Free The Romantic Adventures of Mr. Darby and of Sarah His Wife by Martin Armstrong Page B

asked, confidentially amiable.
    â€˜The same as last time, if you please!’ said Mr. Darby.
    But how extraordinary that she should remember what he had had last time. Most extraordinary. Really a very pleasant and friendly young person. She drew his Bass and poured it out, not disdainfully this time but with the air of an accomplished conjuror performing a trick; then raising the glass bell of the sandwich dish she took two off the piles, placed them on the plate and set them before him. ‘Mustard?’ she said, musically as before, and then left him to attend to other orders.
    Mr. Darby ate and drank with gusto: the sandwiches were as excellent as before, the Bass had the same stimulating tang. Miss Sunningdale flitted to and fro, distributing beers, stouts, ports, whiskies, affable smiles and lofty disdain in accordance with the needs and deserts of the customers. Then she turned to the shelves behind her. ‘A smart figure!’ mused Mr. Darby as she stood with arms raised reaching for a couple of bottles. As she turned with the bottles in her hands his eyes met hers and he opened his mouth to speak. But the words stuck in his throat, for a very disagreeable thing occurred. Framed in the space left by the two bottles he had detected a round, pink, spectacled face crowned by a bowler hat. The face itself was familiar enough: it was its expression, an expression at once timid, ingratiating anddistressingly fatuous, that had frozen his speech. For a moment he felt himself embarrassed, horribly ashamed. But next minute he had pulled himself together, averted his eyes from the lamentable image, cleared his throat, and remarked: ‘We keep you busy here, Miss Sunningdale.’
    â€˜Yes,’ she said, ‘it’s pretty crowded most days from half past eleven to about two. Still, it doesn’t worry
me.
It’s a matter of knack, you know: keeping your head and not getting fussed. I’m an old hand, you see. Been at it ten years now.’
    â€˜Ten years! Is it possible?’ said Mr. Darby gallantly, looking up from his plate over the tops of his spectacles.
    She smiled an arch, lustrous smile. ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘sad but true. Do you come from these parts yourself?’
    â€˜Yes,’ replied Mr. Darby, ‘I live in Savershill.’
    â€˜Dear me now. My first job was at The Punchbowl in Savershill Road. You know it, I suppose?’
    â€˜I know the … ah … the exterior,’ said Mr. Darby. He was saved from confessing that he had never been inside—and he would have been ashamed to have to confess it to Miss Sunningdale—by her being called to the other end of the bar. Except to ask for another Bass and another sandwich he had no further opportunity for conversation.
    Already the crowd at the bar was thinning. Mr. Darby, having despatched his second helping, dusted the crumbs from his coat, raised his hat and smiled at Miss Sunningdale who smiled graciously from the far end of the bar, and went out.
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    No sooner had Mr. Darby left The Schooner than the door swung open and admitted a tall, rather massive woman, who stood for a moment to take in the scene, and then advanced towards the bar. Miss Sunningdale regarded her with surprise: for Miss Sunningdale had considerable experience of the women who frequent pubs and she saw at once that this was not one of them. It was obvious that she was a very superior person, a person of considerable dignity and perfectself-possession. Her clothes, Miss Sunningdale noted, were quiet but good. She chose a part of the bar which was away from the small group of drinkers that still remained and Miss Sunningdale went to her at once, for this was a person, she felt, who deserved politeness. She liked the square, stern, handsome face.
    â€˜Excuse me troubling