Chapter Five: MISS MATFIELD WONDERS (continued 2)

“I don’t know that I’d mind very much,” she told him, looking about her on the upper deck. “It would be rather amusing.”

“Oh, you wouldn’t have a bad time at all, so long as you weren’t seasick. These fellows here would make a great fuss of you, I can tell you.”

“Well, that would be rather a nice change.”

“Would it now?” He grinned. “Well, we won’t kidnap you this time. We’ll go in here.” And he led the way into a little saloon, quite neat and cheerful. On the table, which was covered with a hideously bright cloth, were some cigars, a mysterious tall bottle of a shape she had never seen before, and several small glasses. Some newspapers and illustrated papers, printed in fantastic characters, were scattered about, and these helped more than anything else, unless it was the tall bottle, to make it all seem very foreign. Yet through the windows at each side she could see the roofs and spires, the familiar smoky mass, of London.

“Ah, I’d better look after that sample book,” said Mr. Golspie. “Now then, you sit down there, Miss Matfield, with your notebook.”

She sat down and tried to pull the chair nearer to the table, but of course it would not move, or at least would only swing round. She was forgetting that she was on board a ship. It was all very odd and delightful.

The letters were not difficult and were all more or less alike, and in half an hour they had done. Once or twice, while they were at work, various faces, foreign faces, had peeped in at them, had nodded, smiled, and then disappeared. The only other interruptions were occasional shouts and hootings outside.

“I think that’s all,” said Mr. Golspie, lighting a cigar and pouring himself out a drink from the tall bottle. “But just you read through what you’ve done while I try to think if there’s anything else. There’s plenty of time. D’you smoke? That’s right. Well, have a cigarette. Here, have one of these.” And he threw over a very fancy cardboard box, from which she took a long cigarette that was half stiff paper, like a Russian. It was a fine romantic cigarette and she enjoyed it.

“Can’t think of anything else,” said Mr. Golspie, puffing out a cloud of smoke. “Just run through that lot quickly, will you?” She did, and there was only one change to be made. “I’ll sign some sheets now for you,” he continued, “and then you can take ’em back with you to the office. I brought plenty of the firm’s stationery with me. Always do, wherever I am. That’s the worst of being on your own. Have to buy your own stationery. It’s a thing I hate doing. Funny, isn’t it? I’d spend money like water on all sorts of silly rubbish and never turn a hair, but I hate spending money on paper. Expect you’re the same, aren’t you, about something?”

“Pencils,” replied Miss Matfield promptly. “I loathe and detest having to buy pencils. If I can’t borrow or steal one, and actually have to go to a shop and pay money for one of the wretched things, I simply hate it.”

“Ah, we’re all a queer lot, even the best-looking of us,” Mr. Golspie ruminated while he signed the blank sheets. “We’re all both crooks and old washerwomen rolled into one, though I expect you’ll tell me that you aren’t, eh?”

“No, I shan’t. I know exactly what you mean.”

If they were on the very edge of a pleasant sympathetic talk, as it appeared at that moment, then Mr. Golspie only yanked them miles away at one swoop with his next remark. “Well, if you do,” he said, “you know more than I do. And that’s a nuisance.” He looked up, having finished with the sheets. “Here, you’re shivering.”

“Am I? I didn’t know I was. But I am rather cold now,” she admitted. She was still wearing her thick coat, but the little saloon was not warmed and there was a nipping air along the river.

“You’ve finished here now,” said Mr. Golspie, looking at her, “but if you’ll take my tip you won’t go like that, you’ll have a drink of something to warm you up first. Might get a cold before you could say ‘knife.’”

This was Mr. Golspie in a new and unsuspected vein. She could have laughed in his face.

“If the steward’s about,” he continued, “I could get some tea for you. These people aren’t great on tea but they can make it all right. Or coffee, if you’d rather have that. It just depends if he’s handy.” He got up, passing the signed sheets to her.

“Oh, don’t bother, Mr. Golspie. They’re probably all frightfully busy now, and I’d rather not, thanks. I can get some tea on my way back to the office.”

“Well, you must have something. You can’t leave the ship shivering like that. Have some of this stuff,” and he pointed to the tall bottle. “It’ll warm you up. I’m going to have some. You join me.” He poured out two small glasses of the colourless liquor.

“Shall I? What is it?”

“Vodka. It’s the favourite tipple in these ships.”

Vodka! She picked up the glass and put her nose to it. She had never tasted vodka before, never remembered ever having seen it before, but of course it was richly associated with her memories of romantic fiction of various kinds, and was tremendously thrilling, the final completing thrill of the afternoon’s adventure. At once she could hear herself bringing the vodka into her account of the adventure at the Club. “And then, my dear,” it would run, “I was given some vodka. There I was, in the cabin, swilling vodka like mad. Marvellous!”

