The sound of raised voices, followed by that of a loudly banging door, told her that Dooley had finally gone.
She closed her eyes against the morning, against the rain, the darkness; she thought of the sun. When she opened them again Jones was there, just inside the little glass door, the tray in his hand. She immediately closed the ledger. ‘There you are.’
‘And here I am, Mrs Gandell. See you’ve been at it again.’
‘I am always at it, Jones.’
‘Yes, Mrs Gandell.’
‘And I’ve been thinking that in some ways we are lucky.’
‘Indeed.’ Jones leaned against the wall, slowly supped the tea.
‘I am more cautious than you,’ he concluded, ‘I can only say perhaps.’
She flung him the reply. ‘And I say we are, that’s all.’
He came over, put down the cup, leaned close.
‘One should never be too certain about anything, Mrs Gandell. No indeed for there’s a mixture of strange cunning and wisdom in most things. Have you ever noticed how the wise ones answer the questions too soon, and the cunning ones too late. Perhaps you haven’t,’ and he dragged the remainder of his sentence. ‘Perhaps you never will.’
She got up, pushed past him and went to the window.
‘Still raining.’
‘That will be a very real fact, later, as big as a fist. I have to go out in it. The gin’s run out.’
‘And the cigarettes,’ she said. She could only think of gin and cigarettes as lifebelts in this dreary month.
‘The Lion will be closed,’ he said.
‘The Lion has a back door, Jones.’
She came away from the window, put a hand on his shoulder. ‘Try not to overdo it, Jones, since I am not an entirely stupid woman, so that I could sometimes wish that you were not so self-conscious about conveying to me that you are always doing your duty.’
‘Thank you.’
An instantaneous smile lit her face, and it puzzled Jones. ‘Oh yes?’ he said.
‘I was only thinking of your Minister Thomas,’ she said, and gave a tiny little laugh.
It upset Jones. ‘And what are you laughing about, Mrs Gandell? Because he’s Welsh, because he’s chained to the cross, because he’s craggy and fifty, and washes his feet every week. Or because he has the big ache and the ice in his prayers? Well then?’
‘He’s less funny than you, Jones.’
‘Does he pay for calling? Perhaps some crumbs are better than no crumbs.’
‘There,’ she exclaimed, and slapped his face.
He grinned in her face and again said, ‘Thank you, Mrs Gandell.’
‘You’d better get off, hadn’t you, Jones?’
And she followed him to the stairs, and stood there watching him go up. When he reached the top he turned and offered her a smile. ‘What a mixture,’ she thought.
She stood there, waiting for him to appear, which he did, wearing an old raincoat. He carried an umbrella, but no hat.
‘Good.’
They stood close together in the hall. ‘You won’t be long?’
‘I won’t be long,’ he replied, and opened the front door. Rain came in, and he stood back, fingering the umbrella.
‘Not inside the house, Jones, I’m tired of telling you that.’
He stood down on the step, looked up, surveyed the sky.
‘The clouds have very wet faces,’ he said, ‘and right down there the sea is fast asleep. Ah!’ and he waved the opened umbrella. ‘I really don’t like the sea when the wind’s lying flat atop of it, no indeed. And such a queer sort of light seems to come over the place.’
‘Get along, Jones,’ and gave him a push.
He turned to her and said quietly, ‘One of these days you may push Jonesy just too much. Remember that, Mrs Gandell, won’t you.’
‘Get along,’ and she banged the door furiously behind him, and went and sat at one of the dining-room tables. She was aware of the draughts in the room. She would have to do something about it. She went to the office and sat down, then immediately got up again and went upstairs. She sat down on the bed.
‘If I can get through the month,’ she thought, ‘yes, if I can get through the month.’ She went to the black corner cupboard and opened it. The empty gin bottles seemed a direct affront, and she hoped her factotum wouldn’t be too long. The cigarette burned away in her fingers, and she reached for another. The packet was empty. ‘Damn!’
In the nine months she had been proprietress of the Decent Hotel, she had only been into the town on three occasions, from each of which journeys she had returned feeling like something of a ghost in the place. It made her realise how English she was, how Welsh they were. Sometimes she asked herself why she had ever left Yorkshire. She heard a key turn in the lock. ‘It must be Jones,’ and rushed from the room. Half way downstairs the door opened, and there was Miss Vaughan coming into the hall.
