‘Do it.’
Her sudden burst of laughter rang out like bells.
‘You are moody today, Jones.’
He got up, went round to her, bent low, hissed close to her ear.
‘I am not moody, I am not curious, I am not complaining.’
It startled her. ‘Is something wrong, Jones?’
‘Nothing is wrong,’ and she felt a strong grip on her arm. ‘Nothing.’
Her change of expression astonished him, and he drew away from the table, but she got up and followed him; she took his arm. ‘You won’t leave me, Jones?’
The reply was quite hollow. ‘No,’ he said.
‘I’m grateful,’ and she sighed softly.
‘Don’t be too grateful,’ he snapped back.
Suddenly she was stroking his hair. ‘I’ll remember that,’ she said.
‘Please yourself.’
He turned his back on her, stared at the hall door, and announced through his teeth that no papers had yet arrived, and no post. ‘They’ll come,’ she said, and offered him a beautiful smile. Their moments had been so absorbing that neither of them had noticed that one of their guests, a Mr Prothero from Melin, had actually come down, and was now seated at his table, the perennial thriller propped up against the sugar basin, his head buried in the text.
‘There, Jones,’ she cried, and gave him a violent push, suddenly caught his arm and pulled him back. ‘I hope you’ll remember what I said, Jones,’ and all authority lay behind it. Jones nodded, but said nothing. When Mrs Gandell hoped, his claws shone. The loud creak on the stairs made them both look up. Miss Vaughan was just coming down. ‘Hurry, Jones.’
Jones wanted to shout ‘Good morning,’ but changed his mind, and grabbing a napkin he rushed off to attend to Mr Prothero. He hovered over the traveller in plastics.
‘Morning, Mr Prothero.’
‘Morning,’ growled Prothero, never taking his eyes off the thriller. ‘No bloody papers, yet,’ he said. ‘And no post either.’
Jones, still hovering, began to knead his hands. ‘Will come, sir.’
‘And how about some service,’ shouted Prothero, ‘I mean service.’
‘Yes sir,’ and he immediately rushed off to the kitchen, to appear a few seconds later bearing a tray that he placed on the sideboard.
‘Looks like my bloody breakfast at last,’ Prothero said.
‘Is,’ replied Jones, and served him. A mixture of Quilp and Heep, he served him smilingly. ‘And Mr Prothero is leaving us today then. Well well!’
He stood back, still kneading his hands.
‘I am.’
‘Then you will enjoy your parting cup of tea, I’m sure, sir. Will bring luggage down, Mr Prothero, sir,’ extending an oily smile. ‘Yes indeed.’ He rubbed the palms of his hands together, and whenever Jones did this, his fingers tapered in the air.
Miss Vaughan cried from her table. ‘Mr Jones?’
‘Coming… com.…’, and he hurried to her table, bowed, gave her his morning smile, ‘Yes, Miss Vaughan?’
‘Breakfast, Mr Jones,’ Miss Vaughan said.
She sometimes addressed him as Mr Jones, and he loved that. He began serving her.
‘I hope you have slept well, Miss?’
She looked up over her spectacles, and quietly replied that she had indeed.
‘Good. Good.’
Miss Vaughan always sat well back in her chair when Jones served meals, disliking a certain closeness about him, his rubbing of palms and kneading of fingers, his oily smile, and often idiotic grins. Suddenly he was too close to her ear.
‘Same as usual, I’m afraid, Miss Vaughan, and I’m even more afraid that it’s cod again in the evening. With a little colouring of course.’
‘Where is Mrs Gandell?’
‘Just left the office, dear,’ replied Jones.
Miss Vaughan adjusted her spectacles, and said severely, ‘I am not your dear, Mr Jones.’
Jones grinned, drew back. ‘No indeed, Miss, you are not. Did you wish to speak with Mrs Gandell? Pity you missed her. She’s in the kitchen at the moment.’
‘Later then,’ and Miss Vaughan began her breakfast.