“Come along, Miss Matfield,” said Mr. Golspie, looking at her over his raised glass. “Down it goes. Happy days!” And he emptied his glass with one turn of the wrist.

“All right,” she cried, raising hers. “What do I say? Cheerio?” Boldly she drained her glass, too, in one gulp. For a second or so nothing happened but a curious aniseedy taste as the liquor slipped over her palate, but then, suddenly, it was as if an incendiary bomb had burst in her throat and sent white fire racing down every channel of her body. She gasped, laughed, coughed, all at once.

“That’s the way, Miss Matfield. You put it down in great style. Try another. I’m going to have one. Just another for good luck.” He filled the glasses again.

She floated easily now on a warm tide. It was very pleasant. She took the glass, hesitated, then looked up at him. “I’m not going to be tight, am I? If you make me drunk I shan’t be able to type your letters, you know.”

“Don’t you worry about that,” he told her, grinning amiably and then patting her shoulder. “You couldn’t be soused on two glasses of this stuff, and you’ll be as sober as a judge by the time you get back to Angel Pavement. It’ll just make you feel warm and comfortable, and keep the cold out. Now then. Here she goes.”

“Happy days!” cried Miss Matfield, smiling at him, and once more there came the aniseedy taste, the incendiary bomb, the racing white fire, and the final warm tide.

“Now I like you, Miss Matfield,” he told her, with a full stare of approval. “That was done in real style, like a good sport. You’ve got some character, not like most of these pink little ninnies of girls you see here. I noticed that right at the start. I said to myself, ‘That girl’s not only got looks, but she’s got character, too.’ I wish you were coming with us.”

“Thank you.”

“Well, it’s a real compliment. Though I don’t know that you’d like it. It’ll be perishingly cold, and by to-morrow she’ll be rolling like the devil all the way across the North Sea, and she’ll start rolling again when we get into the Baltic. I know her of old. How d’you feel now?”

“Marvellous!” And she did. She rose and gathered her things together. “Not too sober, though.”

When they went out on to the upper deck, she stopped and looked down the river. Daylight had dwindled to a faint silver above and an occasional cold gleam on the water, and at any other time she would probably have been depressed or half frightened by the leaden swell of the river itself, the uncertain lights beyond, and the melancholy hooting, but now it all seemed wonderfully mysterious and romantic. For a minute or so, she lost herself in it. She was quite happy and yet she felt close to tears. It was probably the vodka.

“Sort of hypnotises you, doesn’t it?” said Mr. Golspie gruffly, at her elbow.

“It does, doesn’t it?” she said softly. At that moment, she decided that she liked Mr. Golspie and that he was an unusual and fascinating man. She also felt that she herself was fascinating, really rather wonderful. Then she gave a quick shiver.

“Hello, you’re not starting again?” he said, humorous but concerned too, and he took hold of her arm and drew her closer to his side. They stayed like that for a few moments. She did not mind being there. All that she felt was a sudden sense of warmth and safety.

She stepped aside, and announced that she must go. He made no effort to detain her, said nothing, but simply led the way back to the lower deck and the gangway. There he stopped and held out his hand.

“Very pleased to have met you, Miss Matfield,” he said, taking her hand and, for once, smiling rather than grinning.

“I hope you have a good trip, Mr. Golspie,” she told him hurriedly, “and it isn’t too cold and the crossing isn’t too bad.” Then, without knowing why, she added: “And don’t forget to come back.”

He gave a sudden deep laugh. “Not I. You’ll be seeing me again soon. I’ll be back in Angel Pavement before you can turn round.” And he gave her hand a huge squeeze, then released it.

She turned round once and waved, though it was almost impossible to see if he was still there, then hurried down the narrow lane, which brought her gradually back into the ordinary world. By the time she crossed London Bridge again and looked through the bus window, there was hardly anything to be seen of that other world, only a glimmer of lights. By the time she was back at her table, holding her notebook up to the nearest shaded electric light, that other world was infinitely remote and might never have existed outside a daydream in the November dusk. Yet there, on the very paper she slipped behind the typewriter roller, was the sign that it was there, the sprawling J. Golspie of the signature. And it was queer now to think that he would be coming back, returning from his tall bottle and rolling ship and the snow and forests of the Baltic place, to walk through that swing door there, not a yard from Smeeth’s elbow. It was queer and it was also rather exciting, which was more than could be said of the 13 bus and the lounge at the Burpenfield and her room there and the aspirin and the hot water. She sent the typewriter carriage flying along. It gave a sharp ping.