Stories of the Strange and Sinister (Valancourt 20th Century Classics) by Frank Baker Page A
Authors: Frank Baker
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great town.
He found, easily enough, what he chiefly wanted; found it by mistake, when he was slightly drunk and wandering back to his hotel towards midnight. He was easy and obvious prey and the girl was kind to him, particularly sympathetic to the pain in his leg.
Afterwards, his conscience hammered at him. ‘It’s a sin,’ he kept saying, ‘a sin.’ But he giggled as he said it.
‘Sin be damned,’ said the girl. ‘You wanted me and I found you. So what? Nobody’s come to no harm that I know of.’
Nobody, he thought, except the dim figure of a girl pegging-up clothes in an orchard; nobody, except unborn children. But what did that matter now? It was hypocritical to pretend that he hadn’t enjoyed this back-room business.
So he returned to Wellsborough, a man with a different view of life, who had lost a mother, gained for one night a paid lover, and assumed, without knowing it, the swagger that such adventures beget. He felt that now nothing very much mattered; he would, he decided, do what he damn’ well pleased.
He was amazed to find the shop gleaming with new paint and distemper, inside and out, and the names, Weary and Hoare, vivid in blue and gold over a white background; more amazed still to find Harold in a new suit, and seemingly in much better health than when he had left him.
‘Well, you’ve properly bowled me over,’ he admitted.
‘I thought we were getting a bit stale,’ replied Harold. ‘I want you to branch out a bit, Lionel. Don’t be such a slave to the shop. I haven’t been pulling my weight. Now I intend to.’
Miraculously, his health improved; and so a new phase opened in the history of Weary and Hoare which was soon remarked upon by everybody in the town. It was Mr Weary who now appeared more generally behind the counter; Mr Hoare who, quite often, was away on business. Their daily morning walk was continued, except during those week-ends when Mr Hoare had gone away. When he returned, it was always noticed that he was in exuberant spirits.
‘Have a nice week-end?’ the precentor would ask curiously.
‘Oh, so-so! Just a little jaunt, y’know. Mustn’t get rusty.’
‘Where did you go?’
And from the other end of the counter would come Mr Weary’s voice: ‘You mustn’t ask Mr Hoare questions like that, precentor.’
Lionel would laugh. ‘That’s right. Trade secrets, eh, Mr Weary?’
‘And where did you go, Lionel?’ Harold asked once, when they were alone in the kitchen.
‘Never you mind, old man. That’s a secret, like your poetry.’
No more reference was ever made to Lionel’s week-ends.
With the jealous tenderness of an old lady to a cat did Harold Weary, during those last years of their life together, feed Lionel Hoare with his own subtle milk of human kindness. The fattening process continued well into the second year of the Second Great War. By that time Lionel had become very plump, his skin pink and patchy, his movements, once brisk and bird-like, now lethargic and sensuous. Harold, as though to compensate for his partner’s weight, had wasted to a shadow, with a head shrunk deep into hunched shoulders. Many times Lionel had tried to induce him to get medical advice on his condition; but he never succeeded. After a time he gave it up and sleepily abandoned himself to bask and purr under the consumptive’s ministrations. There were still the week-ends – at Bristol, Ilfracombe or Weston-super-Mare, and occasionally London – when Lionel indulged his still amateur and long-delayed taste in women. Week-ends that remained an agreed secret – though Harold knew perfectly well to what foreign harbours his companion steered his dishonoured barque. But nothing must be said; Harold knew that. To pry into the other man’s secret life would be to run the risk of losing him for ever.
So Lionel passed those lazy years, doing little in the shop or house, yet still responsible for the keeping of the accounts, and emerging into the shop at three to
He found, easily enough, what he chiefly wanted; found it by mistake, when he was slightly drunk and wandering back to his hotel towards midnight. He was easy and obvious prey and the girl was kind to him, particularly sympathetic to the pain in his leg.
Afterwards, his conscience hammered at him. ‘It’s a sin,’ he kept saying, ‘a sin.’ But he giggled as he said it.
‘Sin be damned,’ said the girl. ‘You wanted me and I found you. So what? Nobody’s come to no harm that I know of.’
Nobody, he thought, except the dim figure of a girl pegging-up clothes in an orchard; nobody, except unborn children. But what did that matter now? It was hypocritical to pretend that he hadn’t enjoyed this back-room business.
So he returned to Wellsborough, a man with a different view of life, who had lost a mother, gained for one night a paid lover, and assumed, without knowing it, the swagger that such adventures beget. He felt that now nothing very much mattered; he would, he decided, do what he damn’ well pleased.
He was amazed to find the shop gleaming with new paint and distemper, inside and out, and the names, Weary and Hoare, vivid in blue and gold over a white background; more amazed still to find Harold in a new suit, and seemingly in much better health than when he had left him.
‘Well, you’ve properly bowled me over,’ he admitted.
‘I thought we were getting a bit stale,’ replied Harold. ‘I want you to branch out a bit, Lionel. Don’t be such a slave to the shop. I haven’t been pulling my weight. Now I intend to.’
Miraculously, his health improved; and so a new phase opened in the history of Weary and Hoare which was soon remarked upon by everybody in the town. It was Mr Weary who now appeared more generally behind the counter; Mr Hoare who, quite often, was away on business. Their daily morning walk was continued, except during those week-ends when Mr Hoare had gone away. When he returned, it was always noticed that he was in exuberant spirits.
‘Have a nice week-end?’ the precentor would ask curiously.
‘Oh, so-so! Just a little jaunt, y’know. Mustn’t get rusty.’
‘Where did you go?’
And from the other end of the counter would come Mr Weary’s voice: ‘You mustn’t ask Mr Hoare questions like that, precentor.’
Lionel would laugh. ‘That’s right. Trade secrets, eh, Mr Weary?’
‘And where did you go, Lionel?’ Harold asked once, when they were alone in the kitchen.
‘Never you mind, old man. That’s a secret, like your poetry.’
No more reference was ever made to Lionel’s week-ends.
With the jealous tenderness of an old lady to a cat did Harold Weary, during those last years of their life together, feed Lionel Hoare with his own subtle milk of human kindness. The fattening process continued well into the second year of the Second Great War. By that time Lionel had become very plump, his skin pink and patchy, his movements, once brisk and bird-like, now lethargic and sensuous. Harold, as though to compensate for his partner’s weight, had wasted to a shadow, with a head shrunk deep into hunched shoulders. Many times Lionel had tried to induce him to get medical advice on his condition; but he never succeeded. After a time he gave it up and sleepily abandoned himself to bask and purr under the consumptive’s ministrations. There were still the week-ends – at Bristol, Ilfracombe or Weston-super-Mare, and occasionally London – when Lionel indulged his still amateur and long-delayed taste in women. Week-ends that remained an agreed secret – though Harold knew perfectly well to what foreign harbours his companion steered his dishonoured barque. But nothing must be said; Harold knew that. To pry into the other man’s secret life would be to run the risk of losing him for ever.
So Lionel passed those lazy years, doing little in the shop or house, yet still responsible for the keeping of the accounts, and emerging into the shop at three to
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