Free The Charmers by Stella Gibbons Page B

They do keep some sense of proportion and occasionally show their readers clothes that haven’t gone mad … and my others did well, too.”
    “Of course you must still have a lot of fans from just after the war. I know they’re getting old,” Diana said, “but—”
    “Meaning that it was applause from old-hat people for old-hat numbers? Thank you.”
    “Don’t be so touchy, darling. I was going on to say that I expect they’ve trained their daughters to like your kind of clothes; you’ll have a new generation growing up, all adoring you.”
    Antonia shut her eyes. “Nigel’s pleased,” she said, “and that’s something, nowadays.”
    Christine listened with divided attention to all this because she was expecting any moment to hear the banging of Mr. Johnson’s brush as he came down the kitchen stairs. But she could not hear it, even in the distance, and presently she slipped out of the room.
    All was quiet as she hastened up to the hall, her mind full of forebodings not unconnected with the colour of Mr. Johnson’s skin which her common-sense instantly checked. And sure enough he was not sacrificing a white cockerel in the Merediths’ bathroom or sticking pins into an image of herself.
    But she did find him sitting on the top step of the kitchen flight, silent, seeming suddenly older, all his smiles gone and his hands drooping dejectedly between his knees in some way that brought out in them a simian look.
    “Hullo—what’s the matter? Aren’t you feeling well?” Christine demanded briskly.
    He slowly moved his eyes until he was looking at her, without lifting his head, and shook it.
    “Can’t you get on?”
    Mr. Johnson slowly waved his hand over the dust-pan, the brush, and the duster and broom, all of which, she saw, had accompanied him as he made his way down the stairs.
    “This,” he said, in an immensely deep and sad voice, “woman’s work.”
    “Well, you should have though of that before, shouldn’t you?” said Christine, marshalling the considerable, though largely unconscious, forces of Mortimer Road. “I think it all works out nicely. I want a bit of help, you need the money, what does it matter if it is woman’s work, as you call it?”
    “I a man,” he said sorrowfully.
    “Well, it’s too late to do anything about that now,” Christine retorted briskly. “I wouldn’t think about whose work it is. You just get on with it. When you get to the bottom there’ll be a nice cup of tea. That’ll cheer you up.”
    Mr. Johnson looked more cheerful immediately, and even laid a languid hand on the brush.
    “Is true, about what you say. Is just work, for money. I got responsibilities. I like two cups tea, with plenty sugar. Also sandwich.”
    “There won’t be sandwich.” She was annoyed to find his way of talking infectious. “Sandwiches, I mean, but I daresay I could find you a biscuit—”
    “Slice of cake,” said Mr. Johnson eagerly.
    Christine laughed. Really, he was just a great child.
    “Perhaps. Now you get on with your job.”
    She left him, and in a moment heard the brush banging against the banisters again, and also a deep buzzing noise, not musical by any standards of her own, but pleasant to hear. Mr. Johnson was humming “There is a green hill far away,” and even Christine Smith knew that tune.
    “Is that our Massa Johnson? How’s he shaping?” asked Clive, as the banging and buzzing became faintly audible in the kitchen.
    “I don’t know yet. He’s got a lot to learn—”
    “I hope,’ interrupted Mrs. Traill, “I
do
hope you won’t
spoil
him, Christine—”
    “How do you mean?—spoil him, Mrs. Traill? I certainly shan’t let him take any liberties.”
    “I didn’t mean that kind of thing. We’ve got to treat him like a
friend
, and not ruin all that grand
warmth
and
vitality and joy of life
.”
    “So long as he does his work properly and isn’t nearly an hour late every time, like he was this evening, I shan’t take over-much notice