Chapter IV

When Mrs. Meads returned from the welfare meeting at half-past eight, she found Mr. Meads waiting for her in the parlour, and the supper laid. There was cold veal and beetroot, apple pie, cheese and stout.

“I’m sorry I’m late, dear,” she said.

“That’s all right, my love,” replied Mr. Meads, not looking up from his newspaper.

“We had a lovely meeting--Mrs. Wonnicott was there, and Mrs. Beal, and Mrs. Edwin Pillcreak, and Mrs. James, and Ada, and both the Jamiesons, and the Vicar was perfectly sweet. He made two lovely speeches.”

“Oh, that was nice,” said Mr. Meads, trying to listen and read a piquant paragraph about a divorce case at the same time.

“I should think you want your supper.”

“I’m ready when you are, my love.”

Mr. Meads put down his newspaper, and drawing his chair up to the table, began to set about the veal. He was distinctly a man for his victuals. He carved rapidly for her, and less rapidly for himself. From this you must not imagine that he treated his wife meanly. On the contrary, he gave her a large helping, but a close observer could not help detecting that when carving for himself he seemed to take more interest in his job. Then he rang a little tinkly hand-bell and the new maid appeared.

“Go into the shop, my dear,” he said, “and get me a pot of pickled walnuts from the second shelf on the left before you come to them bales of calico.”

The maid went, and Mrs. Meads clucked:

“Um--being a bit extravagant to-night, John.”

“The labourer is worthy of his hire,” quoted Mr. Meads sententiously. He put up a barrage of veal in the forefront of his mouth--he had no back teeth, but managed to penetrate it with an opaque rumble of sound. “Besides we had a good day to-day--done a lot of business. Pass the stout----”

“I’m glad to hear it,” replied Mrs. Meads. “It’s about time things began to improve, considerin’ what we’ve been through. Mrs. Wonnicott was wearin’ her biscuit-coloured taffeta with a new lace yoke. She looked smart, but a bit stiff for the Welfare to my way of thinkin’.”

“Ah!” came rumbling through the veal.

“Oh, and did I tell you Mrs. Mounthead was there, too? She was wearing her starched ninon--no end of a swell she looked.”

Mr. Meads’s eyes lighted with a definite interest at last. Mrs. Mounthead was the wife of James Mounthead, the proprietor of that handsome hostelry, “The Die is Cast.” When his long day’s work was over Mr. Meads would not infrequently pop into “The Die is Cast” for an hour or so before closing time and have a long chat with Mr. James Mounthead. He swallowed half a glass of stout at a gulp, and helped himself liberally to the pickled walnuts which the maid had just brought in. Eyeing the walnuts thoughtfully, he said:

“Oh, so she’s got into it, too, has she?”

“Yes, she’s really quite a pleasant body. She told me coming down the street that her husband has just bought Bolder’s farm over at Pondhurst. He’s setting up his son there who’s marrying Kate Steyning. Her people have got a bit of money, too, so they’ll be all right. By the way, we haven’t heard from Charlie for nearly three weeks.”

Mr. Meads sighed. Why were women always like that? There was Edie. He was trying to tell her that things were improving, going well in fact. The shed for petrol and motor accessories was nearly finished; the cheap clothing department was in full swing; he had indulged in pickled walnuts for supper (her supper, too); and there she must needs talk about--Charlie! Everybody in the neighbourhood knew that their son Charlie was up in London, and not doing himself or anybody else any good. And almost in the same breath she must needs talk about old Mounthead’s son. Everyone knew that young Mounthead was a promising, industrious fellow. Oh! and so James had bought him Bolder’s farm, had he? That cost a pretty penny, he knew. Just bought a farm, had he? Not put the money into his business; just bought it in the way that he, Sam Meads, might buy a gramophone, or an umbrella. Psaugh!

“I don’t want no tart,” he said, on observing Edie begin to carve it.

“No tart!” she exclaimed. “Why, what’s wrong?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” he replied. “Don’t feel like it--working too hard--bit flatulent. I’ll go out for a stroll after supper.”

An hour later he was leaning against the bar of “The Die is Cast,” drinking gin and water, and listening to Mr. Mounthead discourse on dogs. The bar of “The Die is Cast” was a self-constituted village club. Other cronies drifted in. They were all friends of both Mr. Meads and Mr. Mounthead. Mrs. Mounthead seldom appeared in the bar, but there was a potman and a barmaid named Florrie; and somewhere in the rear a cook, two housemaids, a scullerymaid, a boy for knives and boots, and an ostler. Mr. Mounthead had a victoria and a governess car, as well as a van for business purposes, a brown mare and a pony. He also had his own farm well stocked with pigs, cattle, and poultry. While taking his guests’ money in a sleepy leisurely way, he regaled them with the rich fruits of his opinions and experiences. Later on he dropped casually that he was engaging an overseer at four hundred a year to take his son’s place. And Mr. Meads glanced round the bar and noted the shining glass and pewter, the polished mahogany, the little pink and green glasses winking at him insolently.

“He doesn’t know what work is either,” suddenly occurred to him. Mr. Mounthead’s work consisted mostly in a little bookkeeping, and in ordering people about. He only served in the shop as a kind of social relaxation. If he, Sam Meads, didn’t serve in his shop himself all day from early morning till late evening, goodness knows what would happen to the business. Besides--the pettiness of it all! Little bits of cheese, penny tins of mustard, string, weighing out sugar and biscuits, cutting bacon, measuring off ribbons and calico, and flannelette. People gossiping all day, and running up little accounts it was always hard to collect. But here--oh, the snappy quick profit. Everybody paying on the nail, served in a second, and what a profit! Enough to buy a farm for a son as though it was--an umbrella. Walking home, a little dejectedly, later on, he struck the road with his stick, and muttered:

“Damn that man!”