Quinneys 26

Quinneys 26

"They tell others," he observed to Susan. "No ’ad.’ can beat that."

 

He had other dodges to capture trade. It became known that he charged

nothing for giving his opinion upon specimens submitted to him. And he

had an endearing habit of writing to purchasers of the spinets within a

few months or weeks of the deal, offering an advance on the price paid,

a "nice little profit," invariably refused.

 

"Bless ’em! It warms their hearts to think they’ve made a sound

investment."

 

"How surprised and disappointed you’d be, Joe, if they accepted your

offer!"

 

"Right you are, Susie; but there’s little fear of that, my girl."

 

When a new customer entered the shop, Quinney would adopt an air of

guileless indifference, which was likely to provoke the remark:

 

"Where is Mr. Quinney?"

 

"I’m Quinney. Like to have a look round? You may see something you

fancy."

 

"That’s a nice pie-crust table."

 

"It’s a gem. Cheap, too."

 

Then he would give a low whistle, a clear, flute-like note. James would

appear from below.

 

"Where’s the receipted bill for this table?"

 

The bill was produced and shown to the stranger.

 

"See? Paid four pounds seventeen for it, just five weeks ago. Look at

the date. You shall have it for six pounds, and, by Gum! I’ll make you

this offer. You can return it to me any day you like within a year, and

I’ll give you five pound ten for it. How’s that, as between man and

man?"

 

These seemingly artless methods captivated the "think-it-overs" and the

"rather-nicers," who frequent curiosity shops in ever-increasing

numbers. Mothers brought daughters to Soho Square to acquire historical

information. Quinney refused to sell a Jacobean armchair because it was

so useful an object-lesson to young and inquiring minds.

 

"Look at that, madam," he would say. Perhaps the lady would murmur

softly: "It is rather nice, isn’t it?" And the flapper would exclaim

enthusiastically: "Mumsie, it’s perfectly lovely!"

 

"Much more than that!" Quinney would add, with mysterious chucklings.

"See that rose? It’s a Stuart rose. And that crown on the front splat

is an emblem of loyalty to the Merry Monarch."

 

"Dear me! You hear that, Kitty!"

 

"Pay particular attention to the legs, ladies. Ball and paw, the lion’s

paw, with hair above them, indicatin’ the strength of the Constitootion

after the Restoration. Chapter of English history, that chair."

 

He could embellish such simple themes according to fancy, and with due

regard for the patience of his listener. To Susan he spoke of these

intellectual exercises as "my little song and dance."

 

 

*II*

 

Meanwhile, Posy was growing up, becoming a tall, slender, pretty girl.

She attended a day-school in Orchard Street—a select seminary for young

ladies. Susan accompanied her to and from Orchard Street. By this time

she had accepted, with a serenity largely temperamental, the fate

allotted to her. Once more Quinney was absorbed in his business.

Adversity had brought husband and wife together, prosperity sundered

them. Very rarely does it happen that a successful man can spare time

to spend on his wife. The charming slackers make the most congenial

mates. Compensation has thus ordained it, wherein lie tragedy and

comedy. Many women, to the end of their lives, are incapable of

realizing this elementary fact. They want their husbands to climb

high—the higher the better; they understand, perhaps more clearly than

men, what can be seen and enjoyed from the tops; they pluck, often as a

matter of course, and gobble up the grapes of Eschol, but they refuse to

accept the inevitable penalties of supreme endeavour. Their husbands

return to them almost foundered, fit only to eat and sleep. In the

strenuous competition of to-day what else is possible?

 

Susan did not complain, but then she belonged to the generation who

accepted with pious resignation life as it is. Indeed, she accounted

herself singularly fortunate, and whenever the present seemed dreary she

fortified herself by thinking of a rosy past, or projected herself into

an enchanted future, when he and she, Darby and Joan, would wander hand

in hand to some garden of sleep, some drowsy country churchyard, where

they would lie down together to await an ampler and happier intercourse

in the life beyond.

 

Her interest in persons as opposed to things quickened with the growth

of her child. Posy became to her what a Chelsea shepherdess modelled by

Roubillac was to Quinney—a bit of wonderful porcelain to be enshrined, a

museum piece! The maternal instincts budded and bloomed the more

bravely because conjugal emotion was denied full __EXPRESSION__. She faced

unflinchingly the conviction that Posy must marry and leave her. By

that time Joe might be more ready to enjoy the fruits of labour. For

the moment, then, her husband was pigeon-holed. He remained at the back

of her mind, at the bottom of her heart, masked by that sprightly

creature, his daughter.

 

Posy accepted Susan’s love as a matter of course.

 

 

*III*

 

For her years—she was just fifteen—the girl exhibited a precocious

intelligence and an essentially masculine shrewdness which distinguished

her sire. In the girl’s presence Quinney observed no reticences.

Invariably he discussed, with boyish zest and volubility, the day’s

trafficking. Posy was not allowed to potter about the shop, but she ran

at will in and out of the sanctuary, and she knew the value of every

"gem" in it, and its history. Susan dared not interfere, but she prayed

that Joe’s child might not be tempted to worship false gods. In an

artless fashion she attempted to inculcate a taste for high romance. She

read aloud _Ivanhoe_, and was much distressed by Posy’s comments upon

certain aspects of the tale.

 

"The men had a good time, but the women’s lives must have been deadly.

I’m jolly glad that I’m a twen-center!" She continued fluently: "You

have a rotten time, mummie."

 

"My dear!"

 

"But you do. I couldn’t stick your life!"

 

She used slang freely, protesting, when rebuked, that she picked it up

from the lips of her chum, Ethel Honeybun, who was exalted as the

daughter of a Member of Parliament. Susan’s silence encouraged her to

go on:

 

"I want all the fun I can get. What fun have you had? You sew a lot,

you read aloud to me, you take me to school—although I’m quite able to

go alone—you order the meals, you are father’s slave."

 

"I won’t have you say that!"

 

"But it’s true."

 

"I love your father. I married for love. I am happy and contented in

my own home. I have no patience with these new-fangled notions about

women’s rights and women’s wrongs."

 

"Ethel says——"

 

"I don’t wish to hear what Ethel says. Fun, indeed! Why, child, I’ve

had you."

 

"Was that fun?" She spoke seriously, fixing her mother with a pair of

clear, grey eyes. "Some girls love dolls. Dolls rather bored me. Is

it fun to mess about with a baby, wash it and dress it, and take it out

in a pram? I call hockey fun."

 

"You’ll lose a front tooth some fine day. That will be great fun."

 

"Let’s be perfectly calm. I love talking things out. You don’t. I

mean to say you try to hide your real self from me. Didn’t you think

and talk as I do when you were a girl?"

 

"Most certainly not!"

 

"You are an old-fashioned darling, and I love you for it! I shouldn’t

like you to talk as Mrs. Honeybun does. She says you and father spoil

me. I wonder if that’s true. She gives Ethel beans sometimes, and

Ethel answers back as if they were equals. It would give Granny a fit

to hear her!"

 

Twice a year Posy paid a ceremonial visit to Mrs. Biddlecombe. The old

lady was very fond of her, although she sniffed at her upbringing.

Posy, indeed, had won a moral victory during her first visit, shortly

after the Quinneys moved to London. At the end of three days Mrs.

Biddlecombe had said majestically to the child:

 

"I hope you’re enjoying yourself, my dear!"

 

"I’m not," said Posy, with shocking candour.

 

"Why not?" demanded the astonished grandmother.

 

"Because you’ve been so wonnerful peevish."

 

"Bless my soul, what next! Well, well, you are a pert little maid, but I must try to be more agreeable."