here all winter. It’s given you a chance to find your feet, and now, well, people are likely to talk. I owe it to myself not to give rise to gossip – and, besides, I want the attic for a particular reason and I really must have it.’
In her agitation Miss Bohun was cutting her fish, putting down her knife and fork, lifting them and cutting it again. Felix, watching Mr Jewel, who troubled him very much, saw the old man raise his eyes and give her a pitying look.
‘You’ll just have to look for somewhere. Seriously,’ she said.
‘I have looked, but there’s such a lot of refugees here. People can ask any price for a room.’
‘Exactly!’ Miss Bohun significantly agreed.
On Saturday Felix saw Mr Jewel knocking at doors in the Old City and the poverty of the quarter made Mr Jewel’s poverty evident. Perhaps he was not taking advantage of Miss Bohun. Perhaps he was as helpless and alone as he looked. Felix felt he ought to go to Mr Jewel and offer him help of some kind, but he had nothing to offer, so, instead, he hurried out of sight. He began to wish that Mr Jewel would go away and release them all from the embarrassment suffered each evening at the dinner-table, especially that suffered by Mr Jewel himself.
Miss Bohun said nothing more about the matter, but her silence spoke. Then, one evening, the old man did not come down when the bell rang. Miss Bohun ‘tutted’ toherself and gave the bell another ring, then she said: ‘Mr Jewel again. He might at least spare us his ill-breeding. Well, we can’t let the soup get cold.’
Felix and Miss Bohun had their soup; when Maria entered, Miss Bohun said: ‘Go upstairs, Maria, and ask Mr Jewel if he has heard the bell.’
Maria ascended slowly to the attic and as slowly descended while Miss Bohun sat in restless silence.
‘Well?’
‘Mr Jewel sick.’
‘No!’ Miss Bohun turned sharply in her chair and her long period of exasperation crystallised suddenly into militant anger: ‘This is the last straw. What does he say is the matter with him?’
Maria spread her hands: ‘Don’t know.’
‘Really! It’s too bad.’ Miss Bohun turned to Felix, ‘Felix, you go up.’
Felix went up almost as slowly as Maria had done. He was certain Mr Jewel was dead, but when he whispered: ‘Mr Jewel,’ into the dark, icy attic, the old man murmured hoarsely.
‘What’s the matter?’ asked Felix.
‘Light the lamp, there’s a lad,’ said Mr Jewel. ‘Matches in the saucer.’
Felix put back the curtain to get a glimmer from the landing and found and lit the lamp. ‘I’ll light the oil-stove, too.’
‘No kerosene,’ croaked Mr Jewel, ‘used it all last week. No more coming up.’
‘I’ll get you some.’
‘No, no. Don’t ask her. Quite warm in here. Be all right in the morning. Bit of a chill like.’
‘Can I get you anything?’
‘Drink of water.’
There was an Arab water-cooler and glass on the floor by the bed. Felix, feeling efficient and useful, filled the glass and held it for Mr Jewel. The old man’s face shone with sweat. The skin of his neck felt very hot as Felix propped him up.
‘I’ll bring up your soup,’ said Felix.
Mr Jewel shook his head: ‘Don’t ask her. Don’t want it. Be all right to-morrow.’
‘Shall I leave the lamp?’
‘Better not. Don’t need it. She wouldn’t like it.’
When Felix went downstairs he said with some importance: ‘He’s got a temperature.’
‘Oh, dear! Now what are we supposed to do?’ She was silent through the rest of the meal, but at the end she said in sudden, cheerful decision: ‘But he must see a doctor. I know the hospital doctors so well – they’ve always been so kind to me.’
She went over to the writing-desk where the telephone stood. After a long delay, during which she remained unperturbed, she got on to the sister on duty at the English Hospital: ‘Sister Smart? Ah, how good to hear your voice. I am so worried. . . . No, it’s my lodger, Mr Jewel. I don’t
In her agitation Miss Bohun was cutting her fish, putting down her knife and fork, lifting them and cutting it again. Felix, watching Mr Jewel, who troubled him very much, saw the old man raise his eyes and give her a pitying look.
‘You’ll just have to look for somewhere. Seriously,’ she said.
‘I have looked, but there’s such a lot of refugees here. People can ask any price for a room.’
‘Exactly!’ Miss Bohun significantly agreed.
On Saturday Felix saw Mr Jewel knocking at doors in the Old City and the poverty of the quarter made Mr Jewel’s poverty evident. Perhaps he was not taking advantage of Miss Bohun. Perhaps he was as helpless and alone as he looked. Felix felt he ought to go to Mr Jewel and offer him help of some kind, but he had nothing to offer, so, instead, he hurried out of sight. He began to wish that Mr Jewel would go away and release them all from the embarrassment suffered each evening at the dinner-table, especially that suffered by Mr Jewel himself.
Miss Bohun said nothing more about the matter, but her silence spoke. Then, one evening, the old man did not come down when the bell rang. Miss Bohun ‘tutted’ toherself and gave the bell another ring, then she said: ‘Mr Jewel again. He might at least spare us his ill-breeding. Well, we can’t let the soup get cold.’
Felix and Miss Bohun had their soup; when Maria entered, Miss Bohun said: ‘Go upstairs, Maria, and ask Mr Jewel if he has heard the bell.’
Maria ascended slowly to the attic and as slowly descended while Miss Bohun sat in restless silence.
‘Well?’
‘Mr Jewel sick.’
‘No!’ Miss Bohun turned sharply in her chair and her long period of exasperation crystallised suddenly into militant anger: ‘This is the last straw. What does he say is the matter with him?’
Maria spread her hands: ‘Don’t know.’
‘Really! It’s too bad.’ Miss Bohun turned to Felix, ‘Felix, you go up.’
Felix went up almost as slowly as Maria had done. He was certain Mr Jewel was dead, but when he whispered: ‘Mr Jewel,’ into the dark, icy attic, the old man murmured hoarsely.
‘What’s the matter?’ asked Felix.
‘Light the lamp, there’s a lad,’ said Mr Jewel. ‘Matches in the saucer.’
Felix put back the curtain to get a glimmer from the landing and found and lit the lamp. ‘I’ll light the oil-stove, too.’
‘No kerosene,’ croaked Mr Jewel, ‘used it all last week. No more coming up.’
‘I’ll get you some.’
‘No, no. Don’t ask her. Quite warm in here. Be all right in the morning. Bit of a chill like.’
‘Can I get you anything?’
‘Drink of water.’
There was an Arab water-cooler and glass on the floor by the bed. Felix, feeling efficient and useful, filled the glass and held it for Mr Jewel. The old man’s face shone with sweat. The skin of his neck felt very hot as Felix propped him up.
‘I’ll bring up your soup,’ said Felix.
Mr Jewel shook his head: ‘Don’t ask her. Don’t want it. Be all right to-morrow.’
‘Shall I leave the lamp?’
‘Better not. Don’t need it. She wouldn’t like it.’
When Felix went downstairs he said with some importance: ‘He’s got a temperature.’
‘Oh, dear! Now what are we supposed to do?’ She was silent through the rest of the meal, but at the end she said in sudden, cheerful decision: ‘But he must see a doctor. I know the hospital doctors so well – they’ve always been so kind to me.’
She went over to the writing-desk where the telephone stood. After a long delay, during which she remained unperturbed, she got on to the sister on duty at the English Hospital: ‘Sister Smart? Ah, how good to hear your voice. I am so worried. . . . No, it’s my lodger, Mr Jewel. I don’t
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