Free The Eye of Love by Margery Sharp Page A

turned no deaf ear. (His train of thought paralleled Dolores’ so closely, he cast Martha’s plea in almost exactly the same form— “Oh, Mr Gibson, mayn’t I just take Dolores a message ?”) But of course Martha never came. The idea never entered her head. She was too completely, happily busy trying to draw saucepan, or a casserole, or a mustard-spoon in an egg-cup, to remember Mr Gibson at all. It was a genuine annoyance to her, a tiresome distraction, that she about this time remembered a Brixton bedroom.
    Possibly as a delayed result of Dolores’ early over-optimism, when she’d envisaged herself and Martha sharing a room in Alcock Road, Martha suddenly remembered the room in Brixton she’d for three years shared with Ma Battleaxe.
    She began by simply remembering it; presently recalled in some detail a satisfactory arrangement of shapes; and was then bothered to the point of obsession because the shapes weren’t right. She could visualise the window, and Ma Battleaxe’s bed (her own box-ottoman at the foot); but there should have been a linking-shape in between, high and narrow, of which the exact proportions eluded her. A wardrobe was too wide; but what else than a wardrobe could have stood there? After mulling over this problem for a week, one Monday towards the end of July Martha went to check up on site.
    She had at this time less than her usual liberty, but half-a-crown. (Ungrateful Martha! It derived from the generosity of Mr Gibson.) Mr Punshon told her where she could pick up a bus—quite conveniently, at the other end of Church Street; and by setting out in mid-afternoon she not only avoided explanations with Dolores, who was lying down, but also secured a good place up front.
    In point of fact, Miss Diver saw her leave. Too restless to sleep, as she now usually was, Miss Diver heard the click of the front gate and in an instant was at the window. No portly beloved figure, however, not the top of Mr Gibson’s bowler hat, rewarded her hopeful eyes; but sad it is to relate that the sight of Martha stumping down the road fanned those hopes afresh. Martha had undeniably the air of being bound on some errand of importance. She wore her sailor-straw and napper gloves. A useful instinct always led Martha to look as respectable as possible; it was probably why no education-officer on the prowl ever spotted her. Dolores, used to seeing her grubby about the garden, was on this point at fault; Martha’s important and business-like air deceived her equally. For what possible errand of importance could the child have (thought Miss Diver, her heart lifting), unless to Mr Gibson? As Martha stumped down Church Street to board a Brixton bus, Dolores visualised her stumping across Kensington Gardens towards Kensington High Street. As Martha waited stolidly at the bus-stop, Dolores visualised her scampering (the modulation inevitable) on towards Almaviva Place …
    It is the classic pathetic fallacy that man, observing Nature’s storms or calms, engages either with his own current predicament. Dolores made a similar mistake about Martha.

CHAPTER EIGHT
    1
    Martha remembered the address perfectly: 11, Hasty Street. Three full years had passed since she quitted Brixton in Miss Diver’s taxi, and she had never been back; but she remembered 11, Hasty Street perfectly. Nor was it surprising; she’d carried the legend tied to her buttonhole as soon as she could walk, and been able to pronounce it before she could read. (Ma Battleaxe disliked children underfoot.) Upon descending from the bus Martha needed only to take direction from the first passer-by, and from the corner of the road homed like a pigeon.
    She found she remembered quite a lot—up to about four feet from ground-level. The pattern of the iron railings was familiar, though not the yellow-brick housefronts behind; so was a scar in the base of a lamp-post familiar—it looked like a dog’s