The Forgotten Story Read Free Page A

without first coming into contact with the proprietor; for it was his unvarying custom to sit brandishing a carving knife and fork on the opposite side of the counter as you entered the narrow shop; and so belligerent was his look that no one had ever dared to pass closely by him without first learning what there was to eat and then ordering on the spot the meal he wanted.
    Spread on this counter were the viands which made up the choice. At one end there might be a roast turkey or a couple of chickens, with a huge leg of lamb and a piece of sirloin on succeeding dishes. Further down there was a choice of three or four kinds of pudding or tart steaming over an elaborate gas-ring.
    The decision made, one could, if one wished, linger to see the portion cut off; one paid up, and the dishes were set aside to be taken into the kitchen where they were piled with vegetables and presently delivered to the customer wherever he had taken his seat.
    The system was a good one. Bad debts were never incurred, complaints seldom; and so succulent was the aspect and smell of the dishes on the counter when one entered that scarcely anyone was ever put off by the gruff and grudging manner of the Tyrant with the carving knife.
    In appearance Joe was short and thin with a pale slate-grey complexion and eyes like a small black terrier. His heavy black moustache drooped over a mouth which was at once obstinate and astute. In the shop he always wore a dark alpaca coat the length of a frock coat and a high wrap-round collar with scarcely any tie.
    Anthony saw nothing of this on the afternoon of his arrival, for he was ushered down some steps and by a back door into a big low kitchen, where a thin red-faced girl not much older than himself was trying half-heartedly to tidy up the disorder, and a big woman with a distasteful expression was making pastry.
    Aunt Madge was a disappointment. This lovely creature who had escorted him all the way from the station, talking cheerfully to him as if they were old friends, had warmed and brightened his heart. He had forgotten his tiredness, his loneliness, the fact that he was thirsty and hot. He had been uplifted in her company. Aunt Madge restored his perspective.
    â€˜Late,’ she said. ‘Have you been. Round the sea front, I thought. Pat, you should have … Fanny needed help. Take him to his bedroom. A cup of tea presently.’
    Anthony found himself following Patricia up the stairs with an impression that he had not yet really met Aunt Madge at all. In the kitchen there had been a large rather over-dressed woman, a fleshy rather than a fat woman in early middle age, with fair hair going grey, with a pince-nez straddling a short nose, and a discontented mouth built upon a pedestal of chins. But he did not think she would recognise him again. Being introduced to her was like making an appointment with somebody who forgot to turn up.
    These old black winding stairs with rickety banisters and creaking boards. They climbed half a flight and two full flights to an attic.
    â€˜You’ll find yourself a bit at sea at first,’ said Patricia, on whom her stepmother’s welcome had left no impression. ‘It’s with being altered for the restaurant that has made the house confusing.’
    She opened an old door and showed him into a bedroom with a ceiling which sloped three ways from a central part where it was possible to stand upright. There were all sorts of odd crossbeams. A large iron bedstead decorated with brass knobs was the chief article of furniture. The window was on floor level.
    â€˜You can see most of the harbour from here,’ she said helpfully.
    He went to the window and again his spirits began to rise. The view was fine.
    â€˜Thanks awfully … Patricia,’ he said. ‘ You’ve been … Thanks awfully for meeting me at the station.’
    â€˜That’s all right,’ she said, pulling off her hat and shaking out her curls. She met his frank