Jones sat on the laundry basket and swung his legs.
‘Is that all, Jones?’
‘All.’
‘Good.’
He gave her a smile and said, ‘How good?’
‘Too early for riddles, Jones,’ and she gave a curious little laugh. She lit a cigarette, and she didn’t offer him one.
‘D’you remember last year, Mrs Gandell, when we had those two queer guests from a place called Padiham, somewhere in Lancashire, I think. Very queer lot indeed.’
‘What about them?’
‘What about them? God Almighty! You’re not actually going to tell me that you remember them, you’ve never been very good at remembering, since you like forgetting best of all. But I remember them. Smelt of many a Lancashire alley, yes indeed. A pair of queer fish, Mrs Gandell,’ he followed this with a positive sneer. ‘And you were so kind to the bastards, weren’t you? Such an obliging week that was,’ and she felt his breath against her ear, and at the same moment the grip of his fist. ‘Yes, and at the end of that lovely, golden week, and only a single trout between them, they went off, and after that their cheques bounced, Mrs Gandell. Remember? I do. Can you recall?’
Her expression was one of utter bewilderment; she could only stare at Jones. ‘Well?’
Jones continued, his tone of voice changed in a moment, and he said excitedly, ‘No. You don’t remember because you don’t want to. You remember nothing if you don’t want to, Mrs Gandell. But I remember everything. Surprised you don’t. It was an occasion,’ and he drew away from her, almost in disgust, his tone scathing. ‘You don’t want to remember because you weren’t even around, so to speak, no, because you were flat on your back with your hands to your eyes that couldn’t quite close from the sheer surprise of it. Surprise had a nice curl in its tail that morning. And where was Jonesy? I’ll tell you. Jonesy was in his place, doing his duty, and so he crawled off to the bank with a fistful of the most beautiful excuses any Welsh bank manager was ever offered. The balm on my tongue then, Mrs Gandell. And do you know what? He gave your overdraft a lovely nudge, you know all about that weird red line that sometimes sails into the black ones. Yes. So a week that started with teeth in it actually closed with velvet. But only because I was here, Jonesy of the Decent Hotel was behind you again, your handmaid and helpmate, and shuffler and scuffler was propping you up, that works so hard to keep the ragged and tottering ends of your hotel together. I never even asked you to say thank you. Why? Because I’m decent, Mrs Gandell. Decent.’
She drew away from him, and from the tense moment.
‘So you won’t just pack up and go, Mrs Gandell, will you? You wouldn’t leave Jonesy here, stuck, battered, buggered, finished?’
‘You really are funny, Jones,’ she said, and went up and hugged him.
‘Thank you,’ he said, and hugged her, too.
‘And we can’t stay here half the morning, either,’ she said, and pulled him off the basket, pushed him towards the door, and opening it, kicked him out.
‘I shall aways be the odd curve in your designs, Mrs Gandell.’
They went slowly downstairs, hand in hand.
‘Ah! Come the spring,’ she sighed.
‘They’ll come rolling along, I’m sure, Mrs Gandell, and Jonesy will be pleased, because what pleases you pleases me. So you won’t just go, will you, Mrs Gandell?’
‘I’ll think about it,’ she said.
She felt his hand again, as he said, ‘If I wasn’t ordinary, Mrs Gandell, I wouldn’t know what to do. Fact. I knew you were sad this morning, knew it as soon as I got up, but you’re not sad now, are you?’
She shook her head. ‘No, Jones, I am not.’
‘Thank you,’ he said, and gave her a Jonesian bow. It made her laugh.
‘You’ll have to turn to in the kitchen, Jones, at least until I get somebody else.’
‘Will do.’
‘Get along,’ and she pushed him ahead of her towards the tiny office. She sat down, and pored over her ledger, whilst Jones, as was his wont, went to the wall, and leaned there, his legs crossed, watching her. She took an envelope from a pigeon hole and handed it to him. ‘Here are Dooley’s card and wages,’ she said. ‘Give them to her, and remember I do not wish to see her. And see that she leaves by the back door.’
‘Yes, Mrs Gandell.’
‘And whilst you’re there, make a pot of tea, and bring it here.’
‘Yes, Mrs Gandell.’
He fingered the envelope. ‘Pity,’ he said.
‘Pity what?’
‘Nothing,’ Jones replied, speaking from boot level.
‘Remember what I said.’
‘Will say.’
‘Then go.’
‘Am gone.’
She checked figures, names, she bent low over the ledger, the real Bible of the Decent Hotel. She erased, she added, subtracted. Suddenly she closed the book, and sat back in her chair. She was feeling both sorry and glad. Glad that Dooley was gone, a useless hussy. She closed eyes, became reflective, talked to herself, thought of her one remaining guest. Quiet Miss Vaughan, withdrawn Miss Vaughan. Arriving so suddenly from nowhere, anywhere. So simple in her contents, so obliging, so satisfied, and scarcely any trouble at all. Only God Himself could have guided such a one to the Decent Hotel in its longest dragging month. She had asked Jones where she came from, and Jones said that he never asked anyone where they came from, and that seemed that. She smiled suddenly, remembering his description of the Vaughan room. ‘You could write the Litany of the word One on her door, Mrs Gandell. Yes indeed, a very small room, and so tight, Mrs Gandell.’
‘Box room, Jones,’ she had replied.
She remembered the sing-song narration, that brought out a certain soft yell in the Jones voice. ‘One bed, one chair, one dressing-table, one looking-glass, one hairbrush, one comb, one jar of cream, one dress hanging behind a door, one tube of something, squeezed it, Mrs Gandell, kind of miraculous mud perhaps, you’d know, one carpet, one shelf and some books on it.’
