Mrs Harris Goes to Moscow Read Free Page B

over £400, installed, insured and service guaranteed, as out of reach as her chum’s musquash wrapping.
    Time was when Ada would have tackled the problem. Once she had girded herself to save up the vast sum of £450 to sally across the Channel to buy herself, of all things, a Dior dress. But she was older now, somewhat more easily tired, more fragile. The amassing of such a sum was just not on, and hence neither was the big set. But that did not stop herfrom wishing. And often on her way home she would pass before a shop displaying such and look with longing upon the half dozen machines in the window all projecting the same scene in gorgeous natural colours.
    Hot water had been poured into the first dregs of the teapot, ‘sangwidges’ had been disposed of. Mrs Butterfield was already aware that her friend was unusually silent and uncommunicative. She found an item in the
Evening News
that she thought would awaken her interest.
    â€˜ ’Ullo, ’ullo,’ she said, ‘ ’Ere’s somefink about a friend of yours.’ And she read aloud a datelined dispatch from Paris which revealed that the Marquis Hypolite de Chassagne was ending his tour of duty as Ambassador of France to the United States, and upon his return to Paris would take up an appointment as Senior Adviser on Foreign Affairs at the Quai d’Orsay. ‘A real pal, wasn’t ’e?’ She added, ‘When you was getting elected to Parliament.’
    Ada examined the paragraph in turn but made no comment and Mrs Butterfield looked at her in surprise, remarking, ‘Maybe ’e’d be coming over to London like ’e used ter and then you could ’ave a visit wif ’im again.’
    Mrs Harris, still under the spell of Mr Lockwood, only nodded morosely and maintained her silence.
    â€˜Blimey, luv,’ exclaimed Violet, ‘yer pecker’sdown, ain’t it? One of them as you do for turn narsty on you? Dropped the keys through the door, ’ave you?’
    This last referred to the time-honoured means of resignation employed by all London chars at any moment when they felt themselves badly used or insulted by their clients. Upon departure they would deposit the keys to the door of the flat through the letter-box thus closing out the association.
    Mrs Harris merely shook her head in denial of this but still remained mute and since it was obvious that her friend was not disposed to conversation Mrs Butterfield said, ‘Well then, why don’t we ’ave a look and see what’s on the telly.’ She went over, switched it on and twiddled the knob for ITV where she got the equivalent of a violent blizzard on the screen and a vicious growl from the speaker system. BBC 1 yielded a picture whipping by which looked as though it had been given the same treatment as a scrambled egg, accompanied by a hissing and crackling of sound. The third button offered a totally blank screen and no sound whatsoever.
    Ada Harris suddenly became articulate. ‘Bloody ’ell!’ she cried, ‘and I only ’ad it fixed last week. The bleedin’ box ain’t worth choppin’ up for firewood. And me wanting to see “Stars on Sunday” tomorrow and the repair man won’t come until Monday. Turn it off, Vi, before I put me foot through it.’ Then she added, ‘Maybe I will cut downon tea and smokes and take on more jobs until I can get me a new set wif colour.’
    Her friend’s outbursts of temper were rare and when they did happen usually frightened Vi into saying the wrong thing. ‘Oh Ada, you mustn’t. You could never do it. It’s like me fur coat. They always keep twenty quid ahead of you.’
    â€˜You and your fur coat,’ said Mrs Harris.
    â€˜You and your telly,’ Mrs Butterfield was compelled to answer, but then she was immediately contrite, besides which she’d had an idea to reclaim her chum’s ruined Sunday.
    She said,