. P.,” said Mr. Brett irritably, using a word that Doris did not like to hear said, even about Mrs. P.
    She lingered by the door, watching him drink the whiskey. “Have some,” he said. “Go and get yourself a glass.”
    “Oh no, thank you.” Doris retreated a step. “I’ve no objection to it, mind, for them who like it.. I just can’t fancy the taste of it myself.”
    “Oh well, you miss a lot,” he said, pouring himself out some more and lying back on the bed with his feet on the quilt. “I couldn’t sleep a wink without this stuff.”
    Was he going to turn out to be a drunkard, then? They had never had one of those. But the drunks Doris had seen in the streets were older, blobbier men, the kind you would draw away from instinctively, even without the danger that they might be sick on your shoes.
    “I’ll say good night then. And please, Mr. Brett, hide that bottle for pity’s sake.”
    “I’ve got some more.” He grinned at her, but not blobbily.
    “Hide them all then.” Doris went downstairs, took off her shoes and got herself interested in the papers.
    There was one thing you could say for Mrs. P. She did not try to catch you unawares. She told Doris: “I’m going to do a round of inspection—everywhere,” and it would be everywhere, but it gave you fair warning.
    Doris went up to No. 4 to get the dust out of the top of the wardrobe. Ah—he had hidden the bottles then, like she told him. She picked one up to get at the dust. It was empty. So were the others. Three empty bottles and he had only been there a week! No wonder he was so difficult to wake in the mornings. Well, sooner him than her. If she had to drink one, let alone three bottles of whiskey in a week, Doris believed that she would be dead. She took the bottles away, and after dark dropped them over the low fence into the dustbin of the hotel next door. Mrs. P. was not above inspecting the Lothian dustbins when the mood was on her. There had been that trouble not long ago when she had found all that bread. That was why there was never fresh bread at meals now. The old loaf had to be finished first, so by the time they got to the new one, that was old, and so it went on. Mr. Dangerfield sometimes took a slice to his room to clean the stiff collar and cuffs he wore for giving dancing lessons. He said, with his smile, that stale bread was better for this. He was always one for findingthe silver lining, and had Patience Strong verses stuck round his dressing-table mirror.
    Mr. Finck had tried to be funny one day by pretending to break a tooth on the bread. No one had laughed except Mr. Brett, and they had both paid the price in jam sauce when the queen puddings came round.
    Mr. Brett continued to go in and out by the window, boosting the dog over the roofs. So far no one had noticed that he was never seen either going out to or coming in from work, and Doris herself had got quite used to it. It was as much a part of him as